Striving For Mediocrity

2007-05-01T15:28:00.000-07:00

Hi! Go here.

The return of the pink.

2006-08-11T13:32:00.000-07:00

Well, here I am, back at Blogger.

I don't like those stupid halo scan comments. Some people can't open them, and I'm not quite ready to fork over any money to Diaryland, so I'm using my blogger page for now.

Sometimes I think the people I work with are going to make my head explode.

And by explode, I don't mean they're all sitting around with liquid chemicals that are going to turn my Gatorade into a bomb, I mean they're going to drive me fucking crazy.

Aside from the fact that they're all grown adults who don't know how to:

change a roll of toilet paper

change a roll of paper towels

clean up the dishes they mess up

clean up their disgusting food mess that's all over the counter

leave me the fuck alone when I'm trying to read on my lunch break

stop talking to me like I give a shit that her insane dad sent a 14-page letter to everyone in her family telling them how batshit crazy she is (care to venture a guess on who this is?)

stop nit-picking every stupid thing of every stupid day, but then let $145,000 bank errors occur without knowing it until the retarded RECEPTIONIST (c'est moi) reconciles the bank statement,

they're also a bunch of useless suck-ups. Yesterday was Mr. Big Shot's birthday, and the line of people to shove their nose up his ass and wish him a happy birthday was around the block. As soon as our phone system turned on, it was ringing off the hook from people calling. There are people who haven't called in nine or ten months, but made sure that they called him today to stay on his good side.

It was like the opening scene in "The Godfather", with everyone waiting to see him and kiss his ring.

I am not a kiss-ass. I didn't run in to scream "Happy birthday!! You're the best boss ever, please don't fire me, have I told you how great you look today, and have you lost weight? This is the best job ever!!!" Instead, I said "good morning", like I do every day when I pass him in the kitchen. Then Trophy Wife came in and started telling me about how hungover she was from the birthday dinner the night before, and I made some dumb joke about celebrating his birthday.

And frankly, that was way more involvement than I wanted to have.

But when Celestia asked me if I wished him a happy birthday, her eyes almost bugged out her head when she found out that I didn't. I mean, I didn't even wish my own [real] father happy birthday, why would I do it for someone who just learned my name in the last year (even though I've been here 5+ years)? I show up for work every day, and I don't steal from the company. That's good enough, in his eyes.

I've also been bored to tears the last week or two. There are about two weeks a month where I have absolutely NOTHING to do, and all my bosses know this, but none of them are willing to hand off tasks to me to fill up my day. This week, I've played 195 games of FreeCell. Actually, I've played many more, but I decided at one point to start playing in order to see how many games I can play while I'm at work doing nothing.

I don't like not having anything to do. I can only read emails and my gossip sites so much before I go blind with boredom.

Even though I have nothing to do most days except answer the phone, I still got a 9% salary increase, so I guess I can't complain too much (yeah, I can. 9% of not-very-much is still not-very-much).

*Knitting update*

After many hours, and watching the video of the girl doing it (not that "it", you freaks) on knittinghelp over and over and over for an hour, I figured out how to do double cast-on!

Now I don't have to jab my own eyes out with the needles, because if I didn't learn something, I would have. Before this weekend is over, I will have made progress, people.

I must!

Hmmm.

My fingers just started peeling randomly yesterday.

Skin just suddenly coming off is normal, right?

2005-09-04T12:00:00.000-07:00

Ok, my little blogger babies. I've started posting back at my old diary.

To enjoy all of the mayhem you've come to know and love, click here.

I'm clicking my heels three times. Cause there's no place like home.

2005-09-02T10:17:00.000-07:00

Well, my little darlings, here I am again. Feeling better this morning than yesterday, thank god.

I hate hormones. They make me act like a crazy person. Which is strange, because pre-surgery, I never EVER had any kind of PMS-type issues whatsoever. No mood swings, no cramps, no weird boob tenderness (thank god, because I grope myself constantly), nothing. I had it made.

Now, post-op, I turn into a crazy person some months. I guess my hormones are changing with all the weight loss, but it sucks.

And I don't like it. Not one bit.

Well, my beautiful Blogger babies, I have some distressing news. News that I am sure will shock and terrify and disappoint. Well, ok, probably not, but still. I am trying to be dramatic here.

I am going back to diaryland. I know, I know. I hate a flip-flopper as much as GW does, but I have to do it, and I'll tell you why. Much like my wonderful friend Loopy, I hate blogger. I really do. I don't like having the whole month's entries on one page. I don't like that I can't make the comments link say something stupid and funny. I hate that commenters have to type a stupid word just so that I won't get 45165498 spam comments a day. I hate that I can't figure out the freakin' html sometimes. I hate that some of the entries I posted have just disappeared all together.

I do, however, love all my friends at Blogger. And I hope you'll all follow me back and continue to read my insanity.

I renewed my Super Gold right before I came to Blogger, and it's just getting wasted. So, as soon as I figure out what my new template will be, I will start posting over there again. And, since I can't remember to double-post in two journals, I'll likely put the re-direct code that was in my other diary here, so if you click the blogspot link, it'll take you to diaryland. Bear with me, people.

I'd do it for you.

No, really. I would. Promise.

My grandmother (not the dead one that's stinking my house up - the living racist one) is graciously giving me lots of money so that I can pay my cat's veterinary bill and I can own him outright. I was over at her house yesterday, and she was watching MSNBC's hurricane coverage.

I don't know if every other reporter for that network was dead, but the one they had reporting was some woman whose voice (I am not kidding) sounded like Herman Munster. I am not entirely convinced she was really a woman.

To be honest, I haven't watched much of the coverage, because it's so overwhelmingly sad and depressing, that I can't handle it. I can't handle the desperation. I can't handle the looting, and the people assaulting and threatening the emergency workers, and the idea that a beautiful city I've never seen in person will never be the same again. And, what really gets to me, as with any disaster like this, is when I see animals stranded and suffering. I mean, of course I am affected by the human suffering, and the devastation. I'm not that much of an insensitive asshole, but it's those poor animals that really get me.

I don't have a lot of money (obviously if I am getting help from my family to pay my bills), but I did donate a few dollars to help. I am also donating something else. The fabulous Chickpea's little brother lived in New Orleans, and had to leave his whole life, and almost all of his belongings behind. So, I am doing my part and making some cd's to send him, because the idea of me losing my cd collection kills me.

I sure hope that kid likes Neil Diamond, Hall and Oates, and Marky Mark.

I am glad everyone got such a kick out of the most recent super stud to try to bamboozle me into hooking up with him. I almost want to email him back and start fucking with him, but I don't know if I want to waste my time with it. He's so sad, in so very many ways.

And, Rachel... yes. I really do attract all the freaks and weirdos. I know all of you girls must be terribly, terribly jealous of me and all my hot man action.

With the quality of men I attract who want to date me, I just thank god for my vibrators. And porn. So send me the stuff, Ass Monkey. I know you want to, because you love me most of all. It's ok. You can admit it.

Happy ~~reason to get drunk on sunday~~ Labor Day, everyone!

And moving day!

Each day the bucket goes to the well, one day the bottom will drop out.

2005-09-01T10:28:00.000-07:00

Um, yeah. I feel pretty shitty today. I got about 18 minutes of sleep last night. The rest of the time I spent crying, and feeling horrible about myself because I let my feelings get the best of me, and hurt someone that I care about so much that I feel sick about it today. Like, physically ill.

No matter how much I apologize, and admit that I know what I did was the wrong thing to do, I just don't think it's going to make a difference now. I don't like the idea of him hating me, or the possibility that we might not speak anymore.

I fucking hate it.

I feel more alone right now than I have in a long time, probably since X broke up with me.

I forgot how bad this feels.

Does crying like a blubbering idiot make you lose any water weight? I have to find at least one positive here.

And I'm pretty sure my house is haunted.

I'll explain.

My grandmother died of lung cancer almost ten years ago. She smoked two packs of cigarettes a day most of her life. She was also an avid coffee drinker. I don't think I ever saw her drink anything but coffee. So, there is this tobacco/coffee smell that is burned in my memory. That's her smell to me.

I have not smoked in almost six years, and no one I hang around smokes. But, when I am really upset, and usually when I am crying, I can smell that smell. It invades my senses, and it feels like she's sitting right next to me. It both scares and comforts me. It's very strange. I don't like ghosts, or any of kind of supernatural freaky shit. I realize that's my Grandma, and I love and miss her, but it still freaks me out a little.

And, when I woke up this morning, there it was. Her smell. I just sat on the edge of my bed for about a half hour, taking in as much of it as I could before it was gone again.

I miss her.

...that's not all, though.

My bathroom sink, which is parallel to my bathtub, has a glass purple soap dispenser that sits on the side of the sink just above the bathtub. The sink is about a foot above the edge of the bathtub, but the sink actually hangs over by an inch or two, so if anything falls off that side of the sink, it falls into the tub. Make sense?

About a week ago, I came home from work, and the soap dispenser was on the floor, under the sink, right side up, with the pump on the floor next to it, but not a drop had spilled out.

There's no way Ike could have knocked it off and it would have landed that way and not spilled ANYTHING. As much as I don't want to admit that strange things are afoot at the Circle K, they are.

Someone call that crazy little old lady from "Poltergeist."

I need my house to be clee-ah.

And, finally, to prove yet again that if there's a lame-ass loser guy around here, he'll find me. Now, I haven't dumped my new boyfriend Lisa yet, but I have a new admirer that could knock Lisa right out the running for my affections.

About a year ago, I started getting these emails from some automotive website promoting all these car shows. I had never visited this website, or signed up to be on any mailing lists, so finally, I replied to the guy who emailed some promotion to me and asked why he kept sending me these dumb emails.

I'll cut and paste them from the beginning. This guy is SUCH a winner.

----- Original Message -----
From: andrial24@aol.com
To: rclark@califormance.com
Sent: Tuesday, August 30, 2005 3:25 PM
Subject: Re:
Hi. I'm not sure if you got my email address mixed up with someone else, but I keep getting these emails from you, and I have no clue who your company is. I remember a long time ago I got an email that just said hello, and then after that, I started getting promotional emails about events, etc. I don't want to waste space on your mailing list.

-----Original Message-----
From: Robert Clark rclark@califormance.com
To: andrial24@aol.com
Sent: Wed, 31 Aug 2005 09:48:47 -0700
Subject: Re:

Are you in the modeling or automotive industry?

----- Original Message -----
From: andrial24@aol.com
To: rclark@califormance.com
Sent: Wednesday, August 31, 2005 9:58 AM
Subject: Re:

Hahaha.... no. I work at a finance company. Maybe you mixed my email address up with someone elses?

-----Original Message-----
From: Robert Clark rclark@califormance.com>
To: andrial24@aol.com
Sent: Wed, 31 Aug 2005 10:02:54 -0700
Subject: Re:

At woodside?
I will remove you and wonder how you got in our database. Have a great day.
Robert

----- Original Message -----
From: andrial24@aol.com
To: rclark@califormance.com
Sent: Wednesday, August 31, 2005 10:06 AM
Subject: Re:

Nope... not my company. I am wondering how I got in your database, too. It's no big deal, I was just curious how you found my name.

Thanks.

Andria

-----Original Message-----
From: Robert Clark rclark@califormance.com
To: andrial24@aol.com
Sent: Wed, 31 Aug 2005 10:12:01 -0700
Subject: Re:

Well, Im blond blue eyes about 5'6 160lbs live in So. Cali inland South West Riverside. I won a Real Estate Referral Service and Automotive Lifestyle site.
Tell me a little about yourself, please.

This is hilarious. Now he's trying to hook up. I had this happen on my cell phone once. Some guy called me, and I told him he had the wrong number, and then he started chatting me up and asking me if I was interested in meeting him.
Yeah, that would work.

----- Original Message -----
From: andrial24@aol.com
To: rclark@califormance.com
Sent: Wednesday, August 31, 2005 10:29 AM
Subject: Re:

Well... I'm not single. But I'm 5'8, red hair and green eyes, and I'm not skinny - which is why I laughed when you asked if I was in the modeling industry.

Usually, when annoying guys are pestering me, as soon as I drop the fat bomb, they're gone, so I figured that would get rid of him. Wrong.

-----Original Message-----
From: Robert Clark
To: andrial24@aol.com
Sent: Wed, 31 Aug 2005 10:32:02 -0700
Subject: Re:

I can live with it all. the married part never bugs me, the rest of you sounds worth dying for/over.

Love the fact your not a salad eater

I can see he's a real charmer with the ladies. WINNER.

----- Original Message -----
From: andrial24@aol.com
To: rclark@califormance.com
Sent: Wednesday, August 31, 2005 4:22 PM
Subject: Re:

Well, I must say, you sound like quite a man. Too bad I'm not single, or I'd be ALL OVER you.

And, just so you know - I am worth dying over. ;)

Have a great day!

-----Original Message-----
From: Robert Clark
To: andrial24@aol.com
Sent: Thu, 1 Sep 2005 01:39:39 -0700
Subject: Re:

Im heart struck, and my lip is bleeding.
Id love to seenk a peek if youd ever wish to send a pic. and I am sure you may have a friend or two lying around that wouldnt mind a little kiss and tell.
RC

Ugh. What the fuck does "I'm heart struck, and my lip is bleeding" mean? How do they find me? How?? I sent him this reply this morning:

Hmmm.. well, I will certainly mention you to my single girlfriends (and even the taken ones!). Could you send me a pic so I could show them?

His reply:

I hate pictures, I am not that cute - so I dislike taking them.
Im just a smooth talker and great in bed. I am also on yahoo at robert9092001 incase you feel the need to say hi in real time.
I dont mind a women being married or singel as long as she knows what she wants, is it to be loved for the moment or a lifetime.
Yes, at 30 I would like to find the one, but most women our age (30 to 45) have been trapped in an unhappy marriage since they were 18.
They want to get out shake off the dust and part thier leggs.
Heres my picture from last December, its not that great but its me.
Robert

Wow, a smooth talker AND great in bed. I've hit the jackpot! At least this dumbass made me laugh today, and me made me feel less crappy for a minute or two.

Revenge of the nerds.

2005-08-29T22:50:00.000-07:00

About a million years ago, I used to work in child care. As a child care provider, you're not supposed to play favorites, or treat some kids better or worse than others. But I totally did. I admit it. I treated all the kids in my group way better than the other kids because they didn't act like senseless, loud little assholes like most of the other kids whose group leaders and parents didn't give two shits about their behavior.

One such little asshole was an older kid named Phillip. When I started, Phillip was eleven years old, and a complete nerd. He wore his pants hiked all the way up his waist, so that you could see his socks, and he used to chew on his clothes (yeah, really). He had a sister named Andrea, so he always came in, snotty nose running, and would tell me, "You're my sister! Hahahahahahaha!!!! She's my sister Andrea! Hahahahahaha!!!!" Over and over and over. Real fucking funny. Or he would regale everyone with his Urkel impression, and just go around yelling "Hi dee ho, Winslows!" GodDAMN, this kid was annoying.

That was in 1994.

Today, I had to pick my sister up at the YMCA, where she works. And, since that's where I used to work when I started in daycare, there are a few people I always stop in and say hi to. I was standing at the counter talking to the receptionist, and I saw this GORGEOUS guy walk in. So, so pretty this boy was. So there I was, drooling like a moron, when my sister walked up. She saw me staring at the cute boy, and told me that he worked out there all the time, and that she had talked to him a few times.

A few minutes later, I was involved in conversation with my old boss, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around, and there was the hot guy, smiling at me. I looked at him for a minute, and didn't say anything. I had a bottle of water, and right as I took a drink, this hot, young, gorgeous tan, built man said in a high, nasally voice, "Hi dee ho, Winslows!" Water shot out of my mouth, out of my nose, and I am pretty sure some even shot out of my ears. I nearly choked. It was Phillip, 21 years old.

I felt a little R. Kelly-ish for having lusty thoughts about someone I knew when he was eleven. I just can not believe for what a dork he was, what a huge stud he turned into. And, he's going to school to become an engineer, so at least he's not an idiot anymore. I wish my sister would hook up with him instead of that dipshit boyfriend she's got now.

Hey, one good thing did come of those dopey MTV video awards. Suge Knight got shot at Kanye West's after party.

He'll live, though.

Darn.

And, proving once again that my damn commentors are funnier than me, Rocky wrote a little poem about my new boyfriend Lisa.

There once was a man named Lisa.
Andria's ass, he wanted a piece-a.
He's stuck in Bangladesh
Before he can get fresh
He needs to score a visa.

Hehehe.

I have listened to that song "Breathe Me" (the song that played during the last sequence in the final episode of "Six Feet Under") about 85231548 times in the last week. I am totally obsessed with it.

What's with the anonymous commentors? Do you want to torment me with your anonymity? Do you just not want to admit in public that you read this shit?

WHY?!

What.ever.

Don't worry, I won't be buying any Dashboard Confessional cd's anytime soon.

2005-08-28T21:54:00.000-07:00

Oh my god. Ewww, ewww, ewww.

I don't like spiders. At least, not this kind.

That's right outside my back door, in the middle of a huge web that goes from the roof of my building to the hedge in the backyard. I hope crazy Militia Guy neighbor sees it and takes care of it, because I am not touching it. I am pretty sure when a spider is firey RED, that's probably not a good thing.

I'm such a wuss.

The other night, I had this wonderful dream that I was in bed with a man and he was reading me Pablo Neruda poetry, and then I find this in my myspace email:

Wow. I'm so lucky that these guys find me. Not only did he write that super suave poem, but I now know that of ALL the Andrias, I am in fact the cutest (like I didn't know that already, but still). And, he's writing to me exclusively! I am the only woman on the entire internet to be wooed with those words. Not only is his picture sideways, but his name is Lisa. Hmmm. I almost want to reply just to find out what the hell is up with the name. Maybe in Bangladesh it means "ultra-smooth ladies man."

Late Friday night, I was flipping around the channels, and on Skinemax (bowchickabowwow) was this movie called "Going Greek."

Well, I don't have to tell what I thought it was about. But it's about rushing fraternities or some shit like that. What a let down.

Talk about false advertising.

The MTV Video Awards were on tonight. I didn't watch it for two reasons. One, how can they give away awards for videos, when they don't even show videos anymore? And two, it was hosted by Sean "Puffy-Puff Daddy-P. Diddy-Diddy-Ramalammadingdong" Combs, and I can not stand that guy.

I did flip on it and caught Shakira's performance (of a song I love, and have no clue what the words are). I'm not gay, but I'd do her. That girl is HOT.

Before I ever even thought of starting this diary/blog/journal/crapfest, I was Clix-ing a friend's journal and saw a banner that caught me.

I clicked it, read a few entries, and was hooked. It was written by a funny, smart, sensitive, and silly guy in Colorado named Judd. I was taken by his writing because he wasn't afraid to write about what he was feeling, and not a lot of men would put themselves out there like that.

So, for a couple of years, I read about his relationships, his friends, his torment of his co-workers with Nerf toys, his family, and laughed at all of his alcohol-induced shenanigans. Some of his other entries really affected me, and at times I found myself crying in front of my computer, I was so overcome by his words.

In his most recent entry, he said that now that he was finally at home with his new bride, he was reluctant to keep writing about how happy he was, and his happy ending, because he didn't want to upset readers who didn't necessarily get their own happy ending.

I say fuck that. If it was me, and I was madly in love, and I went through all the same things those two crazy kids went through to be together, hell yes I would be writing about it.

For me, someone who, at times, feels lonely and disappointed in the state of my love life (but not now that I've got Lisa!), stories like theirs give me a little hope.

If people didn't share their happy endings, how would we know they're out there?

Awwww. Look at Andria get all sentimental.

I'm still bitterly sarcastic, though.

So don't worry, I'm not going all emo on you.

I got tagged by DK, but luckily, the doctor says this creme will clear the rash up.

2005-08-26T10:22:00.000-07:00

Well, I got tagged by Danjerus Kurves to do the latest meme that's going around. Which, is better than the last thing she gave me that was spreading around. I mean, um, uh.... oh, nevermind.

Ten years ago, I was 21 years old, and pretty much drunk 24 hours a day with Kay in some bar somewhere. I was living at home with my parents, working at the YMCA doing childcare (a perfect job to have when you're hungover and cranky) and had just met X, and had a secret crush on him, and never told anyone, because I never ever thought a girl like me would get a guy like him (thanks, self-esteem!). Not long after my 22nd birthday (which, I'll just casually mention is September 28th - but I would never solicit strangers for gifts *coughwishlistcough* because that would just be tacky), he asked me on our first date, and I turned into a mushy love-struck retard soon after.

Five years ago, I was just starting to get over the break-up with X. I was drinking a lot, smoking a lot, and eating A LOT. Good times. One of the few things that brought any joy into my life at that time was RAM, who was just about to turn a year old. I also started working at the company I am at now, thanks to my persistent pestering of Celestia (even though our friendship had been beyond repair at that point) to get me in. I was also living in an apartment with no windows that looked outside. It's hard to explain, but it was in the center of a square building. My windows looked out onto the hall and the apartment across from me.

One year ago, I had just started this journal, and was battling my insurance company daily to get them to cover my surgery (apparently Type II diabetes and your heart almost stopping completely don't count as making it "medically necessary"). I was dating Jason, not seriously, but we were having fun. I also went to Vegas with the friends, so that I could have my farewell to the Vegas buffet, since I knew post-surgery I would never be able to shovel that crap in like that again, and I have to say, I am glad I can't. It was also the second time, in an alcohol-induced blaze of glory, I managed to make an ass out of myself and trip in front of hundreds of total strangers. It's good to be me.

NOT.

Yesterday, I sat at work, and didn't do much, except read diaries, email my friends, and think terribly hateful and mean things about Celestia. Wow. That's pretty much every day. I also started the second job yesterday, which is going to take lots of work on my part, I realized. I also realized that realtors are marketing NAZIS. But at least it's going to keep me busy.

Five snacks I enjoy:
Cheese (duh)
Green apples
Peanut Butter
Cherries
Pirate Booty (if you don't know what this is, you're missing a little piece of white cheddar flavored puffed rice heaven, my friends)

5 Songs I know all the words to:
It's Not Unusual - Tom Jones
Everyday I Love You Less And Less - Kaiser Chiefs
The Chauffer - Duran Duran
Love Will Tear Us Apart - Joy Division
Stupid Girl - Garbage

Five things I would do with a hundred million dollars:
Give about twenty million to my parents
Buy a house on the beach
Buy a house in Savannah
Give to charities
Save the rest for...

Five places I would run away to:
Italy (mostly Tuscany, where some of that hundred mill would buy a lovely villa)
England
Hawaii
Ireland
Australia

Five things I would never wear:
Low rise jeans
Spaghetti straps
A bikini
Fur (though I don't care if others wear it)
Dresses (ok, almost never - usually someone has to be dead or getting married)

Five favorite TV shows:
Shows that are on now:
Arrested Development
Scrubs
The Sopranos
Six Feet Under
Curb Your Enthusiasm

Favorite shows that aren't on:
Seinfeld
Sex and the City
What's Happening
Little House on the Prairie (shutup)
WKRP in Cincinnati (shutup if I spelled it wrong, Bill)

Five biggest joys:
Ike
Hearing RAM tell me how much he loves me
My family
My friends
Music

Five favorite toys:
Ok, I have enough to fill all five slots, so I'll just say the contents of the top drawer in my nightstand
My computer
My cell phone
My digital camera
My Spongebob Squarepants pez dispensers

So, it seems a lot of people are bailing on Diaryland. And, I don't blame them, since I got bilked out of $55 that I'll never get back. And, since I am not getting it back, I need to make some really good banners to advertise this diary.

Any of you talented people who have skills in such things would have my undying gratitude if you could help me in this arena. I know next to nothing about making banners. And I need to use every single banner run I have left, dammit. I should also use all the image space I have left, too...

Damn the man.

Happy Friday.

OMG WTF?

2005-08-23T20:44:00.000-07:00

Thanks to everyone for their words of support in me putting myself even further into debt so my cranky cat can live. He's still at the hospital, and the doctor says he might be able to come home tomorrow. I hope so. My house feels empty without his furry big ass laying around all the time.

Awwww. Isn't he precious in a "get that camera out of my fucking face you've taken 8451456478974564 pictures of me already today" kind of way?

Don't judge my unmade bed. And that comforter is now a lovely shade of gray, thanks to many washings with bleach to kill pee smells.

And I got a carrier (top loading - thanks Loopy!) to take him home in so he can't escape while I'm driving. No more claws in my boobs, thank you very much.

I cried like a little whimpering sissy at the end of "Six Feet Under" on Sunday. I'm not going to go into detail since I got yelled at last time, but I will say that I thought the ending was perfect. I watched the last part of it again tonight and cried just as hard.

People like Alan Ball make me sickeningly envious of their talents.

Ok. So, since I am not above using my own glaring humiliations to entertain you monkeys, I am going to regale all of you with yet another dating tale, courtesy of my pride and dignity.

About two months ago, I met this guy Dave online. He was nice, and funny. I wasn't particularly impressed with his picture, but he called me all the time and wanted to see me, so we set a date.

We planned on watching "Napoleon Dynamite"(his favorite movie - not mine, but I'll deal with it) and hanging out. We sat and talked for a long time. Then, while we were watching the movie, he jumped closer to me and started kissing me. It was nice at first, but as soon as he started using his tongue, he just jammed it down my throat and started doing this jackhammer-type thing that was not appealing. Or arousing. Or good. Or anything.

He started to really get into it, so I stopped him and told him that he may as well stop right then, because it wasn't going any further (my new-found principles). He said it was cool, and kept kissing me. Being a makeout whore, I wasn't about to turn that down. Well, as this went on, he started kissing my neck.

Uh-oh. That's my spot. My "it's going to be really hard to keep my clothes on if you keep doing that there" spot. I kept wriggling around to get him to stop, but as soon as he realized what effect it had on me, he zeroed in on it, and went crazy. Finally, after about twenty minutes, I had to tell him to stop. So he did, and we just watched the rest of the movie, and talked a little, and then I told him I was tired, and that I had to get up for work early.

Later on, I went to brush my teeth and wash my make up off, and I was horrified by what I saw.

Fucking hickies.

I am 31 years old. I managed to go my whole life without stupid hickies anywhere on me. I had no idea what to do. I couldn't call in sick to work, because it was a Friday, and no one believes you when you call in sick on a Friday. Not ever having had them, I had no idea how long they would last, so I foolishly hoped that they would fade by morning. And I woke up almost every hour to check on them.

No change.

So, I bit the bullet, and decided the only thing I could do was try to disguise these hideous makeout scars. So, even though it was hot all week, and was supposed to be hot that day, I wore a goddamn turtleneck. But, in perfect "hahahaha! Andria, I laugh at you!" fashion, the turtleneck I have is sleeveless, and I always wear this black sweater over it.

Turtleneck + sweater + hot fucking summer weather = Andria dead in a pool of her own sweat.

As soon as I got to work, Celestia noticed immediately that I was not dressed for the weather.

"Why are you wearing a turtleneck? It's supposed to be like 90 today!"

...

"Um..."

So, as fast as I could, I came up with the flimsiest excuse I could.

"I used this perfumed lotion, and I broke out. I must be allergic or something."

"Man, that sucks!"

"Yeah, I know." So I went to my desk, already hot as hell at 8:30 in the morning, dreading the day I had ahead of me, knowing that I was going to have to tell my perfumed lotion allergy story 100 times. And, to add a little tiny bit of believability to this bullshit story, every once in a while I would scratch my neck and arms and groan uncomfortably.

And the Academy Award for best actress trying to hide the fact that she's a whore who made out like a horny teenager with some guy she wasn't even really attracted to to begin with is... Andria!

What was worse was my shithead friends later on that night making fun of me mercilessly all night long for it.

Eh, I'd have done the same if one of my dimwit friends had a bunch of hickies, too.

Cause I'm nice like that.

It's not sad when single women talk about their cats, right? RIGHT??

2005-08-22T11:37:00.000-07:00

This entry's not any fun. It's mostly me whining.

You've all been warned.

For the last week or two, Ike, my cranky ginormous cat, has been peeing in spots around the house, which he never does. At first, he was going in the same places my other cat, Boo (who is now an outdoor cat because of her bad bathroom habits) was peeing, so I figured he was picking up the scent and going there.

Then, on Friday night, I could smell urine on my bed. He normally uses my bed to deposit his hairballs, which I've learned to live with, but he's never peed there. I woke up Saturday morning to two intensely smelly puddles in my kitchen, giving my whole apartment the fragrant aroma of cat piss. Mmmmm.

NOT.

So, I spent Saturday morning cleaning my kitchen floor with bleach, and washing my sheets and comforter in bleach and vinegar to kill the smell so he wouldn't smell it and go again. Which sucked, because my favorite purple jersey knit sheets now look like a Grateful Dead concert shirt.

All seemed well again, until Sunday morning, I was getting ready to go meet some friends, and the shirt I had laid on my bed was wet. I flipped out, and immediately called the vet to get him in ASAP.

Ike doesn't like the vet. AT ALL. He knows as soon as we get in the car, that he's going to be poked, stuck, and fucked with. So, when I got in the car, he started crying. Which, makes me feel terrible, and I in turn start to cry (shutup). The cardboard carrier I had him in (which he is the same size as, incidentally) was on my passenger seat. All of a sudden, the top of the box rips in half, Ike jumps out of it, and starts running around in my car. Hair was flying EVERYWHERE. I was trying to drive, and deal with this fucking animal running all over the place, and I started to panic (thanks a lot anxiety, you asshole). When I finally did get to the vet, he jumped on me and grabbed on so tightly with his claws that I was bleeding. He was crying, and his eyes, which are normally a beautiful, icy blue, were now black because his pupils were so huge due to stress. I held onto him as tightly as I could and went inside. Since no one else was there, they stuck me a room immediately to see the doctor.

I found out that Ike has a urinary tract infection. Some crystals formed in his urethra, making urinating beyond painful for him, so he was holding it, and pee was involuntarily dribbling out wherever he was. But, because he was holding it, his bladder was enlarged, and filled with urine like a balloon, and was going to burst. Soon. Kidney failure would come next, followed by death. My only option was for them to install a catheter to drain the urine, and give him meds to dissolve the crystals.

And it's only going to cost me a thousand fucking dollars.

Oh, yeah. I don't have a thousand dollars. So, I had to use credit cards that are "only in case of emergency" cards, that I can't really afford anyway.

Woo.

Mostly, I feel terrible that he was suffering this whole time, and I had no idea, and just thought he was pissing everywhere to be an asshole.

Kay, after I explained to her what happened, yelled at me for agreeing to pay that much for a cat, and that I shouldn't do it because I am always bitching about how many bills I already have. But, unfortunately, I realized in that exam room while I was sitting there trying to calm down my cat, that I am what I never thought I would be - someone whose animal has become her child. If I didn't pay, Ike would die, and it would be slow, and painful, and I couldn't live with myself if I did that.

So, I just added a grand to the Andria's Mountain O'debt. I am frustrated and overwhelmed at the current situation I am in, but there's nothing I can do about it except pay and pay and pay, and hopefully get this shit taken care of. I hate money. I really do.

I find it funny (not funny "haha," but funny "FUCK!") that DanjerusKurves and I both had expensive kitty weekends.

My lesson from all of this? Buy a real fucking cat carrier.

My chest looks like I got felt up by Freddy Kruger.

Andria's a big drooling idiot - Part Deux

2005-08-19T10:54:00.000-07:00

As I talked about a few entries ago, I have a thing for firemen. And, for whatever reason, the city I live in only seems to hire hot men in their emergency assistance occupations. Cops, firement, EMT's, paramedics - ALL HOT.

So, imagine my glee when I showed up at the hospital yesterday so they could take eight gallons of my blood (I am not kidding - eleven viles, people. ELEVEN), and I saw a bunch of EMTs and paramedics cleaning out their rigs in the ambulance bay, which happens to be conventiently located right next to a bench, a fountain, and some flowers. So I looked at the time, decided to make myself late for my appointment, and sat down on the bench for a few.

I took my cell phone out, because I didn't want to look like a horny, under-sexed stalker (even though that's clearly what I am). I dialed Kay and started chatting with her, all the while staring (probably with drool running down my chin) at these hunky men twenty feet away.

And speaking of my rampant horniness, I think I am going to have to re-think the "no more casual sex Andria" policy I've enacted. Because of my lack of sex, I've been craving (and eating) chocolate like a lunatic. And, well, the scale wasn't quite so friendly the last time I went to the doctor, so... I have to have sex.

For my health.

Who's with me?

Anybody?

Anybody?

Bueller?

Bueller??

Dammit.

It's a sad day, gentle readers.

I'll tell you why. Next Thursday is the last "Being Bobby Brown." I don't know what I'll do with my two favorite crackheads gone from my television. Last night may have been the best episode, because aside from their blaring (and scary) rendition of "Born to be Wild," there was some creepy wrestling going on, not to mention the absolutely DISGUSTING appearance of Bobby's bare feet, which look like something I've never seen - or ever wish to see again.

God bless those two junkie lunatics.

I got a reply from my ad on matchdotcom from some biker/actor/weirdo guy who's interested in me. So, upon looking at his profile, I scrolled down to what kind of girl he likes. This proves the theory that Chickpea(and, go read her if you're not already. She's six kinds of sassy, my friends) and I discussed one day that men do NOT read the profiles on these dating sites. They just see a picture they like, and click on it.

Because you know what his biggest turn offs are? Sarcasm, girls who cuss, and loud, outspoken women. And the kind of girls he likes? Quiet, demure, sweet types that act feminine and lady-like.

Hmmmm... now, granted, I don't scream and curse on my profile, but it clearly says I have a dry, sarcastic, raunchy, silly, sense of humor. And, in the section of crap I have to come up with myself, I mention about FIVE times how sarcastic I am, and how my sense of humor is my most noticeable trait, and that I am shy at first, but do tend to be outspoken around people I am comfortable with.

GodDAMN is dating a pain in my ass.

I don't heart being single.

Thank god it's Friday.

That's all.

This just in: Osama bin Laden caught stealing tampons at Target.

2005-08-16T22:14:00.000-07:00

So, I've been in kind of a funk lately. There's a lot of stuff on my head, and it's making me a little nuts, and not very much fun to be around.

I keep having dreams I'm talking to my dead friend, I'm broke, I have $8000 in medical bills, and I feel like I am reaching out for something I'm never going to be able to have.

What a perfect mood for an update!

Woo! Crabby bitch!

Chika(I'm plugging your diaryland diary because your blogger title is long as hell) told me that instead of doing a list of crap that makes me happy, I should do a list of things that piss me off.

And, since that suits my current state of mind much more than stuff like rainbows (Saru-San, where are the "fuck you, rainbow!" t-shirts?), and kittens, and lollipops, I'll start with the biggest pain in my ass.

Celestia.

Celestia could, and should, have a list dedicated just to her. My ex-friend and current office nemesis/evil bitch whore, she pretty much infuriates me on a daily basis. But, I like my job, so I tolerate her.

She has several physical habits that annoy the living shit out of me. The first, and the most disgusting, is this snot-sucking-swallowing thing that she does every few minutes. I can't imagine how much snot she could possibly have jammed in her sinus cavity that it requires her to suck it up and then swallow it (god, I am gagging thinking about it) dozens of times a day. But she does. Loud enough for the entire office to hear.

She has dozens of bottles of vitamins at her desk, that she takes all day long. She has one of those huge seperated daily pill dispensers that old people have to remind them to take their pills every day, only hers is filled with every goddamn vitamin and supplement possible. She also claims to hate water (which is new, she never used to have this disdain for water that she does now), so every time she takes one of these 13549 pills she makes this face and does this big theatrical production of how much she hates it, but has "to do it to be healthy."

Sometimes she talks with her mouth open. This disgusts me. She's 32. She knows better than to talk while she's chewing on whatever low-carb crap she's eating. She also eats a giant spoonful of peanut butter every afternoon, and it reminds me of that milk commercial where the kid is sitting on the front porch, and the dog starts licking the kid's spoon of peanut butter. It's just like that.

She and her boyfriend, Sucker, just got a puppy. She sent out an email to all her friends announcing the arrival of the dog, complete with photos of the dog. The dog has a first, middle, and hyphenated last name. Maxim Samuel Sucker-Celestia. I find it coincidental that the poor dog has the same name as Sucker's favorite magazine.

When I got Ike, I didn't consider naming him Entertainment Weekly or Rolling Stone. But whatever. She talks about this dog INCESSANTLY. To everyone. Even if no one asks about him (and no one does), she tells everyone what cute thing he did while Sucker was sleeping, or how he cries every time she leaves for work, or how he makes this cute whimpering sound when Sucker plays with him.

Awwww.

Sweet, right? Not so much. Sucker takes the dog with him to work every day, and every day, during one of the 8540 times he calls her during the day, she talks to the dog. On the phone. THE DOG.

WHO CAN'T TALK BACK.

Don't get me wrong. I love my pets. But I don't call my house during the day to ask Ike, "Are you being a silly boy? Are you a great big silly billy? Who's my big boy?" And do it in that goofy pet owner voice. I do talk to Ike like an idiot, and tell him how pretty he is, and how much I love him, but I do at home, where no one else can hear it and mock me for it later online in their journal.

I did get to have a little fun at her expense today, though. She is a health freak/hypochondriac. She constantly thinks she's sick, she's always going to the doctor, and she's always trying whatever the vitamin/supplement industry is telling her is the only thing that will keep her alive, and taking every vitamin known to man to fight off cancer. She's always talking about how she doesn't eat chemicals, and no artificial sweetners, and how chocolate makes her crazy (she really tries to say it's chocolate that makes her act like a psycho), blah blah blah.

Yet, she spends every free minute of her time out in the sun.

Anyway. So she's talking to Princess today about this berry-flavored water that she's drinking, and how it tastes so good, but has no carbs, preservatives, or chemicals of ANY kind. And they couldn't understand how with no sugar, it tasted so good. Celestia also said that she can detest even the slightest artificial flavoring in her drink.

So I decided to freak her the fuck out.

"Hey, you know, Celestia, that because of loopholes and technicalities in the FDA, some chemicals can legally be called 'natural flavor,' even though they're made in a lab."

"That's not true. How do you know that?"

"I read it in that book 'Fast Food Nation' that I read a couple of years ago. You can borrow it if you want."

"That can't be true."

"You're right. Eric Schlosser probably just published a book taking on the fast food industry that was completely without merit and based in lies. I am sure he could get away with that."

"Well, I don't think it's true."

"Where do you think that berry flavor came from? Does it say any specific berries in the ingredients?"

So then she looked at the label again, waiting for the word "raspberries and strawberries" to magically appear. But it didn't.

"No." And she flipped out, and spit out the drink she took and threw all of it away, and started panicking.

She probably cried when she got home.

I'm sure it doesn't make me look like a very nice person when I get such pleasure in freaking her out, but I can't help it. And, if you knew our history (which I did write about, but I'm too lazy to link the three Celestia history entries), you'd understand.

So, I was at Target on Saturday, and I found out while perusing the girly aisle that there are some spunky new tampons on the market.

And, each absorbency has a different sassy chick on the box! And, each tampon has a cute little menstrual joke on the wrapper, like, "I have PMS. What's your excuse?"

Fantastic.

Did you know that when you shop at Target your shopping experience is recorded and coded with your transaction on the security cameras?

When I got home and looked at the receipt, I realized they charged me double for two items, and went to ask for my money back. The idiot behind the counter informed me that I had to wait for the security cameras to show if I bought two of each or not.

So I had to wait while they made sure I only bought one box of tampons (you boys must really be enjoying all this tampon talk!) and one stupid razor.

Nothing like having someone who's barely mastered the English language make you feel like an international terrorist over $14.

Damn dingy broads.

2005-08-11T11:03:00.000-07:00

I am an update slacker, I know. I just haven't been feeling all too funny recently.

Here's a feeble attempt at an entry.

I am not a shallow person (well, not usually). I have said many times before that a man's mind is what really gets me going. However, I am a horny sexless (dammit) woman, so I am not immune to physical beauty. And, it just so happens that firemen get me going. Big time.

I was sitting at a light the other day on my way home from work. On one corner of the intersection is the fire department. I usually cast a lusty gaze whenever I drive by, but I rarely see anything going on. However, on this day, I saw something magnificent. I saw four SHIRTLESS firemen washing the trucks.

Four firemen. Sans shirts.

Oh.My.God.

I don't have to tell you the amount of drool that was running down my chin, or the various parts of my body that were responding to the sight of four gorgeous men without shirts. In fact, I was so mesmerized at the sight, and so lost in my hot, dirty firemen sex fantasy that I completely forgot I was sitting in my car, stopped in traffic.

Luckily, the blaring horns of the cars behind me were kind enough to remind me that the light was green, and I needed to get my ass (and car) in gear and drive.

I got flipped off my a huge guy (incidentally, also shirtless, though you'd never know it by the amount of body hair he had) in a truck who called me a "dingy broad driver."

I felt just like Vera on "Alice" when Mel called her dingy all the time.

So I told him to kiss my grits.

Well, even though he probably thinks I'm a dirty whore, having my Hot Mailman (who, is not so hot now that I've seen how he lives and his speed-freak girlfriend) live next door has its perks.

For instance, a friend sent a package too big for my box (hahaha... god bless sexual postal innuendo), so he kept it in his apartment so that none of my ghetto neighbors would steal it, and then he gave it to me when he got home. I am sure that is a violation of several postal regulations as well as some law, but I was glad nonetheless.

And now that he lives there, and I see what tweekers he and his girlfriend appear to be, his hotness is totally gone now. But at least they don't bitch about my loud music or the ~~porn~~ movies I watch in my bedroom (which is right next to theirs) late at night.

I still have to finish the last half of my list of crap that makes me happy. But I'm not feeling very happy right now, so I'll get to it next time.

Dandria Day and other assorted fiascos.

2005-08-07T23:08:00.000-07:00

Oy. This weekend was hard for Andria.

Friday night, Kay called and said to come over for a few drinks and to hang out. She, The Good Girl and I were drinking dirty martinis and chatting. After about the third one, I started drinking them like they were water. Kay told me later that I drank three in a half hour.

Needless to say, I passed out on Kay's couch while we were watching some movie. And, because my friends are the assholes that they are, took my camera out of my purse and took pictures of me, passed out while DMX and DB copped a feel - which, sadly, was the most action I've seen recently.

To quote a dear friend in an email, "those grabby sons of bitches!"

When I woke up, after everyone made fun of me for being such a drunk ASS, Kay drove me home. I got into bed and passed out. I woke up some time later, with the urgent need to throw up (which I haven't done in about ten years). I ran into my bathroom, knocked everything on the shelf over, and did what I had to do. I didn't notice when I ran in that I knocked over the tube of Frizz Ease that I put in my hair, and it squirted out all over my bathroom floor. Whatever silicone crap is in that stuff won't come off the floor, and it's like an oil slick in there. Great.

Saturday I woke up disgustingly hungover and feeling like shit. I have not felt this bad from drinking in a LONG time, mostly because I don't drink like that anymore.

That evening, a group of us went to this restaurant/brewery for this "tapping party" (hehe... that sounds dirty)that DMX won in a silent auction at RAM's school. Briton, one of my best friends, brought his new girlfriend, who I am not particularly fond of because she is incredibly domineering and commands all of Briton's time and attention (I hate these kind of girls). I noticed over the course of the four or five hours that we were there, that every time she had to go to the bathroom, she made Briton go with her, and wait outside for her.

Our waiter, Josh, was super cute. I wasn't really drinking (though I did have one pint of IPA - hair of the dog, as they say), so I was mostly drinking diet coke all night. After about the fourth refill, he jokingly said, "I am going to have to cut you off after this one. You're driving, you know." He smiled, and then I went all dopey and gooey, as I always do when cute boys talk to me, and I just smiled back. I said something dorky, but I can't remember now. I just remember smiling my ass off every time he came to our table, and giggling like a moron every time he joked with me.

We are SO going back there.

After the brewery, everyone else decided to go to the old bar we used to hang out at, which was down the street. Because I was tired, and because that bar is now patronized by thugs and punks since it was sold by the greedy owner, I went home. About forty minutes later, Kay called me from the bar, and asked me to come and pick them up, because some huge Samoan guy punched DMX in the eye. It was a total sucker punch, and for no reason. Shit like that happening is why we don't go there anymore.

That put a big damper on the fun mood for Dandria Day, the holiday DMX and I created a few years ago, mostly to have an excuse to start drinking early on Sunday. But, black eye be damned, DMX called me early this morning to get over there and start the festivities. Kay and I were recapping the events of the night before, and we started talking crap about Briton's new girlfriend.

Flash to later in the day, a bunch of us were hanging out in the backyard. Me, Briton, the New Girl, The Good Girl, DB, and RAM. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, that little shithead RAM says to New Girl, "And you were in the bathroom and Briton had to wait outside."

Dammit. That little fucker was ratting me out.

Briton: What'd you say?
New Girl: Huh?
Briton: Uh-oh, someone's been talking...
RAM: You made Briton go with you to the bathroom and wait outside for you to get done every time. TT told Mom and Dad.

I have no idea what expression was on my face, but inside, the urge to punch a five year old was strong.

New Girl(to RAM): Well, I had never been there before, and didn't know where the bathroom was.
Andria: Have you guys tried this drink? It's really good. You should try it. Don't you love this Foo Fighters song? Man, it's hot today. Are you guys hot?
RAM: I just know what TT said.
Andria: RAM, you don't know what you're talking about. That's not what I said. (Yeah, it is) You're crazy.
RAM: You said that to Mom this morning when you were watching the race. You said she went to the bathroom and he had to go with her. Don't you remember?

So, things were a little uncomfortable for me after that. I half-expected her to say something to me about it, but she didn't.

Later on, I was in the kitchen telling Kay what a little rat her son was (while she laughed) when RAM walked up and grabbed onto my leg.

"You're on my list kid, watch out."
"Oh, yeah, you're on my list, too, TT."
"You're only five. You don't have lists yet. You can't even spell list."
"Oh, I have lists. You're on the list, TT."

I guess that's what happens when your kid grows up around a bunch of smartasses.

I got tagged by Blue Meany to answer these questions using only song titles from one band. I chose Garbage.

Are you male or female:
Stupid Girl
Describe yourself:
Untouchable
How do some people feel about you:
Shut Your Mouth
How do you feel about yourself:
So Like A Rose
Describe your current significant other:
#1 Crush
Describe where you want to be:
As Heaven Is Wide
Describe what you want to be:
Supervixen
Describe how you live:
Happy Home
Describe how you love:
Til The Day I Die
Share a few words of wisdom:
The Trick Is To Keep Breathing.

I am not going to tag anyone else, because I'm a rebel like that.

BADASS.

Originality is for suckers.

2005-08-05T11:03:00.000-07:00

Because I follow the herd, I am stealing everyone's recent entries and listing my 100 favorite things.

Deal with it, suckas.

Things I love, in no particular order:

1. The Pacific Ocean, especially in the late evening.
2. Finding money in the washing machine that I forgot I left in my pocket.
3. Living by myself and being able to support myself (though a naked man wouldn't hurt. I'm just saying).
4. When RAM lets me hold him like I did when he was a baby, and he puts his arms around me and whispers in my ear that he loves me.
5. Men with British, Australian or Southern accents.
6. Sex in the morning.
7. The first time I get in bed when the sheets have just been washed.
8. Having an open mind.
9. Meeting other open-minded people.
10. Laughing my ass off.
11. Making other people laugh their ass off.
12. Finding a book that is so good I can't stop reading, and stay up all night to read the whole thing.
13. The people on my buddy list.
14. Sex in the afternoon.
15. People watching.
16. Hearing a song I haven't heard in ten years, and still knowing every word.
17. Watching "Raising Arizona" for the 21436th time.
18. Hearing the words "I love you."
19. Reading back in my old diaries to see what I was writing about when I was 12.
20. Kissing.
21. The movie "Like Water For Chocolate."
22. Priding myself on the fact that, after working with her every day for five years, I've managed to NOT kill Celestia. Though, I think about it every.single.day.
23. Listening to CD's that other people make me.
24. Quoting movies and television incessantly.
25. Talking shit about my co-workers with Margie and using our dumb code words that we think no one else knows, but they probably do.
26. Sex in the evening.
27. Dumb inside jokes with my friends that make us laugh our heads off.
28. A good cry.
29. Having a dirty mind.
30. Giving little presents to people for no other reason than to let you know you thought of them.
31. Getting little presents for no reason other than that person was thinking of me.
32. The feeling you get the first time you see a band you love live.
33. Watching moron movie stars who think they're smarter than everyone else make an ass out of themselves.
34. Being a smartass.
35. MAC lip gloss, especially in Oyster Girl, Spite, Explicit, and Lustrewhite.
36. Painting my toenails.
37. Chatting with my friend Jeremy when I should be working.
38. Having fresh flowers around me.
39. The smell of Red Door and/or Happy perfume.
40. My crazy family, even though they drive me batty most of the time.
41. Spending a Friday night with my sister eating pizza and watching "Clueless" and "Bring it On" for the millionth time.
42. Mmmmm... pizza.
43. The movie "Amelie."
44. Waking up to get it on in the middle of the night.
45. The butterflies I get in my stomach the first time I kiss a boy I really like.
46. A clear blue sky and a cool breeze.
47. Driving in my car with the windows down and the stereo blaring, going nowhere in particular.
48. Having curly red hair (though I could do without the frizz, thank you very much).
49. Being good at my job.
50. Listening to songs in foreign languages, even though I have no idea what they're saying.

Ok. I'll ~~bore~~ dazzle you all with the rest next time.

If you ever meet a woman named Janice Dickens, please flip her off and then kick her in the crotch.

I'll explain. About five months ago, I started getting these messages on my answering machine. They were automated messages saying "this is not a sales call. It is important that you call us back at 555-555-5555 (yeah, that was really the number)." My feeling is, if they can't have a real person call me, I'm not calling them back. Plus, I know all my shit's in order, so I wasn't worried about it.

Finally, about two months ago, a live person left a message, so I called it back. He asked for Janice Dickens, and said that she owed them a buttload of money and wasn't paying her bills. I explained that she didn't live there, and I had no idea who she was. He took me off their call list. I still got four or five calls a day for this deadbeat whore who put my phone number as hers to all her creditors.

I started returning all the calls, explaining that I didn't know who she was, she didn't live there, blah blah blah. A couple companies didn't believe me, and I had to fax them copies of bills, and my driver's license, and other crap to prove who I was with my address on it.

Fuck.

Then, yesterday, I was returning what I hope would be the last one, and the girl I talked to mentioned something I hadn't thought about. Identity theft. She told me I need to check my credit reports, and make sure this bitch hasn't wrecked my credit (which I did a pretty good job of myself in my 20's, but I've been busting my ass to clean it up).

This should be fun.

I'm glad it's Friday.

And Sunday we'll be celebrating Dandria Day (my self-created holiday), and you're all invited! Woo! Drunk on Sunday is good times, my friends. Good times.

Go vote for me in warcrygirl's keychain contest.

RIGHT NOW.

What's better than a picture of a celebrity that's pissed herself? NOTHING.

2005-08-04T09:13:00.000-07:00

I was bursting with fruit flavor-y goodness until I checked my email. Sometimes asking for other peoples’ opinions on things is not fun. Because a) you might not want to hear what they have to say, because maybe in your head you know they’re right, or b) they’re an uninformed asshole (i.e. My Fan who likes to call me a hoar).

Sometimes it’s hard to read what other people have to say about you.

And, speaking of peoples’ opinions, you DO NOT have to have a blogger account to comment here. My settings are for anyone to comment. All you have to do is select ‘other’ and you can put your name and URL.

Fret not, my little non-Blogger babies.

I am still copying my old entries over here, so that my new lovelies can read all of my insightful and hilarious genius from days gone by, so hopefully in a couple of days, they’ll all be there.

Thank god I only had 170 entries, and not some ungodly number like… 508. Poor Lando.

I may have made a decision I'll regret later, and decided to get a second job. Mama needs some moneys.

Bills, bills, bills. And they aren't going to pay themselves.

So, I am going to start assisting real estate agents and set up their databases for them for fat stacks, yo.

And, if I play my cards right, I could turn this into all kinds of money and opportunity, because real estate agents HATE administrative work, and are willing to pay handsomely for people to do the paperwork and data entry crap they're too busy to do. Enter Andria and her awesomely wicked administrative clerical skills.

Thanks to Ashley for pointing out pictures of my least favorite singer, Fergie of the ear-piercing, suicide-inducing Black Eyed Peas pissing her pants. Go look for yourself.

That is all kinds of awesome.

Speaking of celebrities, I watched Kathy Griffin's new show last night on Bravo, which I was excited about, because I LOVE Kathy Griffin. But... I don't know. Watching her bitch about having to pay for everything bothered me. It's hard to be sympathetic watching her sit inside her ginormous Hollywood Hills house and cry about having to pay the decorator to gay it up, or whatever phrase she used. But I will still watch it, because I think she's hilarious. And anyone that makes a career out of making fun of dopey celebrities is alright in my book.

Though I am burning with jealousy.

It's Thursday, kids. Bobby and Whitney night. YES. I can't believe how totally hooked I am on that show, and the train wreck that is the lives of Bobby ("I'm Bobby Brown.You know? Bobby Brown? From New Edition? I wrote My Perogative? Roni? Bobby Brown. I'm married to Whitney Houston. Yeah, that Bobby Brown.") and Whitney.

How could you not love them? They sing about biscuits and gravy.

I love when celebrities break free from their publicists and show what morons they really are. Who knew, before this show what a ghetto piece of trash Whitney was? Look what a lunatic Tom Cruise turned into when he fired his publicist and hired his Scientologist sister. Or Britney. Oh, Britney. I don't even know where to begin with her.

I hope more stars fire their career-savvy publicists and decide to do it themselves. Then this blog will practically write itself.

Hey! If you haven't already, go vote for me in Warcrygirl's keychain contest.

Unlike Kathy Griffin, I am poor, and need all the free stuff I can get.

More fun with personal ads.

2005-08-02T22:18:00.000-07:00

Man, trying to figure out how to get my crap over here from diaryland is a motherfucker. Any ex-diarylanders living here who can offer up assistance on how the hell to do this will get all my love and affection, because I don't know what the sweet fuck I'm doing.

Thanks.

Thank you, Jenna for this wonderful piece of internet gold. Holy crap, was I laughing my ass off at work today looking at that site.

So, my wacky Diaryland High (goooooooo Bloggers!) dream was entertaining to everyone involved, I see. It was really funny, because so much of how I perceive the peoples' personalities in my mind was how they were in my dream. I mean, I already knew what everyone looked like, so that wasn't much work, but Clarity was an artist, Jeremy was a bitchy queen (shutup, you know you are, <3), Judd was a jock, Jenna was the girl with the crush, Loopy was the brainy girl, Warcrygirl was the outspoken smartass (SO shocking), and RDC... well, she really didn't do anything til she jumped up and socked Judd and then they were making out, so I didn't really get to see any of her personality.

Except the ASS-KICKING-MAN-PUNCHING side. Awesome.

Judd better watch out, is all I can say.

That is not my first diarist dream. Though, it may be the first one that's not dirty. I have had dirty dreams about five different diarists (I am such a whore). The funny thing is, one of them I've never even seen or talked to, and another one I had only been reading about a week.

I have a personal ad on yahoo personals, and this gem of a man sent me a wink. Just look at his profile:

Hi:I aint,all what I thought,I was.but that's ok.I good w/being "rick".I dont sweat the petty s_it.It's all mostly petty ,u know.Life's too short.Im a down,cool,open to anything fun,kinda guy.Im not independently wealthy.Dont ever need to be.I have a lot to share w/someone."regardless".It would be nice however,being $ rich?I could go there just fine, and be myself......heavy on "comfortable".That might get old,ya think?............Naaawwwww!..never.If you wanna have some fun?I'm alway's good to laugh at.........errr....good for a laugh,or two.:) U don't have to be a rich,super-model.Please be,optimistic,reasonably,physically fit,not too overweight.Positive,and humorous attitude, are a must.Gimmie a shout if u like.U won't be dissapointed..........shocked,and appauled,possibly.Insulted maby.Not dissapointed.No way!..............C-ya!

That's exactly how it is on his profile. And I don't understand why he would try to contact me if he likes his chicks "physically fit and not too overweight." There a bunch of pictures on my profile that show just what I look like.

JESUS, do I hate being single sometimes.

Oh! And don't forget to go vote for me in warcrygirl's keychain contest.

Is asking people to vote for me tacky? Because I would *never* dream of doing something that might be in poor taste.

Fuck you, Andrew.

2005-08-02T10:35:00.000-07:00

Yeah. I hate diaryland.

I'm testing Pete's re-direct code.

Be jealous of my beautiful pink template!

Anyhoo, here's my post for the day, copied over here.

I'm ashamed of myself.

Not only did I watch the "My Super Sweet 16" marathon on MTV, I also watched "Laguna Beach", a show I despise because it's full of a bunch of dye-jobbed, snotty rich kids in Orange County. What the hell is wrong with me?

And, speaking of tv, I hate when my favorite character gets killed off a favorite tv show (Yeah, I'm looking at you, Alan Ball... damn you). I knew this was the final season of "Six Feet Under", but they didn't have to kill Nate, dammit.

I had such a crush on Nate. Grrr.

Hey, did you hear Lauren Bacall has a few choice words for my favorite blow-hard narcissist, Tom Cruise? She called him "vulgar" and said, "When you talk about a great actor, you're not talking about Tom Cruise."

Awesome.

Last night, I had a spectacularly odd dream about a lot of diarists and high school.

One of my recurring dreams is always about the first day of school. Probably because I hated the first day of school, and pretty much hated all of high school.

So, I walk into this classroom, and there's Pete, Jenna, Judd, RDC Warcrygirl, Clarity, Loopy, and probably the only man for whom I'll have babies, my lovely friend Jeremy.

GodDAMN, was that a lot of linking.

So, I walk into the classroom, and Jenna and Loopy were sitting at one table, writing a note that was to be for Pete, while Pete and Judd were sitting talking to Clarity, who was drawing something on a huge poster board.

I sat down and started talking to Jeremy, when RDC jumped up from her desk, and ran over, and punched Judd sqare in the jaw. Judd just looked at her, and started laughing hysterically, and then they started making out.

Warcrygirl and Loopy took the note over to Pete, while Jenna sat looking nervously. Just as Pete was about to read the note, Jeremy snatched it out of his hands and ran out of the classroom. Warcrygirl ran out after Jeremy, knocked him down in the hall, kicked him, and took the note back to Pete. Jenna was crying. The crazy, out-of-breath, snotty kind of crying.

Judd and RDC were still making out during all of this. Which I think is awesome.

Pete read the note, and gave it to Clarity to read out loud. And dammit, I can't remember what the note says, but I have an idea it was "Do you love me? Check yes or no."

And, that's all I remember.

There were more people in the classroom, so there could have been more diary people there, I just don't know what they look like.

I love my wacky dreams.

So, a lot of ~~suckers~~ have added me to their favorites recently (thanks!), probably due to my awesomely ~~lame~~ ultra high tech banners I've been running.

And by "high tech" I mean "looks like an eight year old made it."

Who the fuck is Alice?

2005-07-29T21:10:00.000-07:00

If you aren't watching "Being Bobby Brown," then I don't think we can be friends.

Seriously. Stop what you're doing and turn on Bravo. Or better yet, you can come to my house and watch ALL the episodes because they will live forever on my tivo. These people are INSANE, and it's fantastic. As the loverly Dixie pointed out, all they do is eat, smoke, and bitch.

They also sing. Everything. Everywhere. And dance. I was joking about this to Kay, and she said, "Well,they're singers." Well, I do accounting all day, and I don't start doing 10-key wherever I go, or spontaneously just start reconciling peoples's bank accounts. Like I said. INSANE.

Last night, they were at a restaurant, and Whitney told the waiter she wanted an appetizer. "Do you have the gorgonzahh? The gorgonzahh cheese and pears?" I am guessing she was talking about gorgonzola. After her delicious gorgonzahh and pears, she announced to Bobby, the waiter, her friend on the cell phone, and the cameras, and anyone else that would listen, that she was going to take a big shit, and that she was going to be on the toilet all night.

God bless them. I never ever ever ever thought I'd say this, but thank god for reality tv.

Interpol tickets are going on sale tomorrow, and I am sad that none of my suck-ass friends know who Interpol even are.

I am beginning to think if it's not Toby Keith or Kelly Clarkson, they're clueless.

That's kind of scary.

Last night, in my dreams (one of which was HOT HOT HOT), I dreamed about this song I used to hear at the Irish bar we used to hang out all the time, that I haven't heard in years. I can't remember the name (I think it might be "Who the fuck is Alice"), but the chorus says "I don't know where she's leaving, or where she's going to go. I guess she's got her reasons but I just don't want to know. But I'll never get used to not living next door to Alice. Alice, who the fuck is Alice?" Anyhoo, it's about a transvestite, or a transsexual, I think. And last night I dreamed the entire song. It was tres bizarre.

I don't even know what the point of telling that was.

Thank god it's Friday.

Last night, I was talking on the phone to a lovely, lovely man (I didn't even try to burn my house down this time!), and we were talking about travel.

I have a paralyzing fear of flying.

Like, bad.

But, before I die, I have to see two places: Italy, and England. Those are the only two places I really really really want to go.

I need to get over my fear and just do it. It's not as bad as it used to be, though. I used to have panic attacks when I drove by the airport.

Now's the part where you all say, "Wow, she is fucking nuts."

I know it's completely irrational, and I'm more likely to die in my car, but my car's only a foot off the ground.

Not 35,000 feet.

The last time I was in a plane, was a few years ago, coming back from Vegas (the fact that the flight is just under an hour was a huge selling point - not to mention the extreme drunkenness).

I was sitting in my seat, with my head between my legs focusing on my breathing so as not to DIE (ok, not really. The fact is, I was so drunk I could have been sitting next to a clown *shudder* and I probably wouldn't have noticed), when Kay started poking my shoulder relentlessly.

Finally, I asked her what the hell she was poking me for, and she told me to walk to the bathroom, and to look at the seats on the left.

So I did.

HOLY.SHIT.

Rick Springfield was sitting in a seat on the same plane I was.

Now, laugh if you must (even though it breaks my heart to know that you would mock Rick), but you have NO idea the lovestruck fool I was for this man as a young girl. I'm not the only one, either.

I had posters all over my walls, watched General Hospital every day, and named all my stuffed animals Rick.

He was the first concert I ever went to (and god bless my Dad, because he couldn't stand it, and he still went), and I still have the t-shirt in a box somewhere, along with my Madonna Virgin Tour t-shirt. And the 49840 Depeche Mode tour shirts I have.

When I saw him sitting there, still super cute and dreamy, I almost turned into one of those idiot teenage girls that can't breathe because they're losing their fucking minds at the sight of the Backstreet Boys. I got all dopey, and just sort of stared, and probably drooled a little, too.

He saw me, and I felt completely stupid, but I couldn't help it.

I mean, come on. It's Rick Springfield.

HELLO.

Trailer Park tales.

2005-07-27T21:09:00.000-07:00

So, RDC wants to hear more white trashy stories about my family. Oh, dear. I do believe I could go on for days about them. But, I will offer up this little installment in the saga that is my family. Deb, the second cousin that died, has one sister, C, and two brothers, T and LJ.

LJ married a woman about 25 years ago, and they started popping out kids. Their first son dropped out of school around 14, and was in trouble all the time. He was suspected of sexual assault (yeah, I know), but was never convicted. About two years later, he was thrown in jail for stealing a car and beating some guy nearly to death. He was sharing a cell with a guy of about 35, who was convicted of murdering a little boy in a park. Deb, who was writing to JJ, started corresponding with the cell mate and ended up marrying him.

Apparently, that pesky little "child-killer" thing didn't seem to bother her.

JJ has two younger brothers, and one younger sister. One of his younger brothers, K, was arrested over and over and over before he was even 18, for assault, vandalism, theft, and a bunch of other shit. Almost all his crimes were committed against minorities, because he's a raging skinhead. Nice, right? His younger sister, J, got knocked up at fourteen, and had a baby that had its lungs almost on the outside of its body (I can't remember the exact name for it, or all the details, but that's the jist of it), so she left in the middle of the night because she didn't want to take care of the baby.

It's a good thing hospitals never ask for any pertinent information when you check in to have a child. Because then they might catch you when you try to abandon your baby. It was an ordeal, and LJ and his wife ended up taking the poor sickly little baby (who sadly, did not live - although I don't think that kid necessarily lost out on much of a life, I hate to say), while their teenage daughter ran the streets doing whatever - and whomever - she chose.

Ok. That's all you're getting for tonight. Maybe next time I'll tell you about my thug/cousin who stabbed someone and then ran him over with a car. Or my uncle who married his dead brother's wife, becoming his neice and nephew's stepfather, and then knocking up the wife, giving birth to their half-sister/cousin.

I hope that made sense.

The only comfort I get from this is that the really bad people are second and third cousins, and my immediate family, while they might be uneducated and tasteless, are still good people.

It seems that Celestia and her friend Butterface (the co-tosser) are in the midst of a little tiff, because Celestia asked me not to put her through when she calls. And, as fun as it is for me to keep putting her in the voice mail every time, the last few times she's called she was a total bitch to me, and, well, Homey don't play that. So I sent Celestia an email telling her that she needs to settle her fight, because dealing with her ugly, bitchy friends is not in my job description.

Thinking that she was going to get me in trouble, she went to HR Boss and told her that I was making demands on whose calls I would take or not, and that I need to mind my own business. HR Boss promptly explained to her that since personal calls are frowned upon (not really, but she just said that to be a bitch to Celestia), asking me to handle them special was outside of my job duties, and in effect, distracting me from taking calls relating to the business of our office.

Guess what happened?

Come on, you know what she did.

That's right. She cried.

At least it's never dull with her around.

Lots of pictures to load. Sorry.

I stole this from Dixie. Look up the following on Google image search:

The age you will be on your next birthday:

The place you live:

That's also the church where RAM was baptized, which is another fun story of when trashy people reproduce.

Your favorite color:

When I was a little girl, I wanted my name to be Violet, because it was the color of my favorite crayon. Well, that and 'Purple' wouldn't be a very good name.

The place you want to get married:

Probably the only way I'd consider getting married is in Vegas, with at least one Elvis impersonator present.

Your first love:

Dude. Don't you fuckers even try to say something bad about Rick Springfield. I will stab anyone who dares speak ill of him.

Your favorite fruit or vegetable:

Mmmmm...

Your favorite animal:

I love these dogs because they always look like they're smiling.

The last name of your favorite actor or actress:

Creepy.

The name of a pet:

Your favorite song:

This painting is called "When a man loves a woman."

A bad habit of yours:

As if that's a surprise to anyone.

Your middle name:

I'm not even sure what my comment is for this one.

Well, the Hot Mailman (who may or may not think I'm a giant whore) is all moved in, and he's already getting on my nerves.

He's been banging on the wall (and not in the good way, either) til almost midnight for the last three nights.

If nothing's slamming against the wall in my apartment, it shouldn't be in any other one, either.

Dammit.

Now where's that chocolate...

He's a long gone daddy-o.

2005-07-25T21:08:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

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.

Mark your calendars.

2005-07-24T21:07:00.000-07:00

Damn. I don't know how people who work with html all the time handle it, because doing this template was a pain in my ass. Of course, the fact that I'm pretty illiterate in these matters probably has something to do with the time and frustration.

A few weeks ago, I was looking at a web site of Japanese art that my lovely friend Scott turned me on to, and I saw a lot of really beautiful pictures, and wanted to use one in my template. I just had to figure out how.

I didn't even have to ask Loopy to do it for me this time. Holy crap, I'm proud of myself.

Did anyone see "The Family Guy" last week? When Chris got pulled into the A-ha video, I just about pissed myself I was laughing so hard. And my 20 year-old sister, Jackie, didn't understand why it was funny. I felt old.

Speaking of feeling old, I have realized that I've officially turned into my parents with current music (most of it, anyway).

Since those dickholes at MTV never play videos, anymore, it seems, I searched my guide and found a time during the day when they do. I set my tivo to record them. What a let-down. In three hours that I recorded, they literally only showed about ten different videos, and the only good ones were The Bravery, Gorillaz and Gwen Stefani (who is so damned gorgeous in her new video I couldn't take my eyes off of her). Everything else was some dopey blinged-out rappers, singing about a) what they wear, b) what they drive, and, c) what they drink. And they're surrounded by girls in bikinis doing some spastic ass-shaking dance that I don't understand. And don't find sexy.

But maybe that's just me.

The other videos were some angsty 20 year-olds whose band names escape me, but the lead singer in one looked like he didn't know if he wanted to be Billy Corgan, Marilyn Manson, or Siouxsie Sioux. And they all sound the same.

Almost the whole time, I just shook my head, confounded at the state of music. Just like my Dad used to do when I was blasting The Smiths and Depeche Mode when I was in high school, and I thought he was so old and out of it for not understanding how totally awesome (yeah, I just said totally awesome) these bands were to me (and still are).

Luckily, there are bands like Franz Ferdinand and Kaiser Chiefs that remind me that not all of the new music sucks ass.

My weekend was pretty boring. I hung out with Kay and DMX's to barbeque, drink, and talk some crap. Mostly about how we hate our new friend Briton's bitch of a girlfriend, and how we are devising a plan to edge her out of the picture.

Yeah, we're nice.

DMX and I also remembered that it's almost time to celebrate the holiday that we made up.

About four years ago, he called me one Sunday around eleven in the morning.

"Hey, what are you doing?"
"Nothing. Why?"
"Well, Kay's out here planting some flowers and shit, and I'm going to start drinking beers. Come over and drink some."
"Ok."

What ended up happening was DMX and I drinking about a thousand beers, after which we decided that we would make the first Sunday in August a holiday (called Dandria Day), and we would throw a party, and mostly just drink our asses off, and take the Monday off of work. Which, I suppose we could just do any Sunday anyway, but we decided to make it an annual event, cause we're cool like that.

Or total dorks, depending on how you look at it.

Dear Diary

2005-07-21T21:07:00.000-07:00

Dear Diaryland,

So, my first birthday here at Diaryland is upon me, and I am getting my emails reminding me every five seconds that my super gold is about to expire.

Your customer service blows. I realize that we’re not paying a fortune for comments, banners, and image hosting, but I should at least get what I pay for. I haven’t been able to run ONE SINGLE BANNER – not that I have any fucking clue how to create them, given my computer/hmtl illiteracy, but still. I have attempted to contact you via email (ha ha ha ha) every single day, and have gotten no response. Why must you tease me with things like, “Just email us with ‘super gold member’ in the subject so we can make you a priority”, when you have no intention of EVER getting back to me? WHY?

Most of the time you never email me when someone leaves a note or a comment, forcing me to click my own diary like a needy attention whore every ten minutes.

Should I stay or should I go? This indecision’s killing me.

Well, not really. I just wanted to quote The Clash.

I like Diaryland. I have many excellent friends here. Don’t make me go somewhere else.

Let’s stay together for the kids,
Andria

Dear Amazon,

You tease me with pre-orders, then take them away. You tell me you’ve ordered the book for me anyway, and then tell me that never happened.

All I wanted to do was read the fucking Harry Potter book like all the other nerds, and now you’re going to force me to actually go out in PUBLIC and buy it at a store.

Was it something I said? Does the fact that I’ve spent hundreds of dollars on books through your site mean nothing? Where did the love go?

I’ve never even looked at barnesandnoble.com, and this is how you treat me.

Hmmph,
Andria

Dear Bank of America,

Fuck you and your online bill pay.

That’s all.

Kiss my ass,
Andria

Dear Co-workers,

Why do you have to shit at work? Can’t you do that at home, like civilized people? We work in a small office, and your explosive bowel movements permeate the air and make me gag. And, spraying the entire can of air freshener? DOESN’T HELP.

It’s just not right.

Eat less fiber and drink less coffee before work,
Andria

Dear single men who have jobs, don’t play games, tell the truth, and don’t still live with their parents,

I’m pretty damned tired of being single.

Call me,
Andria

Dear smoke alarm,

Why do you go off every morning when I take a shower, yet, when I nearly burn my house down by forgetting about the turkey burger I started cooking, you say nothing?

Do you want me to die? Have I not been good to you, checking your batteries, and replacing them regularly, to ensure optimal performance? You should feel special, because only my vibrators get that kind of treatment.

Love always,
Andria

Dear Hurricane Emily,

Fuck you.

Thanks you to, you sweaty, nasty whore, it’s hot and humid here. I live in Southern California. We’re not equipped to deal with humidity, and most days, we can’t even deal with temperatures over 75 degrees.

Go back to where you came from,
Andria

The big fat Greek wedding has been CANCELLED.

2005-07-19T21:05:00.000-07:00

The last few days have been wacky.

First, the Greek Festival. I was going to back out altogether, but I already told my co-worker I’d come by for a while, so I forced Kay to go with me, so that she could use RAM as an out when it got ugly. But I know that bitch wanted to go watch me squirm when all those Greek mothers started selling me on their sons. Some friend she is.

I’d do exactly the same thing, by the way.

When I got to the church, I got bombarded by two women trying to talk me into joining the Greek Orthodox church (what? A pasty, red-head with freckles can’t be Greek? I resemble that assumption). I politely tried to get out of it, but those Greeks are persistent, man. So I took some “literature” and told them I’d get back to them.

Yeah, that should happen.

When I got out to the festival, I spotted Sylvia at a table with about five other women, and as soon as she saw me, they all stopped talking and stared at me. I walked up and said hi, and Sylvia introduced me to her friends, and they all had names like “This is Vivian, whose son is 35 and a banker. Never married,” or, “Barbara, 37, divorced lawyer with no kids. Very handsome.” I was SO uncomfortable, I couldn’t stand it.

Vivian started selling me on her son, Nick. She was telling me how smart, and sweet he was, and how he was never married, and just needed a nice girl to settle down with. Then she mentioned that he still lived at home with her and her husband, and that was enough for me to be out, but then she whipped out the pictures, and I have one word: UNI-BROW. I know, I know. He’s Greek. It doesn’t matter. I don’t care where your family’s from, you can still tame that shit and separate the two eyebrows.

No thanks.

We talked, and ate for a while, while Sylvia regaled them with my silly office tales, making them all laugh, and convincing them all what a charming, and sweet girl I am.

HA!

The worst (or best, if you’re AN INSENSITIVE ASSHOLE like my friend) part of the day was when one of the women, Sophia, actually waved her son over to come and meet me. I am not good in these situations. I hate having any attention on myself in front of strangers.

Her son, David came over, and she introduced me to him. I could tell by the similar look of discomfort that his mom spent a lot of time trying to find a wife for her son. She was talking him up to me, telling me that he was very successful, and very healthy (?), and didn’t drink heavily or smoke. Uh… ok.

Then she looked at him, grabbed my waist and said “Look, David. Just look at these birthing hips!” Kay’s scream of uncontrollable laughter at that statement did not go unnoticed. I could feel my face burning with embarrassment, and all I wanted to do was get out of there.

But, God bless Kay. She jumped in and saved me. “Birthing hips? Everyone knows Andria’s never having kids! She HATES children!!”

Sophia moved on to the next desperate looking single woman with wide hips.

Crisis averted. On that note, I said my goodbyes and got the hell out of there.

Saturday night, embroiled in one of the hottest phone conversations EVER, I nearly burned my house down (which is funny, given the person I was talking to almost burned his own house down the week before) because I forgot about a turkey burger I started cooking before the conversation got… racy. When I got off the phone, I smelled smoke, so I ran into the kitchen, full of smoke, and saw the little black charred turkey burger on the stove.

Note to self: No more cooking when there’s a possibility of phone sex.

Sunday, Kay’s husband DMX tried to kill me. Really.

We were watching some auto racing and the Tour De France. And while we’re talking about the TDF - seriously. What the FUCK is up with the lunatics on the side of the road at this race? They’re all insane. They’re screaming, and yelling, throwing water at the cyclists, touching them, standing in the middle of the street – they’re crazy. Although, one did get run over by a motorcycle when he wouldn’t move, so that was fun to see. What was I talking about? Oh – DMX trying to kill me. We were watching nascar (shutup. I know I’m white trash), and he made some crack about Jeff Gordon (again, SHUTUP), so I elbowed him and told him to fuck off. Then he elbowed me back, which led to some WWE-style fighting on the living room floor (Kay has often referred to DMX and I as her second and third children, because we do this ALL THE TIME), when I pulled out the big guns – something I am confident can get me out of any situation – I grabbed his arm, and in the inside near his armpit, where the skin is thin, I pinched the shit out of him. When I let go, he grabbed my throat and pretended to strangle me, only he wasn’t pretending. Ten minutes later, he had a huge black bruise where I got him. I still have marks on my neck

Good times.

Shit. I was going to tell how Roseanne flipped off Chris and I in the car yesterday, but I rambled on about other shit, so I’ll have to tell it tomorrow.

And how Celestia fell down the stairs at work.

And how I got into an argument with my crazy neighbor about wasting water, and she decided squirting me with the hose would shut me up.

It’s good to be me.

Amazon.com: "Pre-order? Hahahahaha... silly fool!"

2005-07-18T21:06:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, my co-worker Chris asked me to take him up to Mr. Big Shot's house to help him program the new stereo (why is the receptionist doing this?) system presets, and to ooh and ahh at all the fancy new shit, since they weren't home. Celestia, who doesn't have the gift of pre-set station programming that I do (and seriously, it's no gift. Those idiots don't realize how easy it is), was pissy and jealous that I might be imposing on another prime ass-kissing opportunity for her.

We were about five minutes from MBS' house when I passed the shiny black Mercedes in front of me that was going about four miles an hour. Immediately, the car jerked over into the lane next to me, and then sped up in front of me.

"You just pissed off Roseanne."
"Huh?"
"ROSEANNE. You know? Roseanne Barr, or Arnold, or whoever she is now."

I'll explain: Roseanne (my white trash hero) lived a few doors down from MBS, up until she sold the house she was living in and moved. I thought she moved off the hill and back closer to Los Angeles, but maybe she didn't. MBS and Roseanne don't like each other too much. Remember the dog that shit on Celestia's passenger seat a few weeks ago? Well, Chris (who used to live up at MBS' place when he was his driver full time) was walking him, and he almost ate one of her little yippee dogs. She went over to his house screaming about his dog, he called her trash, she called him a little cocksucker. So, not a lot of love there.

"How do you know that's her car?"
"I know the plates. I used to see that car every day, you know."

So, being as tacky as I am, I got up next to her car, but the windows were BLACK. When we were sitting at a light waiting to go, right before she took off, she rolled down her window, smiled, and flipped me off.

One of my many pet peeves is when I see people watering their grass in the middle of the day when it's hot. I am no tree-hugging environmentalist, however, it's a waste of water. And it's just stupid. So, whenever I see someone I know doing it, I yell at them.

Sunday, my crazy neighbor Ann, who thinks she has some knack for gardening, but really, she doesn't, was out in front of our apartments dicking around like she usually does on the weekend. I heard the sprinklers come on, then the water come on, and I saw her starting to water the plants. I was talking on the phone to Kay at the time, so I walked out, with the phone still in my hand, and calmly said, "Ann, you really should water later in the evening when it's cool. You'll use a lot less water and it won't dry as quickly." Given how much I really dislike this woman, I think I was pretty diplomatic about it.

"I'm watering now."
"But you're wasting water, Ann. It's stupid to water right now. We have to pay for the water, and you would use LESS if you do it around eight instead of two in the afternoon. It just makes sense."

She started talking, but she was mumbling, like she was talking to herself. I asked her what she said, and she did it again. Kay was still on the phone, listening and laughing. Mostly because I had this same fight with her. I don't know when I appointed myself the water usage hall monitor, but I did.

Then Ann started screaming something about taking the trash out on Mondays, and my loud music, and how I never say hello to her, and how rude I am all the time. Then I yelled back that she was a lunatic, and that I don't talk to her because she's strange, and talks to plants and names her cats both Ann. I started something else, but she pointed the hose right at me and squirted me with it. Then she told me to leave her alone.

So I did.

Screw it. Let her use all the fucking water for all I care. Wack job. When I told my Dad (the LANDLORD), he didn't care. Why should he? He doesn't have to pay the water bill. Fucker.

Monday, Celestia was wearing these shoes that had about a four inch heel on them. She never used to wear heels to work, but all of a sudden, she's in them nearly every day. They were bugging the shit out of me, because they were mules, and every time she went down the stairs, the shoes made a noise you could hear in the whole building. Well, she started off down the stairs, and I heard one clack, two, three, four, five, and then none.

I walked out and looked over the railing, and she was at the bottom, laid out. But she was laughing, so I figured it was safe for me to laugh at with her, too.

She may be the only other person as clumsy, or even clumsier, than me.

So, I am pretty pissed (yeah, amazon.com, I'm looking at you). I pre-ordered that damn Harry Potter book like a good nerd about four months ago. I was giddy with excitement, thinking it was going to be waiting on my desk at work (I have everything delivered to the office. I don't trust my ghetto neighbors not to steal my shit), but it wasn't.

So, I thought it might come Tuesday.

No.

So, today, I contacted them, and they said they "never received" anything from me.

Damn you, amazon.com.

DAMN YOU.

Recovery Saga

2005-07-17T21:04:00.000-07:00

Since Danjerus Kurves asked me to elaborate about my horrific surgical recovery, I'll
tell the story. This might get a little graphic. You've been warned.

The day I was discharged from the hospital, I was ecstatic. I felt good (though a bit sore), I was in a good mood, and was excited to start my recovery. I was staying at my parents' house. I felt fine most of the time, but getting up and sitting down (pretty much ANY bending activity) was a challenge, and it took me a while to do it.

When I laid down to go to bed that first night, I also realized that laying down flat was not an option. That was painful. So I slept in the recliner in the family room, which sucked, because my parents get up to get ready for work (their bedroom is right over the family room) around 4:30. But, after they left, I had the whole quiet house to myself. To sleep. Without any nurses coming in every hour to draw blood, take my temperature, take my blood pressure, give me medication, or look at my incision. The first day was heaven. I think I slept 18 hours that first day back home.

The way the recovery would go, ideally, was, about four days after your discharge, you visit the surgeon, and they remove a few stitches and/or staples. They take a few at a time over the first three or four visits in the three weeks after surgery.

Three days after I got home, I noticed the front of my pants were wet. My incision was draining. Something not completely abnormal, but still something that had to be monitored. So, I had to put towels underneath my binder (a garment that held the abdomen together and kept everything tight) to soak up the fluid that was draining. It got progressively worse over the next week. I developed an infection, and the antibiotics I had to take killed my apetite, and made me feel sick all the time (a fun side note for all you gals out there: EVERY SINGLE TIME I take antibiotics, I get a yeast infection. Good times).

The doctor said as long as the color and smell of the discharge from the incision didn't change, I would be alright. Well, it changed. Big time. I had another infection, and part of my incision had to opened back up, and had to be cleaned out and packed with gauze twice a day. After laughing in the surgeon's face for a half hour when he suggested that I might do it, he made arrangements for a nurse to come to my Mom's house twice a day and do it. While I could look at my incision stapled up, there was no way I wanted to look inside of it. NO FUCKING THANK YOU. That's what medical professionals are for.

I was still taking anti-biotics for the infections I had. I also developed the worst case of constipation EVER, and was hands down the worst pain I think I've ever felt in all of my life. It was so bad in fact, that my parents' neighbors two doors down knew when I had to go to the bathroom. No matter how many of my precious little pain pills I popped, it did nothing for that pain. My doctor gave me something for it, and when it finally did kick in (and boy, did it ever), it was all good again.

When I went back for my next appointment with my surgeon, he looked at my incision, and decided that more of it had to be opened back up. The only part of my incision that didn't have to be re-opened was about two inches on the bottom. Everything else was opened back up, and it was NOT a small wound. He also told me that he was re-admitting me to the hospital, because my incision was so fucked up it needed to be watched 24 hours a day. He also told me that it was not healing on its own properly, and that I would need a wound vac installed to speed it up. This made me completely hysterical. Kay was with me at all of my appointments, and if it wasn't for her being there, I probably would have punched my doctor in the face, because I was so frustrated at what had happened up to this point. I was crying, hysterically, and had to call my Mom and tell her to bring my shit back to the hospital, that I was being admitted immediately. For me, having to go back to the hospital meant that my surgery was not working, and that I had gone through all this for nothing, and was just one more item on the list of proof that nothing goes right for me.

Every bit of wind was taken out of my sails at this point. I felt completely miserable. And alone. I went to my surgeon's support group meetings for two months before my surgery, and I asked about two dozen people how their recoveries went, and every one of them said it went as expected. And here I was, UNexpected.

As my Mom likes to say, I don't do anything half-assed. When something goes wrong for me, it goes ALL THE WAY wrong.

The only plus to going back to the hospital? I was back on the 5th floor, and the lovely and hot Nolan was the first face I saw. He said he saw my chart, but he thought it was a mistake. I said I just couldn't stay away from him, so I found an excuse to come back (see, DK, you can still call me a hoar). I had to go have a bunch of tests done the first night. I found out I had a staph infection. Yay.

I didn't know what the wound vac was, or how it worked, but when the doctor said "installed" I was very nervous. How it works is, it constantly sucks fluid out of the wound, keeping it free from fluid build-up, and making the wound heal much faster than without it.

When Nolan and another nurse came in to hook it up, I couldn't watch. I did NOT want to see my whole incision open. I wasn't too hot on the idea of seeing my insides. I watched him open a package that contained a black sponge, about the size of a dinner plate. He cut it into a few pieces, and started putting the pieces inside my wound. He opened another big sponge, cut it, and put it inside. Then, a big sheet of air-tight super sticky tape was placed over my entire stomach, to make sure no air got into the incision. Two small holes were cut into the tape (technically, it's called drape) over the sponges (which had to fill my entire incision), and a small tube was stuck over the holes, that was connected to a machine. The first time the machine is turned on is very uncomfortable (like extreme nausea), because it sucks ALL the air out of the sponges, so that there's no air in the wound at all. Ouch. I hated that part.

I didn't realize the sponges had to be changed every day. Removing the drape really hurt. But, what was worse, was there was a nerve that was cut during my surgery, and every time someone even breathed by it, it sent the most horrid, stabbing, blinding pain through my entire body. I dreaded midnight, because I knew it was around that time that the nurse was going to change the sponges.

When I was discharged from the hospital, I was taking four different anti-biotics to keep infection away, and was given a portable wound vac that I could have at home. I also had a picc line in my arm (a small tube in an artery in my arm that goes to my chest), because I had to take IV protein for ten hours a day. The home health nurses had to come out every day to change the sponges, so my Mom's spare bedroom looked like a doctor's office. There were medical supplies EVERYWHERE.

The worst part of the portable vac: Every time it sucked fluid out (which was about every two minutes), it sounded like a fart. My family thought it was hilarious. I didn't.

Going anywhere with that thing was embarrassing. It was small-ish, and in a black carrrying case, and I stuffed as much of the tubing down the leg of my pants as I could, so it could almost pass for a purse. But everytime it sucked, people stared at me with disgust. Kay thought it was hilarious. Again, I didn't.

The IV protein and the anti-biotics I was taking made me feel sick all the time. I couldn't eat anything, because if I did, I felt like I was going to throw up. And, with all that was wrong with me, and the fact my stomach was, in effect, OPEN, I was afraid of what throwing up would do to me. My parents blew off my family Thanksgiving (which has never been done), and my Mom made a small chicken and some other things for dinner so that I wouldn't feel bad for having to miss Thanksgiving. I could only take a couple of bites of chicken, then I wanted to puke. It sucked.

And, what's even better, I had a yeast infection. All the fucking time. Woo.

I still had the massive nerve pain every time the nurse came. My favorite home health nurse, Alice, advised me to take more pain pills. I wasn't sure what I should be doing. "Do you feel a buzz after you take it, like after you've had a few drinks?" She asked.

"No. I don't feel anything."

"Hun, if you don't feel anything, you're not taking enough. Take two next time. If two doesn't help, take three."

God bless Alice. Thanks to that handy bit of advice, the visits become much less painful. The down side to that is, that pain killers wipe me out. I am useless for the rest of the day after I take any kind of pain meds. I am in and out of sleep for the whole day, and my head feels like it weighs about a thousand pounds. I don't know how people can take them recreationally. I would be in a coma.

At this point, I had been out of work for 2 months. I was scheduled to be out for six weeks. All I wanted to do was go back to my own apartment. I missed my stuff. And my cats. I wanted to go back to work. I hated being home all day, with nothing to do. But I couldn't go back to work with the wound vac, because it's not exactly professional to be sitting at the front desk with a machine that sounds like you're farting every other minute.

My wound was progressing as expected (finally, something going "as expected"... it was A LOT smaller then when I got re-admitted), and my sponges were being changed every third day instead of every day. I also got to have my picc line taken out, and I was REALLY happy about that. Since I could lay flat for about six hours with no problems, I took the opportunity to go back to my place and finally sleep in my own bed again.

I felt like such a dork for doing it, but I totally cried when I saw my cat Ike. I have had him since he was four weeks old, and he has slept in my bed with me every night. We were never apart for that long (jesus, am I really talking like this about my CAT?!). Seeing his cranky, furry little face (ok, truthfully, there is NOTHING little about this cat) after all that time made me break down. I felt even worse when Jesus Freak, whose bathroom is right next to my bedroom, said she could hear Ike crying every night while I was gone.

I was happy to be back in my own apartment, driving myself in my own car, and not having to depend on someone else to help me. But, I still hated being stuck at home, with this dumb fart machine. All I wanted to do was get back to work, and start using my brain again.

The next time I went to my doctor, I begged to go back to work. The only way I could go back to work was to either wear the wound vac, OR, I could take the vac off and let the rest of my wound (by this time, it was about four inches long, and two inches deep - which is a massive improvement over the 12 inches that were opened back up, and was deep enough to fit the nurses two hands inside) heal by itself. It also meant that given my work schedule, I was going to have to take care of packing the wound myself.

Up until this point, I had not looked at my incision. I wanted no part of it. And that's why I couldn't handle the thought of taking care of it myself. But, when the two nurse practicioners were praising my wound's progress, and it's "beefy bloody" tissue, and "good granulation," I bit the bullet and looked down. And, it didn't gross me out. In fact, I stared at it for about five minutes. I decided that if I could stare at it and not puke everywhere, I could handle packing it with gauze myself.

Thank god, I got to get rid of the fart machine, AND I got to go back to work. Three fucking months later.

About a month after I got back to work, I noticed I was hungry. ALL THE TIME. Even if I ate till I was full, an hour later I felt like I hadn't eaten all day. I immediately panicked, and flipped out, thinking that somehow I had managed to stretch my stomach back out, and make my surgery completely useless. The next time I went to my doctor, she had me lay flat on the table and raise myself up using my stomach muscles. When I did, she noticed something. So she told me to put my hands on my upper abdomen and raise myself up again. When I did, I felt it harden up and distend. A hernea. A big one.

The hernea is normal for people who have my surgery. But, it usually doesn't come this soon, and not as big as the one I have. It also makes everything loose in my stomach, and pretty much nothing stays in my stomach for long, which is why I felt hungry all the damn time. Usually, the hernea becomes uncomfortable around 18-24 months after the first surgery, and the doctor does a hernea repair surgery (he also removes excess stomach skin and does a tummy tuck). Luckily, if it happens 24 months later, you'll have lost pretty much most of your goal weight, so you can maximize the tummy tuck. I am really hoping this fucking thing doesn't start bothering me anytime soon. If it does, it's going to get ugly around here.

Wow. That was really fucking long. If you're still reading this, you deserve some sort of reward. I also tell this story to anyone who thinks I've taken the "easy way out" of losing weight. Nothing about this adventure was easy. Or painless.

But I don't regret any of it.

Surgery flashback.

2005-07-16T21:03:00.000-07:00

This morning, cleaning out my bedroom closet, I found a bag that I had with me at the hospital in November when I had my surgery. It was still full of the crap I stuffed in it while I was in the hospital.

Looking through the bag, I found a bunch of stuff I forgot about. There was some clothes, a ton of magazines, my Carmex, a beautiful journal that my friend Jen got me for my birthday, and a stack of "get well" cards I had received, as well as a ton of medical tape I swiped (I blame the drugs. I have no idea what I would need all that tape for), and about 20 cans of protein drinks. Yeah, they should be real tasty after sitting in a bag in the back of my closet for eight months. Yum.

I started flipping through the cards, and I must have been really doped up, because I didn't remember getting most of them.

I looked in the journal, and there were only a few entries, all from my first hospital stay.

11/4/04

The night before. I am all alone now in my hospital room, waiting like crazy for this fucking castor oil to start working. And... it's not. Which means I have to drink ANOTHER bottle of this vile shit tonight. I am beginning to realize the full gravity of what it is that I am doing. I can't even describe how major this is. This next week is going to be really hard for me. I am excited. I am scared. I am nervous. I am antsy. I am fucking hungry.

11/5/04

Post-op.

Fucking sore.

11/6/04

I saw my incision for the first time today. It looks gross. Kind of like hamburger meat. It's long. Like eighteen inches. That should make for a nice scar. My nurse Nolan is hot. I almost got to get my NG tube out today, but I can't. I had to drink that fucking barium again today.

Drugs are good.

I am sore. I can't sleep for more than an hour at a time, and half the time when I'm awake, I don't what I am doing or saying or watching or hearing. Like now. All the nurses aides are Phillipino. I wonder why.

Fuck. Here comes that whore from PT. Time to walk.

11/7/04

I think I love Nolan. I want to marry him. And have his little half-Japanese babies. They would be Japanese, with red hair and freckles. What a sight that would be.
My Grandma is driving me crazy. I wish people would stop calling me all the time. I wish I could sleep for eight straight hours without someone coming in here all the time. I hate hospital television. I hate Kelly Ripa. I don't know how anyone can watch that show. I wish people would stop calling.

I get my foley out today. Thank god. I'm tired of peeing in a bag. All I want is some fucking water and I can't have any until this NG tube comes out. I get one spoonful of ice chips per hour. I miss Diet Coke.

11/8/04

Fuck yeah. No more tube in my nose. My doctor makes his rounds at three in the morning. He does surgeries at 7:30 a.m. I am glad I found out his schedule AFTER he opened me and cut up my insides. If I knew he slept two hours before he operated on me I would have flipped out.

I wish people would stop calling me every five minutes. DB brought a giant wooden rooster to my room. He brought me cock. Ha. I'm so funny. My friends are whacked. I hate most of the nurses here. Mostly because they're not all super hot and nice like Nolan. I love Nolan. Plus he gives me extra drugs when I ask for them. Like a few minutes ago he just juiced up my central line and I feel pretty good right now. I'm sick of this Norah Jones cd. I've listened to it ten times today, just so no one would talk to me if they saw me with headphones on.

Drugs are good.

11/9/04

Dr. Klein told me today that if I don't get gassy and take a shit soon, I am in trouble. It also means I have to take a suppository. NO THANK YOU.

Dear God: Please make poop shoot out of my ass. Thanks. Love, Andria.

11/11/04

Suppositories suck.

Klein took my JP drains out today. That was a weird thing, watching someone pull two two-foot tubes out of my body. But I am glad they're out now. They also took out my epidural. Awww. Bye-bye joy buzzer.

11/12/05

Since I didn't need suppositories yesterday, I get to go home today. Thank god. I want to take Nolan home with me. I'll miss my hot nurse. I have to give myself shots every day. I haven't done that in a while. I also got a big bottle of dilaudid. Weeeee!!!!!!!

I thought this week was going to be really hard and painful. But it wasn't. I had drugs, yeah, but it wasn't bad. I got myself dressed today and tied my own shoes, so I think I'm doing pretty good considering my entire abdomen is cut in half. Not really looking forward to staying at Mom's house.

The funny thing is, that week at the hospital would be the EASIEST time of my post-op experience. Because the three months that followed were a FUCKING NIGHTMARE.

The Greek Festival was a fiasco. I'll get into it next time.

Blah. Update. Blah.

2005-07-15T21:02:00.000-07:00

Two entries in one day? You lucky bastards.

I also posted a non-funny entry (incredibly serious, actually) here.

I have nothing to do at work, and I am bored as hell. And for that, you all must pay.

Today, in talking with Sylvia about the big Greek Festival, she told me she’s already told her friends that she’s bringing a “pretty young single girl,” and for their sons to be prepared. Oy.

I am already trying to think of ways to back out of this. I don’t handle these sort of situations well. Not.at.all.

I am already fidgety and nervous just thinking about it.

Oh, how I loathe the set-up.

We have free lunch on Fridays at My Company. Since I am the lowliest employee in the office, I have to coordinate them. When I sent out the email that we were having Chicago For Ribs, Chris sent me an email back that said “Do you think you can go to South Central and get REAL ribs? They are so tasty. Although very risky.”

I don’t know why, but that was the funniest fucking thing in the world to me this morning when I read it. I almost shot vanilla latte out my nose.

I guess it’s not so funny now.

Jesus Christ, am I bored. I hate having nothing to do.

So, I saw today that Cameron Diaz is saying that she is “very proud” of the naked pictures she took when she was modeling before she was a star.

So proud that she never wanted anyone to see them. EVER.

Given what we know about how smarmy people are, if you ever intend to have a life in the public eye, why would you ever pose for those types of pictures?

What would I do without stupid celebrities?

And, speaking of celebrities, I saw that my dreamy Zach Braff broke up with that twit Mandy Moore.

THANK GOD.

I couldn’t live with the idea of my dream boyfriend (well, one of them, anyway) being with her.

Instead he should be with someone more like… ME.

Call me, Zach.

There’s a Colin Farrell sex tape. Please forward all copies to andria24@gmail.com. Right.Now.

I’M BORED.

Fuck. It’s only 12:47.

Save me.

My big fat Greek wedding?

2005-07-15T21:01:00.000-07:00

One of my co-workers, Sylvia, has talked me into going with her to the Greek Festival at her church this weekend. She is convinced that all I need, is to find a nice Greek boy to relieve me of my bitter singlehood. I tried to tell her that the last nice Greek boy I was supposed to go out with stood me up (and thank god he did, because after he stood me up, I saw pictures of him posing with his BOWLING BALL). She says that he could not possibly have been a full Greek, and that I should spit on him and give him the evil eye.

I just want to eat some spanokapita and orzo salad. I don't want to find the man of my dreams.

Ok, I do, but I am not counting on finding him at the Greek Orthodox church.

Besides, I've got my mind on other things in other places.

And, speaking of men, I (along with some other chicks here) decided a few weeks ago that casual-no-strings-attached-sex doesn't work for me anymore. It got pretty old.

Goddamn maturity.

And wouldn't you know, since I've decided this, that fucker Jason has called me to come over EVERY DAMNED DAY. But I resisted. And it wasn't easy, either.

Damn him.

And, since I've come to this decision, I have no earthly idea when the next time a man will be naked in my house and let me do dirty things to him. These entries may get even more bitter and cranky than they already are.

You've been warned.

I saw this in another diary as the meme-of-the-week, and decided to steal some of the questions. It was interesting to think back on these times.

Ten years ago - In 1995, I was working for the YMCA doing childcare. A job that would end up being my favorite job, but the pay (and the shitheads I worked with) was so lousy I couldn't afford to stay there if I wanted to live on my own, and I can't handle roommates. So I left that job, and became a nanny for kids that were in the Y program with me, making more than twice as much as I did there, and working half as much. It was a nice set-up for a while. I started hanging out at the Irish bar that I would spend the bulk of my 20's in, loud, drunk, and screaming things like, "Fuck off, you stupid cow!" and "In America, we say 'aluminum' NOT aluminium'!" I also heard the phrase "Watch out, Andria's been on the piss all day" more times than I care to admit. I also sang way too much of the song "Who the fuck is Alice?" (I think that's the title, anyway) at that bar. I was also with X, pretty deliriously happy and in love, thinking (as all girls do) that it would last forever. Ha! It ended abruptly and extremely bitterly (for me) three years later.

Five years ago - I had just started working at My Company, thanks to Celestia getting me in (the one thing I am thankful for). I had moved out of my old apartment (which, oddly, was in the middle of the building, and had no windows that looked outside. They only looked out into the hallway, or into the other center apartment across from mine), which was on the second floor of a building with the biggest goddamned flight of stairs I've ever seen. I left that apartment because I was "advised" by the policemen that worked in the substation across the street from my apartment that moving would be best. The bitch that owned the dollhouse store beneath my apartment bitched at me about parking on the street, taking parking away from the hordes of dollhouse shoppers. One day, pissed to see my car there, again, she put red paint all over my blue car. I flew off the handle, ran into her store screaming and yelling, calling her a bitch, and a vindictive cunt, and all the other fantastic four letter words I could think of. Since I had no proof of anything, and her business wasn't going anywhere, I moved. Thank god. That stupid fucking store is still there, and I have pondered many times giving Mr. Big Shot's junkie son twenty bucks to go vandalize it. But, dammit, I am an adult now.

That, and I'm too cheap to give him the twenty bucks.

One year ago - Wow. One year ago, I had my first consultation with my surgeon, and began the arduous process of getting approval from my insurance company, as well as undergoing EVERY medical test imagineable to make sure I could withstand the procedure. It was a depressing day, because I had to step on the scale to get a starting weight, and when I saw that number, I literally cried. I never, ever imagined that I would let myself get that heavy. I was seeing The Hot Egyptian somewhat seriously, though I knew it would never go anywhere because his daddy would cut him off if he brought home anyone but an Egyptian girl. He's hot, but he's a pussy. I can't handle a grown man being controlled by his parents. I also started this diary almost exactly one year ago, not having any idea that people would actually read it. And what's even better, it's people that don't suck, aren't 14, and aren't morons.

One week ago - Well, anyone that reads this diary knows what I was doing a week ago.

TGIF, kids. Enjoy your weekend.

Burning down the house.

2005-07-13T21:01:00.000-07:00

I warned you all that with my newfound obsession with the color pink, I might get a shiny new pink template for this diary. I searched for cool templates, but couldn't find anything I really liked, so I just added color to this one.

Html is going to drive me fucking batty. I don't know how you people in the know do it.

See the peninsula in the left corner of that picture? It decided to try and burn down today. And, Chris, co-worker/friend and I missed the inferno by about ten minutes.

Which is good, because the ONLY thing that scares me more than clowns is fire. But it's bad, because I missed all those lovely hot firemen. Damn.

Mr. Big Shot lives up on that hill, along with a bunch of other rich motherfuckers. It really is beautiful up there, and the homes are nice, without being overly ostentatious. Well, unfortunately, I don't know how long that will last since Donald "money doesn't equal class" Trump bought the country club up there and turned into Trump National Blah Blah Kiss My Rich Ass Blah.

Chris had to take something to the house, and since Mr. Big Shot was out of town for the day, asked if I wanted to come up and see all the renovations he'd had done since the last time I was there. When we were pulling out of the community he lives in, I saw smoke, but not a lot of it. So we looked at it, and gawked for a second, but then we had to get back to the office.

In about five minutes, the hill was pretty much covered in black smoke. It was crazy. And fucking scary. Me no likey the fire.

The best part of these situations, though, is the dopey newscasters that have to improvise. If they can't read it off of a tele-prompter, they have no fucking clue what to do with themselves.

At one point, acres and acres and acres were on fire, while more acres were charred and black, and the bobble-head newscaster says "Well, I'm not a professional firefighter or anything, but I'd say this is a pretty big fire."

Then the other moron said, "It's going to take quite a bit of water to get this out."

DUH.

It's late, and I wasted too much time dicking around trying to find a decent looking template, so this is all you're getting today. You lucked out.

BUT, I must add a final happy birthday to my girl DanjerusKurves.

Happy Birthday, you HOAR!

It's raining men.

2005-07-12T21:00:00.000-07:00

Did you know that when you lose a lot of weight, even your feet get smaller? Because I didn't.

I noticed a while ago that my shoes felt looser, and in the last few weeks, I think I've gone down almost a whole size. Being the cheap motherfucker that I am, I haven't bought any new shoes.

Today, walking down the hall at work, my shoe flew right off my foot (and because I walk really quickly, it went pretty fast and far), and right into Mr. Big Shot's office (which is at the end of the hall). At first I laughed, but then I got scared, and just kind of froze in the hallway. He was on the phone, and I could hear him talking, and as soon as he saw the shoe fly in, he stopped talking and just yelled out, "What the hell?!? What the hell is this shit?!"

I walked in, laughing nervously, and apologized profusely. At first, he didn't see the humor in the situation. In fact, I probably would have pissed myself if he would have started yelling at me (he's small, but oh, so loud and Napoleonic). But after I explained, he laughed and was cool about it. He must have thought it was funny enough to pass along, because when Trophy Wife called in for the 593428th time today, she laughed and said he had told her about it.

I want to shoot whatever asshole came up with annoying dancing old bald guy ad campaign for Magic Mountain.

Those commercials make me want to gauge my eyes and ears out.

Someone, please. STOP THE MADNESS.

I was reading in one of my trashy Hollywood magazines (you know, the REAL newspapers) this article where Tawny Kitaen and her 12 year-old daughter Wynter (she also has a daughter named Raine. Come on. Why the fuck can't stars [if you can call Tawny Kitaen a star] name their kids normal names? On the grand scale of celeb names, Wynter's not so bad, but still.) were commenting on young actresses and their bodies (and people wonder why they are all walking eating disorders). There was a picture of some girls I can't remember, and then a picture of Lindsay "someone please give me a Double Double with cheese" Lohan, and Kitaen said "this is definitely the best she's EVER looked."

Ugh. That comment totally disgusted me. As long as stupid people keep telling these dopey actresses that seeing every bone in your body is hot, they're going to keep starving themselves. And all those little girls that run out to her crappy movies like little gum-chewing robots are going to do the same thing, so they can look just like her.

PS - Lindsay, the blonde hair looks like shit. I'm just saying.

Do you know women's clothes actually come in 00 now? That's DOUBLE ZERO. How can you double nothing?

I think I am more disgusted that someone that looks like this is commenting on how others look.

One of my favorite co-workers, Fajita, had a little baby girl early this morning (ok, he didn't actually have her, his girlfriend did. But you know what I mean). They named her Ella, and given my propensity to hate everyone that gives their babies the trendy name o' the week, it was hard to bite my tongue when he first told me on the phone. But I really like him, so I won't hold it against him.

At least it wasn't fucking Lola.

So, theotherchad said in his last entry that he was looking for a new band name. I helpfully suggested "It's Raining Men," because that is an awesomely manly and macho sounding band name.

Strangely enough, I don't think he's going to use it.

What.Ever.Chad.

How about The Hanging Chads? The Dangling Participles? Cow Puke? Come on, these are gold, I tell you. GOLD.

I gotta pee like a racehorse.

2005-07-11T20:59:00.000-07:00

Andria: Hey, Jesus Freak. It's Andria, your old neighbor.
Jesus Freak: Oh, hey, Andria.
Andria: So, how's it going? How was the move?
Jesus Freak: Oh, you know, moving. But I am just glad it's over now.
Andria: Yeah, I don't blame you there!! I hate moving! You know what I did right before I left my last apartment?
Jesus Freak: What?
Andria: I told the landlord what a goddamn whore his daughter was. That was so awesome.
Jesus Freak: ...Uh... ok.
Andria: Did you think I wouldn't find out? Whose GODDAMN business is it what OR WHO I do?
Jesus Freak: What? I didn't... I don't... I have to go.
Andria: Fuck you. If you can spread shit about me TO MY PARENTS, you can listen for a minute. You know, for almost five years, I lived next door to you and never said one thing to you about how much of a religious fucking freak I think you are. You know why? Because I don't think I'm any better than you.

Even though, secretly, I clearly do.

Jesus Freak: Look, I didn't mean anything -
Andria: Wrong.
Jesus Freak: Huh?
Andria: Bullshit you didn't mean anything by it. You obviously wanted to make me look bad in front of my parents. So, I just wanted to say fuck you, fuck all your GODDAMN religious bullshit and judgement, and that I hope one day someone fucks with you like this.
Jesus Freak: Blah blah repent blah blah the lord blah blah judgement day blah blah.

She went on for a few minutes with her preaching, and I don't remember all of it. Just key words.

Andria: Hey, Jesus Freak. Isn't it a sin to live with your boyfriend and engage in lots of loud, pre-marital sex? Sometimes with your front door open, where your unsuspecting neighbor who is bringing over a piece of your mail that she had by mistake might hear?

*click*

Today was a shitty day at work.

LITERALLY.

Around eleven this morning, I got an email asking me to call a plumber, because the toilet downstairs was making gurgling noises, and then it just filled with water when they tried to flush it.

So I called my favorite gay plumber, Butch to come and save the day.

Soccer Mom, who's sort of like the "facility manager", went down to investigate the damage and see what was going on. While she was down there, one of the downstairs people came up to use our bathroom, and as soon as he flushed, the toilet downstairs exploded, sending little brown logs all over the bathroom (why don't people shit at home?!).

And it kept flooding, and more shit kept coming up. I laughed, because it was funny, and all those suckers downstairs not only had no bathroom to use, but they had to deal with the crappy smell.

I laughed until Butch came up and told me to tell everyone that no one was allowed to use any water in the entire building. Dammit. That meant we had no toilet to use, either. And the very second he said "no water," I immediately had to pee. Bad.

I started thinking of all the businesses on our block, and where there was a public bathroom I could start directing all the people in the office who were going to go batshit crazy once they realized they couldn't sit on the toilet in our office and read The Wall Street Journal for an hour.

I told Celestia to get the phones, and that I was out on a search to find a place to pee. I held it as long as I could, but I was starting to do the pee-pee dance, so I figured I better take care of it. I was hoping to go the the mexican food place next door, but I remembered they're closed on Mondays. I went to the dry-cleaners, who I have a tumultuous relationship with (meaning I hate them with a fiery passion, and they laugh at how mad I get at their stupid business), and they basicall told me to fuck off. I went to Starbucks, and their bathroom was being fixed, and told me the only available one was "for employees only." Nevermind I go in there almost every fucking day spending my money, and they know me. Goddamn them.

At this point, I felt like my bladder was going to pop. I went to the Coffee Bean, across the street from Starbucks, and the bathroom there smelled like something dead came out of someone's ass and made me gag. I couldn't go there, either.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. All I wanted to do was urinate, goddammit.

My last effort was at an office building across the street, where we used to occupy some space (the same building the prick whose car got repo'd a few weeks ago works). I knew exactly where the ladies room was, so as soon as I got off the elevator, I headed right for it. Unfortunately, I ran into the asshole building owner JP, who hates me and all my other co-workers (mostly ex-co-worker Crackhead, who tormented that man on a daily basis).

"What are you doing here?" He stood in front of me, blocking my path to the promised land, aka the bathroom.

"Uh... I have to pick up some loan docs at the Keller Williams office."

Pee. Pee. Pee. Pee. Pee. Pee. Pee. Pee.

"For who? For Mr. Big Shot?"

"Uh, yeah. For Mr. Big Shot. I have to get them RIGHT NOW!"

"I don't think so."

At this point, my thighs were clenched so tightly together that I couldn't walk straight. They're sore right now, six hours later, if that gives any indication.

"Ok. Look, JP. Our toilets are backed up, and we can't use them. I have gone to Starbucks, The Coffee Bean, the Dry Cleaners, Casa Pulidio, and the hair salon. I just want to use the bathroom. Then I'll be gone forever. I promise. Please! You have no idea."

"No."

"What?!"

"No. Those bathrooms are for tenants of THIS building only. Find another one."

"Alright. Either you be the nicest person ever and let me use the bathroom, or seriously, I will piss on your carpet. It's your decision. And, FYI, I got about 20 seconds, and then I can't be held responsible for what happens."

"Fine. Don't tell anyone I let you over here. I don't want all of THOSE people over here backing up MY toilets."

Before he even finished, I practically knocked him down to get by him and to the bathroom.

I am not joking when I say I had a little orgasm when I finally got to go.

Good times.

I saw a few minutes of "Rock Star: INXS" tonight. Oh, how sad it all is.

It was so cheesy. It was like "American Idol" with electric guitars.

They just tried too hard to be rockers, when they seemed more like rock lounge singers.

If I didn't think Michael Hutchense was busy doing freaky kinky things with Paula Yates in the afterlife, I'd say he was probably rolling over in his grave.

Postal workers suck. Even the hot ones.

2005-07-10T20:59:00.000-07:00

I was so looking forward to charming the pants off of my hot new neighbor, in spite of my lack of religious convictions, but that's not going to happen.

You know why? Because The Hot Mailman is an asshole.

Let me explain.

When Jesus Freak moved in, about six years ago, she was dating THM. They broke up, but still remained friends. Jesus Freak, apparently fond of gossip, told THM that I am a big old whore.

Now, I will admit to having a dirty mind and thinking about sex 24 hours a day. But, that does not a whore make. But whatever. Even if I was a giant whore, they need to mind their own business, instead of asking my Dad if it bothers him knowing that his "daughter is so promiscuous." My Dad doesn't want to know anything about my sex life anymore than I want him knowing about it. He and I have a "don't ask, don't tell" policy about such things.

Guess who's not getting a "welcome to the neighborhood" blowjob now?

What really burns me about it is that I'm NOT promiscuous. In the time we were neighbors, Jesus Freak saw a grand total of about five different men. That's five men in almost five years.

I really do dislike the judgemental religious freaks. Seems pretty hypocritical to me.

Whatever.

I am totally in love with this dog.

I had to watch RAM on Saturday for Kay, and she was dog-sitting our friend DB's St. Bernard, Delilah, while he and his lady, The Good Girl went to Catalina for the weekend. I CAN NOT resist dogs. As dumb as I am around adults, I turn into a big mushy pile of retardedness around dogs.

She is the dumbest, sweetest dog ever.

I decided RAM and I should take the dogs for a walk. We leashed up the dogs, and got about halfway down the block when RAM stopped walking, looked up at me, exhausted, and said, "TT, it's SO hot. Can we walk Delilah and Jessie later? I feel like I am going to die if I take on more step. Really. I'll die." I love the theatrical behavior in little kids. It was... maybe 85 degrees out, and you'd think we were in the middle of the desert the way this kid was panting for breath. So we took the dogs home, filled up his pool, and we all got in. RAM, me, and the dogs. If I didn't think my camera would have been destroyed, I would have taken a picture of that. Because it was pretty damn funny to see a grown woman, a five year-old and two dogs sitting in a little blow-up pool.

I didn't go see the Batman movie like I wanted to. Instead, I stayed home and watched a movie I have gotten from Netflix four seperate times and never watched. It's called "City of God," and if you want to see a depressing movie about drug-dealing, stealing, and murder, along with small children carrying guns around and killing people, it's a great movie. It's sad, though. NOT a feel good movie. But a good movie, nonetheless. What's most disturbing about the film is that it's based on a true story.

I also watched "Anchorman" for the first time on Saturday. Hot damn, I love me some Will Farrell. And it has a Tom Jones song in it. AWESOME.

So, you know how in the past I have said that I like to annoy my hispanic, mariachi blasting neighbors crazy with my cheesy music? In the past, I have pissed them off with Abba, Tom Jones, The Monkees, and Neil Diamond. And while they think it sucks, and have requested that I not play it, I have found music that actually drives them into the house (instead of standing outside for six hours drinking Budweiser and yelling in Spanish at the top of their lungs).

YESSS.

They hate Yeah Yeah Yeahs. They can't get with the loud guitars and Karen O's awesome screeching voice when I play it. So, because of that, I will never stop playing it.

God bless "Fever to Tell."

Dear Christian Bale: Please be my boyfriend. Yours truly, Andria

2005-07-08T20:58:00.000-07:00

I didn't watch any of the Live 8 concerts. I hate to be a poopie pants, but I really just don't give a shit. I especially don't like a bunch of egomaniacal millionaires and/or billionaires telling me to give money that I don't have to help crazy third-world countries that are likely never going to improve, no matter how much money we send them.

When Bono sends me ten grand to pay the hospital bills that my insurance company is dumping on me (and that's only the bills I have SO FAR), then maybe I'll feel a little more sympathetic.

Now I'm cranky.

I went over to Kay and DMX's for dinner to celebrate DMX's birthday. She made this casserole that comes from my southern Grandma that is chicken-y cheesy goodness. She also invited DMX's best friend, Briton, his brother DB, and Barney and Angela.

Have I mentioned what a goddamned idiot Barney is? He is a giant child. He pouts, acts stupid, and doesn't like any food that doesn't look familiar. He and Angela came over to my place for dinner once, and I made spaghetti with turkey (I don't like to eat red meat very often), and he refused to eat it because it was turkey, and not beef. He sat there, the entire time we ate, with his arms folded and a scowl on his face the whole night.

While Kay, DMX, Briton and I have had the casserole a ton of times, Barney's never had it. When it was served, he took one look at the pan and walked out of the kitchen. Asshole. Then he went to Del Taco and got about seventeen heart attacks' worth of crappy food.

I hate being around him. I hate that my smart beautiful friend settled for him. I fucking hate that Angela made a joke a million years ago that he had a crush on me (which, unfortunately, I don't think is a joke), so he calls me Muffin now. Everytime he says it my skin crawls. *shudder*

I hope you all watched America's sweethearts on "Being Bobby Brown" tonight. Goddamn, do I love me some Bobby and Whitney.

My favorite part of tonight's episode was when they were having dinner at some restaurant with the gayest kajillionaire on the planet, Prince Jeffrey of Brunei, when Bobby jumps up and announces that he is going to the restroom, and that he needs to take his cigarettes because he is going to need it for the massive shit he is about to unload.

Or the part where Bobby's brother goes up to the Dalai Lama and says, "Mr. Lama. Bobby Brown. You know. Bobby Brown." The fucking Dalai Lama. Like he's going to give him a high five and bust out a verse of "Humpin' Around."

The Dalai Lama looks puzzled, so he tries one more thing. "You know. Whitney Houston's husband." Still, he of course had no clue.

I love the egos involved with these people.

And, I don't know if anyone else noticed, but Whitney has some bizarre pouch-thingy going on with her stomach. It almost looks like she's pregnant.

I hate when I think of hilarious things to write about, and then I forget about them by the time I actually get around to typing this shit out.

Dammit. From now on I am keeping notes.

I may have to cave and go see "Batman Begins" this weekend. Christian Bale is too hot not to go see it.

Although, every time I see him, I think of him talking about Huey Lewis and the News while he's hacking someone into pieces.

I also really want to see "Hustle and Flow," but it doesn't come out for two more weeks.

Hot Mailman is moving in this weekend! Weeeeee!!!!

Too bad he has a thing for chicks that like to hang out at church eight days a week.

Plus, he's a postal worker. They're like Chows. They're cute and fluffy and all that jazz, but there's a good chance they'll turn on you.

Speaking of dogs, Celestia's car still smells. Even though she took it to some industrial cleaning place and asked them to clean her seats.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.

Does it make me a bad person to get such joy from this situation?

I didn't think so, either.

Am I the only one that notices my comments section is often funnier than my actual entry the comments start out about?

Damn you, funny commentors.

I need a new template. This one is blah.

TGIF, everybody.

How I made an ass out of myself for the 56498132156th time.

2005-07-05T20:57:00.000-07:00

Ouch.

It's 7:40 p.m. and I still feel hungover from yesterday. Goddamn you, alcohol!

Actually, these tasty culprits are to blame (I am, of course, completely blame-free):

Goddamn jello shots. They get me every time. You'd think I would learn by now, but no. And, if I did, how would I entertain you fine people?

Shut up, then.

I got there early and helped Kay and DMX set up for the party, and DMX and I started drinking immediately. He also told me, for the 204564987th time that week that SB and DR, two of his co-workers, were coming. DMX works in television, making about 60k a year for essentially goofing off and watching television for forty hours a week.

I need that job.

The party got started, more people got there, and I was drunk (shocking, I know). I got a call on my cell phone that I went in to the house for about a half hour for, and when I came back, I saw DMX in the garage talking to two guys I didn't know. I knew by how many times he's told me how built SB was, that they were the much hyped co-workers. He called me into the garage to help him re-cap the fabulous "Being Bobby Brown," or "Please somebody save me from my fucking crackhead lunatic wife Whitney" as I like to call it.

I started talking to them, and, well... SB was hot.

You want to take a guess where this is going?

As our conversation went on, my laugh went from "normal adult human" to "idiot-girly giggle" pretty fast. Ugh. I am such a moron around men, I swear. If my hair wasn't in a ponytail, I am quite certain I would have been flipping it.

Those guys were funny as hell, though. If it wasn't for them, I would have been stuck with the hens talking about pregnancy, baby food and pedicures all day. No thank you. Instead, I stood around the barbecue and listened to them make fun of DMX, and tell stories from their work that convinced me it is my destiny to work with these guys. They get to wear shorts and tee shirts every day, talk shit to other people they work with all day, and make a bunch of money for what is not a lot of work.

Again, I need that job.

After I made a complete ass out of myself flirting with SB, it was time for fireworks. After we oooh'd and ahhh'd over the same thing we'd seen a million times before, Kay took the hose and was spraying all the crap into the gutter. She pointed the hose at me and threatened to squirt me, so I ran in the house. I came back out, and went up from behind her and tried to point the hose at her, but instead she got me, we started wrestling, and before we knew it, we were all wet (get your minds out of the gutter, you pervs). Then, in what can only be yet another reason Jesus has it in for me, I totally ate shit right in front of everyone (which shouldn't be surprising, given I am the clumsiest motherfucker on Earth). I was wearing rubber flip-flops, and when they got wet, I slipped right out of them and onto my ass.

So, there I was, on the ground, my shirt soaking wet right in front of the hot guy I was trying to charm the pants off of (literally!) an hour before.

At least my shirt didn't blow up over my head like it did when I ate shit in Vegas.

I know what you're all thinking. It really IS good to be me.

The best part of the whole story is, SB has a girlfriend. DMX, the asshole, failed to mention that to me, because he knew what I would do if I thought he was single.

My friends are the best.

My head still hurts.

In another effort to try and find a normal man, I joined matchdotcom. Mostly because I was chatting (quite hilariously, I might add) with the awesome Miss Pea, and she was doing it, too. When I set up my profile, I had to pick a name. Being that I am completely unoriginal, I tried to get Andria24, since most of my screen names are some variation of that. That name was taken, but they had some suggestions:

Andria231753
1234Andria
Bubbleyiddles

Hmmm. The first two make sense. Where the fuck did they get "bubbleyiddles"?

I've gotten a couple of emails, so we'll see what happens.

Today, I watched RAM for a couple of hours while Kay and DMX went to some work function of hers.

RAM was in the bathroom, and he screamed out, "TT! Come here right now!" Panicking, and thinking his head fell off while he was taking a piss, I ran in the bathroom.

He was standing there, with a shiteating grin on his face, pointing to his boy parts, and said "I have hair down there!"

Wait a minute. When THE HELL did 5 1/2 year-olds start growing pubes? So I looked, and I didn't see anything. "RAM, there's no hair. You don't get that till you're older. When you're a teenager."

"No, TT. Feel it."

"Uh, NO."

I am so glad I don't have kids. I couldn't handle this crap on a regular basis.

My head still hurts.

Seriously. Bubbleyiddles???

Big Mouth strikes again.

2005-07-01T20:56:00.000-07:00

"Being Bobby Brown" was on. Finally.

Sweet Jesus, what a beautiful disaster he and that crackhead wife of his are. I don't even know where to start.

I think I've got their wacky relationship figured out. I think he keeps going to jail to get the hell away from Whitney.

Seriously. She is so loaded, half the time you can't understand anything she says. It's pretty fucking bad that Bobby looks like the normal one of the two.

I think he's afraid to leave her, or she'll kill him.

They might be my new favorite couple.

Guess whose big mouth got her in trouble today?

I know. You probably have no idea, right?

Ok. I'll tell you.

It's me.

Today, I went downstairs to drop off some envelopes in the courier box outside the building, and Little Big Shot's TWO Harleys were on the sidewalk right outside the office. I walked in the door, and noticed in his office was ANOTHER one of his motorcycles. So, I looked at N, one of the girls that works in that office, and I said, "Hey, N, you know what this office needs?"

"No. What?"

"A motorcycle." N laughed, and I heard LBS laugh from inside his office, and then he came out.

"What are you doing down here? Is it five yet? Are you off work now?" Since he always tells me my personality and sense of humor will always keep my job there, I always know I can joke with him, because he totally gets it.

"Uh, I had to bring the Transbox down. And then I had to spread my sunshine down here!"

Ha ha ha ha ha - uh oh.

"Well spread it after hours." He was smiling, but I could see he was touchy about something, and I just set it off.

I am curious what will happen tomorrow.

Celestia cried at work today.

Because her car still smells like dog shit, and because Chris, who sits behind her, wouldn't stop clicking his mouse. A few weeks ago, she actually went to CFO Boss and asked him to talk to Chris about not clicking his mouse.

Jesus. What a fucking lunatic. But now that she has her super-cool iPod that I can't stop hearing about, she can shove that in her ears and then she won't hear him working anymore.

Nevermind the entire office has to listen to her weird nasal-snot-sucking-swallowing thing she does all fucking day, which is pretty goddamned disgusting.

My parents, who just got us tickets to The White Stripes, are not the hipsters they'd like to believe themselves to be. Both of them were in my car at different times this week, and both times I was listening to the new CD (which I literally can NOT stop listening to), and both of them said, "What are you listening to?"

"Uh, it's The White Stripes, dummy. The band you just paid $250 for us to go see."

"Oh."

Retards.

Hey, Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garner got married!

Yeah, I didn't give a shit, either.

Why can't more girls be like me?

2005-06-30T20:55:00.000-07:00

I have written in the past of my male friends’ propensity to tell me how they wish their girlfriends/wives could be more like me, or my single friends say they wish more girls were like me.

I hate hearing this. I hate hearing this more than I hate hearing Celestia talk about the fucking weather for the eleventy billionth time in one day. I hate more than I hate hearing the toner salesmen that call and harass me at work all day long.

I hate it. And, yesterday, my limit was reached.

I was at work talking to Little Big Shot (son of Mr. Big Shot, company owner). LBS has made more the one comment to me about how much he loves the perfume I wear, and how great my personality is, how I shake my ass when I walk, and how he has to stop and watch every time I walk by. I secretly think he has a thing for big girls, but he won’t admit it. All the girls he’s dated, and his fiancé, are typical California girls. Tan, boney, and gorgeous.

His friend JJ, who I’ve hung out with outside of work a couple of times was also there, and was telling me about some girl he just broke up with. We talked for a while, and then he said the phrase that is going to kill me: “I wish more women were like you, Andria”

FUCK YOU.

Well, I kind of went crazy. And by “kind of” I mean I screamed at him about how I am like me, and I was sick of guys saying that to me, and that it wasn’t a compliment. And then I told him that if he only dates dumb girls for their big fake tits and tans, then that’s all he’s going to get. There was some rambling diatribe after, but I don’t remember all of it.

I am not even going to waste my breath with a rant on the next guy that says that to me. I am just going to kick him in the balls and walk away.

I’m going to punch Celestia if she doesn’t stop talking about her fucking new iPod.

SHE WILL NOT SHUT UP.

I suspect it’s only because she knows I want a pink iPod so bad I’m ready to sell a kidney. Damn her.

If I wasn’t such an asshole to her all the time, and devoted pages of cyberspace to my anger, I might be offended.

Her car still smells like giant dog turds.

Hahahaha.

Stick that in your iPod.

I was chatting with my friend David the other night, and after reading of the repo-man a few days ago, he said “Man, a lot of shit happens to you.”

But I really think it’s just because I am obsessed with people, and I pay attention to things. Crazy shit goes on everywhere. I just look for it.

And speaking of crazy…

My crazy neighbor (the one who named her cats the same name as her own) was fighting with a plant this morning. My bathroom window is right above some of her plants, and I heard yelling while I was in the shower. When I turned the water off, I could hear it was her, and she was saying “Why aren’t you growing?! Don’t I pay enough attention to you? Don’t I water and love you every day? What is your problem?” Over and over and over.

YAY! for crazy people.

Hot Mailman left a note in my box yesterday (oh, the postal sexual innuendo), leaving me his number and telling me to call him about moving in.

You have no idea how many nasty thoughts I have already had about this man living next door to me. The bad thing is, he used to date Jesus Freak when she first moved in. He likes his girls to love the Lord in a big way.

Dammit.

Tomica, my hot new neighbor, and dog shit - oh my!

2005-06-28T20:54:00.000-07:00

Scott tagged me for the "name your six favorite songs of the moment" game, so here they are. They are not all new songs, just the songs I have been loving like crazy recently.

"Willow Tree" by Gregory Isaacs (thanks, Scott)

"The Best of You" by Foo Fighters

"Feelin' Love" by Paula Cole (seriously, this song is PURE SEX. Listen to it.)

"My Doorbell" by The White Stripes (actually, I am obsessed with the whole CD)

"Till I Get To You" by Nikka Costa

"Nameless" by Esthero

I am supposed to tag five more people, but I'm a rebel.

So I am not!

I'm such a badass.

Because I can't get enough of Tom Cruise and his downward spiral into complete lunacy, I read in my Rolling Stone today that Us Magazine was speculating that Tom's people originally wanted Jessica Alba to be his pretend publicity-stunt girlfriend before it was Katie Holmes. That way, all the young guys that think she is so smoking hot will in turn think Tom is a big virile stud for getting her, and then he'd be their hero, and they'll all run out to the theaters to see his films.

Yeah, that should work.

Jessica Alba is way too hot for his creepy Scientologist ass.

My Jesus-Freak neighbor is moving out, and my hot mailman told me that he wants me to talk to my Dad about getting him in the apartment.

YESSS!

I am so all over having a hot neighbor (instead of the crazy-ass ones I have now). I am almost delirious with all the "package" innuendo that would be going on.

My other neighbor across the street (who has 12654 family members living there, one of them being the driver of the super-cool booty car), came over and asked me to tell my Dad that he's interested in moving his mother-in-law in.

Uh, I don't think so. That message was conviently NOT delivered to my Dad, unlike hottie mailman's, which was delivered with the quickness. Because if his mother-in-law moved in to the apartment next to mine, that means all those loud fucking kids would be running around MY apartment all the time, playing in my yard, and getting on my last nerve.

No thanks. It's bad enough I have to deal with them all from across the street.

So, Celestia, my evil work nemesis, almost got herself killed today.

By me.

She has to make these spreadsheets that I eventually use for my accounts payable. She refuses to listen to my suggestions about how to use excel more efficiently, so half the cells that are supposed to be formulated and added up aren't, making the totals wrong. Which means I have to back track and add all her work up. She does it every. fucking. week.

I almost think she does it on purpose, knowing that it will make more work for me.

Evil whore.

Karma's a motherfucker, though. In an effort to kiss up to Mr. Big Shot even more, she volunteered to watch his dog while he was out of town. The dog is a 120 pound Alaskan Malamute. He spent the entire weekend digging up her backyard, eating her plants, and then, yesterday, he took a GINORMOUS shit on the front seat of her car.

And by ginormous, I mean it almost took up the entire seat. Enjoy.

On another work-related note, Mr. Big Shot's son Junkie busted out of the rehab daddy put him in that cost him more than my annual salary. That's two rehab centers in a month.

My parents should thank god they got the kid they did.

Tagged by Pete.

2005-06-26T20:53:00.000-07:00

If you missed my excellent previous entry that demonstrates YET AGAIN what a massive ass Tom Cruise is, go back to my previous entry.

I got tagged by Pete to list five things that are popular in society, but that I just don't get.

So here goes.

Amanda Peet - Seriously. Why is she famous? She really is just about the most annoying person in movies (ok, tied with Ashton Kutcher, who better run if he ever sees me). I can NOT watch anything that she is in for any length of time. Her face, her voice, her acting... I can't take it. "Something's Got To Give" is a wonderful movie, that is marred by her appearance. Please, someone make her go away.

Reality TV - What the fuck? When will this madness end? I am tired of unscripted television. Bring back the dopey sitcoms and the cop shows. I can't stand watching these morons that are so desperate for fame that they are willing to go on tv and humiliate themselves by marrying a stranger, eating cow shit, dating some loser, mutilating their bodies with plastic surgery, kissing Donald Trump's ass, etc. It's not good television. And it sure as shit isn't real.

The Black Eyed Peas - Ok. I know some of you reading this may (but for the love of god, I can't understand why) like this group of idiots. I can't handle them. AT ALL. I can't stand their songs, their videos, their performances, their kooky appearance... none of it. They really do just make my ears bleed. And this is coming from someone who admittedly listens to Debbie Gibson and Neil Diamond. Don't you think that's saying something?

Carson Daly - GIANT TOOL. Carson Daly is the biggest talentless hack on the planet. He's also got an ego the size of the sun. A few years ago, when Jennifer Lopez wore that green Versace dress to the Grammy's, he actually said that when walked out to present and award there was a huge response from the crowd. He said he thought it was because he peeked out from behind the stage and the audience saw him. He's another one that should run if I ever see him.

PETA - I am all for not being cruel to animals. I am an animal lover. That being said, if I see a bug in my apartment, you can be damned sure that I am going to stomp the shit out of it til I am sure it's dead. Or if there's a mouse, an exterminator is coming to kill it. Although I wouldn't do it, I think if wearing some fur coat is what blows up your skirt, then by all means do it. No animal's life is worth more than my own.

I could go on about the stuff that bugs me all day.

Ok, so since I have to pass this along... these fine people can add their two cents:

Loopy
Bill
Pimp

God, so many sickos instant message me.

AndriaL24 [10:23 PM]: Oh ok... it sounded familiar.
JustUhBill [10:23 PM]: I am just so brilliant, it always sounds like I am quoting someone...
JustUhBill [10:23 PM]: I hear that socrates had the same problem.
JustUhBill [10:23 PM]: and Yoda.
AndriaL24 [10:23 PM]: Uh, yeah... THAT's it.
AndriaL24 [10:24 PM]: Whatever makes you sleep better, dear.
JustUhBill [10:24 PM]: Go to sleep, I must.
JustUhBill [10:24 PM]: that's my geeky yoda talk.
JustUhBill [10:24 PM]: Makes you hot, doesn't it?
AndriaL24 [10:24 PM]: You have no idea... later on when I am in bed molesting myself, I will be thinking of it.
JustUhBill [10:24 PM]: Chicks dig it when you talk like yoda - especially during sex
AndriaL24 [10:25 PM]: You're so right... nothing gets me hotter.
JustUhBill [10:25 PM]: Your daddy, who is?
JustUhBill [10:25 PM]: things like that.
AndriaL24 [10:25 PM]: Bill it is
JustUhBill [10:25 PM]: chicks did it so much
AndriaL24 [10:25 PM]: hahahaha
JustUhBill [10:25 PM]: dig it too
AndriaL24 [10:25 PM]: dork.
JustUhBill [10:26 PM]: Ohhhh ohhh. Well, that one doesn't work as well...
JustUhBill [10:26 PM]: but if you say it in the yoda voice...
JustUhBill [10:26 PM]: Yeah, I'm a dork.
AndriaL24 [10:26 PM]: Hey, that's my line
JustUhBill [10:26 PM]: I wanted that to be the name of my diaryland diary, but some other bitch took it.
AndriaL24 [10:26 PM]: Fuckin' bitches. Can't trust 'em.
AndriaL24 [10:26 PM]: Punkass.
JustUhBill [10:26 PM]: I know!
AndriaL24 [10:26 PM]: hehe
JustUhBill [10:27 PM]: I have one word that describes her...
JustUhBill [10:27 PM]: HOAR
AndriaL24 [10:27 PM]: hahahaha... that's what I've heard
AndriaL24 [10:27 PM]: I heard she totally puts out for guys online
JustUhBill [10:27 PM]: She's just a hoar
JustUhBill [10:27 PM]: hehehe, I've heard that too...
JustUhBill [10:27 PM]: there are websites devoted to it.
AndriaL24 [10:27 PM]: Oh really? I am going to have to look around for those...
JustUhBill [10:28 PM]: she even posts cyber conversations on her page
AndriaL24 [10:28 PM]: How scandalous! How tacky!
JustUhBill [10:28 PM]: where she talks about how hot things make her.
JustUhBill [10:28 PM]: like guys who spell pussy with an ie
AndriaL24 [10:28 PM]: Like Yoda talk??
AndriaL24 [10:28 PM]: That's hot!
JustUhBill [10:28 PM]: that's what she thinks too.
JustUhBill [10:28 PM]: the hoar
AndriaL24 [10:29 PM]: Wow, Bill... you know a lot about her. You must really like her.
JustUhBill [10:29 PM]: like her? I <# her!
AndriaL24 [10:29 PM]: hahaha... It's obvious!

The internet is just full of weirdos.

What would I write about without Tom?

2005-06-26T20:50:00.000-07:00

I swear, Tom Cruise is making coming up with diary entries SO EASY.

His latest stop on the "Mental Breakdown/Selling The World on Scientology Tour" with Matt Lauer:

Cruise: I've never agreed with psychiatry, ever. Before I was a Scientologist I never agreed with psychiatry. And when I started studying the history of psychiatry, I understood more and more why I didn't believe in psychology.
And as far as the Brooke Shields thing, look, you got to understand, I really care about Brooke Shields. I think, here's a wonderful and talented woman. And I want to see her do well. And I know that psychiatry is a pseudo science.
Lauer: But Tom, if she said that this particular thing helped her feel better, whether it was the antidepressants or going to a counselor or psychiatrist, isn't that enough?
Cruise: Matt, you have to understand this. Here we are today, where I talk out against drugs and psychiatric abuses of electric shocking people, okay, against their will, of drugging children with them not knowing the effects of these drugs. Do you know what Aderol is? Do you know Ritalin? Do you know now that Ritalin is a street drug? Do you understand that?
Lauer: The difference is —
Cruise: No, no, Matt.
Lauer: This wasn't against her will, though.
Cruise: Matt, Matt, Matt, Matt —

Tool, tool, tool, tool.

Lauer: But this wasn't against her will.
Cruise: Matt, I'm asking you a question.
Lauer: I understand there's abuse of all of these things.
Cruise: No, you see. Here's the problem. You don't know the history of psychiatry. I do.

"I do." Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. DICK.

Lauer: Aren't there examples, and might not Brooke Shields be an example, of someone who benefited from one of those drugs?
Cruise: All it does is mask the problem, Matt. And if you understand the history of it, it masks the problem. That's what it does. That's all it does. You're not getting to the reason why. There is no such thing as a chemical imbalance.
Lauer: So, postpartum depression to you is kind of a little psychological gobbledygook —
Cruise: No. I did not say that.
Lauer: I'm just asking what you, what would you call it?
Cruise: No. No. Abso— Matt, now you're talking about two different things.
Lauer: But that's what she went on the antidepressant for.
Cruise: But what happens, the antidepressant, all it does is mask the problem. There's ways, [with] vitamins and through exercise and various things... I'm not saying that that isn't real. That's not what I'm saying. That's an alteration of what I'm saying. I'm saying that drugs aren't the answer, these drugs are very dangerous. They're mind-altering, antipsychotic drugs. And there are ways of doing it without that so that we don't end up in a brave new world. The thing that I'm saying about Brooke is that there's misinformation, okay. And she doesn't understand the history of psychiatry. She doesn't understand in the same way that you don't understand it, Matt.

I love that he thinks vitamins and exercise will cure WHATEVER mental problem you may have. Schizophrenia? Take some B-12! Manic Depression? 50 push-ups and some Vitamin A! Listen to Dr. Tom, people!

Lauer: But a little bit of what you're saying Tom is, you say you want people to do well. But you want them do to well by taking the road that you approve of, as opposed to a road that may work for them.
Cruise: No, no, I'm not.
Lauer: Well, if antidepressants work for Brooke Shields, why isn't that okay?
Cruise: I disagree with it. And I think that there's a higher and better quality of life. And I think that, promoting — for me personally, see, you're saying what, I can't discuss what I wanna discuss?
Lauer: No. You absolutely can.
Cruise: I know. But Matt, you're going in and saying that, that I can't discuss this.
Lauer: I'm only asking, isn't there a possibility that — do you examine the possibility that these things do work for some people? That yes, there are abuses. And yes, maybe they've gone too far in certain areas. Maybe there are too many kids on Ritalin. Maybe electric shock —
Cruise: Too many kids on Ritalin? Matt.
Lauer: I'm just saying. But aren't there examples where it works?
Cruise: Matt. Matt, Matt, you don't even — you're glib. You don't even know what Ritalin is. If you start talking about chemical imbalance, you have to evaluate and read the research papers on how they came up with these theories, Matt, okay? That's what I've done. Then you go and you say where's the medical test? Where's the blood test that says how much Ritalin you're supposed to get?
Lauer: It's very impressive to listen to you. Because clearly, you've done the homework. And you know the subject.
Cruise: And you should. And you should do that also. Because just knowing people who are on Ritalin isn't enough. You should be a little bit more responsible in knowing really —
Lauer: I'm not prescribing Ritalin, Tom. And I'm not asking anyone else to do it. I'm simply saying, I know some people who seem to have been helped by it.
Cruise: But you're saying this is a very important issue.
Lauer: I couldn't agree more.
Cruise: It's very — and you know what? You're here on the "Today" show.
Lauer: Right.
Cruise: And to talk about it in a way of saying, "Well, isn't it okay," and being reasonable about it when you don't know and I do, I think that you should be a little bit more responsible in knowing what it is.
Lauer: But —
Cruise: Because you communicate to people.
Lauer: But you're now telling me that your experiences with the people I know, which are zero, are more important than my experiences.
Cruise: What do you mean by that?
Lauer: You're telling me what's worked for people I know or hasn't worked for people I know. I'm telling you, I’ve lived with these people and they're better.
Cruise: So, you're advocating it.
Lauer: I am not. I'm telling you in their case, in their individual case, it worked. I am not gonna go out and say, "Get your kids on Ritalin. It's the cure-all and the end-all."
Cruise: Matt, but here's the point. What is the ideal scene for life? Okay. The ideal scene is someone not having to take antipsychotic drugs.

Duh, Tom. Of course the fucking IDEAL scene is to not have to take any medication. No one wants to take anti-psychotics, you stupid ass. But giving your kid vitamin C and a hug every day isn't going to calm him down if he has ADD (I am not a big supporter of ritalin, either - but I have seen it work with some kids).

I really resent his dismissal people who have serious mental issues, thinking that vitamins and exercise and his cult can cure whatever ails them.

Apparently, insanity and self-righteousness is exhausting. Look at the bags under his eyes.

I completely screwed up my template last night trying to change my email address. Somehow, I ended up merging my locked diary and this one. Don't ask.

I don't really like this one too much.

I think the honeymoon is over with Diaryland.

I found out that a really ~~fucking stupid~~ fun way to spend your Saturday night is driving around a city you don't ever go to because it's full of thugs and drug dealers, looking for your drunk Mom.

My Mom and Dad went to some reggae festival (interesting, given I am the only one in my family who likes reggae) yesterday afternoon, both got drunk, and on the way home got into a fight. My Mom decided that she wasn't going to ride in the car with him, because he was too drunk to drive. So she got out while he was stopped at a light and told him she was going to walk home. They were about ten miles from their house.

Christ. My parents suck.

I was hanging out with my sister when my Dad came home and told us what happened. He was pissed off enough that he was going to let her walk home. If it happened in the area we live, I would have laughed along with him and let her walk, but she wasn't. She was in a shitty neighborhood full of dodgy people.

So Jackie and I got in my car and we went looking for her. Having a general idea where she was, we drove around for about an hour and a half, but never found her.

Around nine o'clock, she came stumbling through the door, with no shoes on (she took them off in the car and forgot to grab them when she jumped out). She walked home, drunk, ten miles, with no shoes on. Oh, my spunky, hard-headed little lush of a Mother.

Her make-up was smeared from crying, and she wasn't talking to anyone. I took her upstairs to her room, and ran her a bath. She kept telling me what happened, but of course, I couldn't understand a word of what she was saying because she was so hammered. I just nodded and agreed when she paused.

I stuck her in the tub, and she pulled me down next to her, and said, "Thank you. You're a good daughter. Don't tell your sister about any of this, either. I don't need Andria yelling at me about this."

She was so shit-faced she thought she was talking to my sister. I could see how she'd mix us up: Jackie's 20, 5'2, 100 pounds, and blonde. I am 31, red-headed, 5'8, and NOWHERE near 100 pounds. It's an easy mistake.

Kind of like mixing up a red cat and a black one.

It could bring a tear to a grown man's eye.

2005-06-23T20:49:00.000-07:00

I know that you all must have been beside yourselves without my drivel-filled ramblings the last few days, but well, I just haven't felt very funny. That, and I have had bigger things on my mind recently.

My friend John died Tuesday.

I am handling it pretty well. I have received wonderful support from my friends, as well as spending some time with Sean, his boyfriend, and laughing about how silly the three of us were.

There's more about it here.

I got no sleep on Tuesday, had an emotional breakdown on Wednesday (which, in combination with my hormones raging from my period, DID NOT HELP people who had to deal with me on this day -my apologies), and feel pretty damned good today.

Fucking rollercoaster.

But, some funny things have happened in the last few days.

For instance, you know how to make a grown man cry?

Take a guess.

Give up?

Ok, I'll tell you. You repossess his BMW in front of everyone he works with while he wife yells about what a worthless piece of shit he is.

I was sitting at my desk, and I could hear the engine of a big diesel truck idling outside my building. This is not usual for our street, so I looked out the window.

"Hey, Junkie, come and look at this." My boss' junkie son was hanging out at our office, looking for YET ANOTHER rehab facility to check into.

"Oh, shit! They're gonna take that fuckin' beamer!"

There was a big truck carrying a load of BMWs, Porches, Volvos, and a Corvette, with one spot left open for the BMW parked on the street. A guy was sitting in the truck waiting, while another guy was looking all over the car for something. I assumed he was looking for a magnetic hide-a-key or something. He spent about fifteen or twenty minutes inspecting the car.

During this time, Junkie and I were on the balcony by my desk watching it all go down. We were laughing at the poor sucker who was stupid enough to leave his car parked on the street knowing that he was behind on his payments, and wondered if he was going to figure out what was going on and try to stop it.

While the guy was filling out papers, a Lexus SUV pulled up next to the BMW, and a man jumped out and started talking to the repo guy. He was waving his hands around, pointing his finger in his face, and making an ass out of himself. Then the woman driving the SUV jumped out and started yelling at him for being late on the payments, and screamed that he was "worthless" and couldn't be responsible enough to do anything right, and then yelled that her "father was right" about him.

The car owner sat down on a planter, put his elbows on his knees, and shook his head in his hands while his wife stood and yelled at him in front of the whole street I work on. And she drew quite a crowd, because not only were about ten people from my office crammed on my balcony watching, but people from other businesses were outside watching as well.

The repo guy jimmy'd the lock, got in the car and started it. The owner jumped in front of it, pleading with the repo guy not to take his car, banging on the hood, screaming like a fool. You could tell by his voice that he was crying. And, judging from the way his wife was screaming at him in public, I am sure his tears were because of what he was afraid was going to happen to him when he got home.

This woman was not fucking around. She was going to kick his ass.

If this was any other guy, I might not have taken so much pleasure in it, but this particular guy is a total prick. I've run into him at the Coffee Bean a couple of times, and he thinks his shit doesn't stink. We used to work out of one of the offices in the building he works in, and he used to make it a point to never hold the elevator door for people who were coming, because he liked to ride it alone. He also berated his receptionist loud enough for everyone on the floor to hear it.

Karma is a motherfucker.

Heh.

*fake*fake*fake*fake*fake*fake*fake*fake*fake*fake*fake*fake*fake*fake*fake*fake*

Thank god it's Friday, kids.

Go out and have fun.

The hardest button to button.

2005-06-20T20:49:00.000-07:00

One of the things I hate most about myself is that I am gullible. I tend to trust most people and take them for their word.

Men, in particular.

There is a good reason for me being as cynical and bitter as I am.

I meet someone, and I am attracted to him, and charmed by him, and I let that cloud my better judgement. Then, I am inevitably disappointed by him, and I end up feeling foolish.

I know that every man is not like that. I know that decent, good men are out there, and all that jazz. I just want to know why none of them seem to find me. It's the silver-tongued snake charmers that find me every time. Sometimes without even realizing it, I let these men affect me in a way that makes me feel bad about myself, and think that everyone must see what an incredible loser I am; or else I wouldn't keep attracting these types of people.

A few days ago, a lovely friend sent me an email, and in it, said "You know, you're a good person." The email had nothing to do with any particular feelings I had, he just said it to say it. I have no idea why he said it, but it made my whole day.

I know I am a good person. Yeah, I make fun of everybody on the planet, but deep (deep) down I really am a pretty fucking decent human being. I don't know... maybe given all the shit on my head right now, I just needed to hear it from someone else.

Also, this is not me fishing for compliments. I just wanted to let you little grapefruits know what's going on in my head.

This morning, I had to get a chai latte for Mr. Big Shot (and an iced vanilla for me) at Starbuck's. Florida, the homeless chick that hangs out in the area where I work, talks to all the people that hang out there. She was sitting outside with a guy I've seen her talk to a million times. A guy named Mike, who I have said "hi" and "bye" to on occassion.

Florida waved me over and introduced me to Mike (again).

"Baby girl, come here and say hello to my friend!"

Here's our chat:

"Hi again. How's it going?"
"Oh, pretty good. Just reading the paper. Working hard?"
"Always! You know, you must have a pretty cushy job if you can hang out at Starbuck's til ten every morning."
"Well, it's not cushy, exactly. But it's good work."
"What do you do?"
"I'm in television. Programming."

At this point, things in my head started clicking. I chatted online with a guy named Mike, who worked in television, and lived a block from my office. I never saw his picture, but the more we chatted this morning, the more I knew it was him.

"Really? That must be interesting."
"It's alright. It has it's moments. What do you do?"
"I'm a psychic. I have a studio over on Avenue I, off the esplanade."

He laughed.

"A psychic?"
"Uh huh. Don't believe me?"
"I don't put much stock in those sorts of things."
"Give me a try."
"Ok. Shoot."
"Hmmm... let's see. You're 38, originally from Pennsylvania. You love the Steelers. You came to California to be an artist, but it never took off, so you took a job in television. Every morning, you run the beach with your dog, get your coffee and read the paper before work."
"Uh..."
"Am I close?"
"Do you know me? How did you know that?"

Then I reminded him who I was, and that he flipped out and quit talking to me (in spite of about half a dozen fantastic conversations, the fucker) when I made a joke about how crappy reality tv was.

Big baby.

I also had to take my previously-believed-to-be-knocked-up cat, Boo, to the vet to get fixed. I dropped her off this morning on my way to work, and was told that I had to pick her up before they close at three. I planned on picking her up on my lunch break.

I got to the vet, signed all the papers, paid the bill, and took my cat home. When I opened my carrier at home, I realized this was not my cat. Not even fucking close to my cat.

Before you assholes start screaming about why I didn't check the carrier before I left, let me explain. First, I had a towel, and a bunch of toys in the carrier. All I saw when I looked in was the towel. Second, why would I think that it wasn't my cat in there?

So shut up, then.

This is Boo, the cat that I dropped off:

This is the cat I brought home:

I could see how they would get the two confused.

I went back to the vet, and told the moron at the counter that she gave me the wrong cat.

"Hi. My name's Andria [Last name], and you gave me the wrong cat."
"No, I didn't."
"Uh, yeah. YOU DID."
"No, I gave your cat back to you, twenty minutes ago."
"No, you gave me someone else's cat."
"I don't see how that could happen."

I took the red cat out of the carrier.

"What color is this cat?"
"Red."
"My cat's named Boo. Would you name a red cat Boo? My cat is black! This is not my fucking cat!"
"Then whose cat is it?"
"Who's in charge here?"
"My boss."

Oh.My.Fucking.God.

"Get your boss out here."
"She's at lunch."
"Ok, this is quite obviously NOT MY CAT. Whoever THIS cat belongs to, might have MY cat. Why don't you find out who the red cat belongs to, and maybe we can go from there."
"There's no tag or collar on this animal."

Fuck.

"Ok. Let's attack this from a different angle, shall we? Why don't you get a list of all the people who had their cats fixed today, and we can call them, and whoever else you gave the wrong goddamned cat to can come back with mine, and then we can all go home happy and I can never come back here again for as long as I live?"
"But that's your carrier. Your cat got put into your carrier."
"Please tell me you're joking with me now. Am I being Punk'd? Is Ashton Kutcher hiding under the counter? FIND MY FUCKING CAT NOW."

I really thought my head was going to explode from the rampant stupidity in this girl.

At this point, I was already late from lunch, and had to call my office and tell them what was going on, and that even though I just got back from a week off, I was going to be out for a little while longer while we tried to fix this shit. My boss understood, but I was pissed about it.

Finally, someone calls and says that she just realized the cat she brought home was not hers, and that she was coming back to bring my cat. When she got there, I took my poor little spaced-out Baby Girl out of the carrier, and handed her the red cat.

"This isn't my cat."

Jesus.

"Sorry lady, not my problem. Talk to the brainiac behind the counter." I hated to be such an asshole to her, since she was about to endure the same hell I just had, but I had to take my poor kitty home and get my happy ass back to work.

I left for lunch at 1:15, I got back to work at 3:30.

Fucking stupid people.

I am going to see The White Stripes with my parents and sister in August. My parents fancy themselves quite the hipsters listening to popular music.

They're not hip.

I foresee much embarrassment for my sister and I. I see my mother drunk, dancing like a lunatic (she has been kicked out of Oktoberfest for this), and my dad, trying to sing along, even though he really has no idea what the words are.

I love my family.

The Ramblin-Bill interview.

2005-06-19T20:48:00.000-07:00

Ok, so I volunteered to play Bill's little interview game.

Here's the rules (I guess these are the rules, I stole them from Bill's diary. So if I'm wrong, I direct all hateful comments to him):

1. If you want to participate in the fun, too, send an email to AndriaL24@aol.com with a subject line that says "Andria, you're a comedy genius. Interview me."
2. I will respond by asking you five questions.
3. An entire journal entry must be devoted to answering the questions I ask you - and you have to answer each and every one of them honestly.
4. In your question answering entry, you have to include an explanation of the rules, much like this, and offer to interview others.
5. When others ask to be interviewed, you need to ask them five original questions.

Alright. On to the frivolity.

What three words best describe you? Why?

Three words. Hmmmm. There are so very many words to describe the awesomeness that is Andria, so I guess I am really going to have to think about this for a minute.

Sarcastic - I think it's fairly obvious that humor and sarcasm are the biggest part of my personality. And if you haven't gathered that by now, you shouldn't be reading this diary. I, much to the dismay of my friends and family, have been a huge smartass my whole life. I never turn it off, and never shutup. It doesn't seem to matter what it is, I've always got some stupid sarcastic remark to make. It's fun for spectators to watch as I put my foot in my mouth half of the time.

Smart - Even though I curse like a sailor, have a filthy mind, and no college degree, I like to think that I am an intelligent person. Although I ditched school a lot of days, and never did homework, I have always been a reader, and always curious to learn. I have just always been lazy, and wanted to do it at my own pace, and not be barked at by some teacher. It's probably not the bright thing to do, but it's what I did. C'est la vie. Now I'm a 31 year old ~~receptionist~~ corporate administrative assistant. Shows how smart I really am.

Shy - I know, after reading this diary, you probably think I am full of shit. The fact is, I am painfully shy in front of new people and in new situations. I am loud, and boisterous, and a lunatic around my friends and family, but around strangers, I clam up. Big time. It makes dating more of a motherfucker than it already is. I really hate this part of my personality, and I try my best to open up and not be so shy, but it's not easy.

You have been given a very rare treat! You get to have one meal with a famous person who has passed away. What do you order to eat? And what two sides would you like with that? Would you rather have the soup or the side salad? Did you save any room for dessert? Would you even be able to eat any of this with the rotting corpse of that person sitting across from you? (I never said anything about the person being brought back to life. Seriously, did you think I had some sort of magical powers or something? Come on. I'm not Neo and this isn't The Matrix. Sheesh. Some people...)

Oh, Bill... how you slay me!

Whatever.

Ok, so if I could have dinner with any dead famous person, it would have to be Elvis. How could it not be? He's the fucking king, people. Being that he is a good southern boy, I would take him to this bbq place by my Aunt's house in North Carolina, that has the best food EVER. I would order the bbq pork sandwich, with a side of collard greens and macaroni and cheese. That's good shit, people. And I never get soup. I am a salad girl, all the way. With bleu cheese on the side. No dessert for me, though I suspect The King would enjoy many fried Twinkies (which I have had, and was surprisingly good).

What's your idea of 'the perfect day'?

About 75 degrees, sun shining, cool breeze. I don't think any particular activities (hehe... well, ok, maybe ONE) make it perfect, it's all about who you're with. I would like to sleep late, have pancakes for breakfast, go to the beach, and enjoy the ocean with someone else who can appreciate it as much as I do. Watch the sunset, make-out a little bit, go home and watch "Amelie" and then get some. PERFECT.

You talk about porn on a fairly regular basis. What's the most unusual porn you own? (Elaborate. No one wants a one word answer like 'Midgets.' We want details.)

Well, I have talked about the most unusual porn I own. It's a Jenna Jameson movie with some freaky theme that I can't really describe. Needless to say, there are midgets on tricycles, and guys dressed as schoolgirls pole-dancing while the fucking is going on. You can read more about it here.

I also have a tape that Chris, one of my co-workers gave me that has some random scenes he recorded from the Playboy Channel. One of the scenes is a normal sized chick and a midget in a viking hat. Oh - and there's a dildo sticking out of the top of the viking hat. He's going down on her (and she's pretty hideous looking, by the way), and she says "I can't wait for you to fuck me with your big cock." Then he whips it out, and surprisingly, it's decent-sized. A couple positions happen, and then for the big finish, he lays on his stomach, and the girl rides the dildo on the viking hat.

Good times.

You've been invited to Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes' wedding. When the words "If anyone objects, speak now or forever hold your peace.' are said, what exactly would you say?

Well, that's assuming I have stopped laughing from hearing the news of their engagement in the first place (I still am laughing, by the way). But, if I did get invited, at that moment, I would jump up and say, "But Pacey still loves you! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Ok, not really. What I really would say is "Tom, you know you'd much rather be marrying L. Ron Hubbard, you cult-following queer. Come out of the closet, you big pussy."

Then he'd sue me. And he'd get nothing, since I have no money.

Fuck you, Tom.

Grow a pair and be honest about what you're doing.

More fun with instant messaging:

pussie_eater13: hello
andriaelle24: Hahahahaha...hi
pussie_eater13: very yummy looking lady indeed
andriaelle24: Uh, thanks.
pussie_eater13: yw
andriaelle24: How did you find me?
pussie_eater13: so whats your fav position
pussie_eater13: yahoo personals
pussie_eater13: fav position?
andriaelle24: I really like short stop. Sure, it doesn't have the glamour or prestige of being on first, but those sweet line drives come to the short stop every time.
pussie_eater13: ?
andriaelle24: Oh - wait. You're probably not talking about baseball, huh?
pussie_eater13: no. sexual position.
andriaelle24: Ohhhhh!! ROFLMAO!! OMG!!! LOL!!!
pussie_eater13: i luv 69. i luv to eat pussy, all nite.
andriaelle24: That's so hot. You have a really cool screen name. I like it! HOT!
andriaelle24: Hey, so I have a question. I have found that guys who really love to eat pussy, and talk about it all the time, and how much they love to do it all night, and without reciprocation blah blah blah, usually have a cock the size of my index finger. Do you think this is true?
pussie_eater13: fuck no. i got a huge cock.
andriaelle24: Well, let's see.
pussie_eater13: i dont have pics of that.
andriaelle24: That's a bummer, cause I was really hoping to get some tonight.
pussie_eater13: you can come over here and see for yourself.
andriaelle24: Um... no.
pussie_eater13: come on. i'll make you cum at least ten times.
andriaelle24: Wow... hmmm. That's really tempting.
pussie_eater13: if you leave now you could be cumming in 20 minutes.
andriaelle24: Ok. You talked me into it. Can I bring my kids? I can't get a sitter at this time, and their dad's at work all night.
pussie_eater13: what? for real?
andriaelle24: Yeah. What am I supposed to do with them? Leave them home alone while I go fuck a stranger I just met online? What kind of mother would I be if I just left them alone? Sheesh.
andriaelle24: So, can I?
pussie_eater13: fuck no
andriaelle24: Damn.

Pimps up, hos down.

2005-06-16T20:47:00.000-07:00

Thanks to everyone who answered my survey. The answers were both entertaining and informative. And, to the two pervs who said I need to up the sexual content of my diary… well, this is not a sex diary, and, I can’t write in filthy detail about what I am not getting (at least not from myself).

If someone would just come over here and fix the problem, I might be able to dirty this page up.

But it's not.

Dammit.

Hey, guess who my favorite person is!

Give up?

It’s NoGoodDaddy.

No, really. It is.

You know why? The fucker sent me porn, that’s why.

I opened my mailbox today, and saw an envelope addressed to “Andria H.” I can only guess the H stands for ‘hoar’, since my last name starts with an L. In which case, why didn’t you just write hoar, you ass monkey?

He also sent some of this (except his was mint flavored):

As if I even need any assistance with that.

Riiiiiight.

Though, at the risk of being a tacky re-gifter, I may give it to one of my Mormon cousins for Christmas.

HOLY FUCKING SHIT FUCKING HELL FUCK ME THE SKY IS FALLING.

We JUST had an earthquake.

Ok, I have to take a break to have a panic attack.

Oy. I don’t handle these situations well. Not at all.

Since I was a little girl, my Mom and Dad tried to calm me down after earthquakes, telling me that they were normal, and that little sporadic ones were good, because it was relieving the pressure built up in the fault lines.

Fuck that.

There is nothing normal about the ground moving beneath me. Sorry. I am not buying it.

What’s worse, is this is the third earthquake in the last week, and the news was even talking for a moment of a threat of a tsunami in northern California (though I think that was pre-mature, and just more of the networks trying to panic the shit out of viewers – WHICH WORKED ON THIS ONE).

I hate hate hate earthquakes. Not that the disasters that occur elsewhere (tornadoes, hurricanes, etc.) are any more tolerable, because they’re not.

Ok. Time to write about something else and forget this shit.

Tonight, I went out to dinner with Jason and his *gag* girlfriend. I keep telling him that if he’s going to force me to hang out with the two of them, I should get some sort of reward that involves him naked in my bed. But unless she is there, too (and don’t think he hasn’t asked), that doesn’t seem to be happening.

Asshole.

The restaurant we went to is on a pier, with a bunch of other restaurants, shops, etc. One of the other businesses is a club. A club for fat/curvy/voluptuous/thick/whatthefuckever chicks, and the men who love them. There are actually quite a few of these clubs around here. And, no – I don’t go to them. I hate regular clubs. Because they’re a meat market, and I don’t look like the halter-top-low-rise jeans kinda gal that goes to them.

But a club for big girls is different, right?

No. It’s worse, in my opinion. Because you’re there specifically because of the way you look. A meat market. And the fat clubs are always more women than men, and those chicks are like barracudas chasing those men around. My friend Jeff has told me enough stories to keep me out.

Besides, why would I go to a club to meet men when I have the internet to find quality men?

Duh.

Anyway, there is a point to this story.

This club is patronized by a lot of black guys. And, I am not bragging, but the black men love some Andria. Which is ok – I have gone out with a couple of black guys before (incidentally, I went out with a guy who was half black, half Japanese – guess which part of him was Japanese?). But usually, instead of looking like Taye Diggs or Djimon Honsou (oh, how I want him), most of the ones that hit on me look like this:

I just don’t think that’s my type.

So, a guy in a suit not entirely unlike that one in the picture walks up, and Jason starts laughing, because he a) knows what’s coming, and b) knows how incredibly uncomfortable I am in this situation.

Again. Asshole.

Ok, so the guy comes up to me, and tells me, “Mmmm, girl! You got it going on! Let me look at you.” Then he stares at me like he’s going to start eating me at any moment.

“Um… I think we’re going to go. Bye.”
“You don’t want to come in the club and get crunk with me?”

Crunk? Who do I look like? Missy Elliott? In my head I kept hearing Dave Chappelle dressed as Lil Jon saying “Yeeeaahh!” and “Whhhhattt?”

“Uh, no thanks.”
“Why not, baby?”

GROSS. I hate when guys do that.

“I don’t get crunk. Sorry. See ya later.”
”Wait, baby, let me get your number.”
”I don’t have a number.”
“You don’t have a phone?”
“No. It got turned off ‘because one of my baby daddys didn’t pay the bill.”
“Uh…”

Then we left. Jason laughed hysterically, as that’s not the first time he saw it happen.

We were in the porn shop once, and this guy came up and told me that he was much bigger than the dildo in my hand, and gave me his number so I could find out for myself.

It’s ok to be jealous, ladies. I get ALL the hot guys.

Not.

Ok. So it seems that my diary has become some sort of anti-Tom Cruise site.

Why would today be any different, then?

On my new Entertainment Weekly, is a quote from Tom saying, “Some people just don’t like to see other people happy. @#*!! Them.”

Huh.

So, it’s ok for Tom to tell people who don’t like his creepy relationship *coughpublicitystuntcough* to fuck off, but he thinks it’s perfectly acceptable to publicly ridicule Brooke Shields’ abilities as a person AND as a mother because she went on television and talked about her post-partum depression and Paxil? Or to criticize people who seek psychiatric help?

What a MASSIVE FUCKING TOOL.

Shocking entertainment news.

2005-06-15T20:46:00.000-07:00

If you didn't take my survey, click the link and DO IT.

I have to know what you weirdos think about things.

One of my favorite shows, Reno 911! is back. And thank god, because there is nothing good on tv right now.

If you don't already watch it, you should watch it only for lines like, "I'm going to go home, take a nice quick whore's bath, and head out to the Hometown Buffet."

That’s good stuff, people.

Proof of my attempt at vehicular tweaker homicide.

So, in a shocking turn of events, Katie Holmes has announced that she is (dun, dun, dunnn) converting to Scientology.

Who EVER could have seen this coming? I mean, really. The notion that Tom Cruise *might* hook up with a young, impressionable girl and spin that wacky Scientology dogma in such a way that she'll want to be one, is just shocking.

Color me stunned.

I wish he'd just come out of the fucking closet, already.

But don't tell him I said that. He might sue me.

When did Jennifer Aniston become "America's Sweetheart"? Seriously. Because before Brad dumped her ass, I don't recall us loving her especially, as a nation.

I have nothing against her. In fact, I feel for her, being as hot as she is (although entirely too thin), and having her man cheat all over the place, and then losing him to that man-eating baracuda Angelina (call me, Angelina).

But still.

America's sweetheart? I thought that was Julia Roberts. Or Reese Witherspoon. Or me.

Also, they're being called "Brangelina."

Kill me.

Kevin Federline bought Britney a 5.5 carat engagement ring, to replace the one she originally bought.

Where in the sweet hell did that guy get the cash to buy her a 5 carat diamond ring?

If I was Britney (and thank you Jesus for delivering me to the family you did, instead of some hillbillies in Louisiana), I don’t know that I would like wearing a ring that I bought myself.

But that’s just me.

Monday, my boss' junkie son came in the office, fresh out of rehab.

Considering our last meeting, I about pissed myself because he basically told me he was going to "get me" for getting him into trouble with his dad (which is what led him to the rehab).

Instead, he told me was sorry, and that apologizing to everyone he hurt/threatened/pissed off/stole from, etc. was part of his recovery. I would love to believe he is on the road to recovery, but in the five plus years I have been at my company, he's been to the old rehab four or five times.

But who knows.

I am just glad I don't have to hide under my desk anymore and bring a clean pair of underwear to work everyday.

Friday night, after I watched RAM, my friends and I went to Hollywood to see The Dan Band. If you don't know, it's the same band in the wedding scene in "Old School." They just cover women's songs.

They kick ass. They also do the best Christmas song ever, "I Wann Rock You Hard This Christmas" (sample lyrics: I want to fill your stocking with my candy cane of joy, so have a merry, merry motherfucking Christmas... I'll send my love train down Santa Claus lane, I'm your little drummer boy). They have a special airing on Bravo this month called "I am Woman."

Check it out.

Dan, the singer, is married to Kathy Najimi, a comedian/actress I like. I related to her from the "funny fat girl" perspective, and she was at the show.

When I saw her, I didn't want to say anything, but Kay told me to stop being such a pussy and just go say hi.

So I did. And I felt like a total dork.

Whoa.

I bought the new White Stripes CD, Get Behind Me Satan. Sweet fucking hell, is this an awesome CD. I don’t even know what else to say. It is… insanely brilliant.

I also bought the new Foo Fighters. They are a favorite of mine. Plus I want Dave Grohl in a bad way.

Dave Grohl said on Howard Stern the other morning that Foo Fighters and Weezer are touring together in the fall.

I have almost completely boycotted concerts altogether, because I refuse to support Ticketmaster and Clear Channel Communications, but I may have to cave on my principles this time.

Dammit. I hate when I have to cave.

The last time I did, was to see No Doubt and Garbage, and it was completely worth it.

So I am off work most of this week. I plan to do a whole lot of nothing. I'll probably watch too much porn, and make more dumb mix CD's, since I do that like a total nerd.

I also intend to have a Crappy Movie Marathon: Spice World, Glitter, and Showgirls.

Does it get any better than that?

Only if Bill will lend me his copy of Xanadu.

Spice up your life!

Fun with surveys.

2005-06-14T20:44:00.000-07:00

Hey, guess what! It's a survey!

Originality is for suckers, so fill it out.

Or I'll cry. And you wouldn't want that, would you?

I even filled it out myself to encourage you monkeys. Now go.

Another Stupid Survey

1. How did you find my diary?

2. What is your URL?

3. What type of entries do you like more - stories about friends/family/work, celebrity rants, or warm fuzzy entries that prove I really do have feelings buried somewhere?

4. You're the lone survivor of a plane crash, stranded on a desert island. All you have is a match, 5 feet of rope, and half a bottle of rum. Are you as creeped out by Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes as I am?

5. How many "adult toys" are in your house? Be honest, you punks.

6. Who's scarier - Michael Jackson or Dick Cheney?

7. If they made a movie about your life, who would play you?

8. Do you have more porn, or music files on your computer?

9. What's in your CD player right now?

10. Does the fact that I wish there was a Seinfeld Trivia board game make me the biggest dork ever?

11. What's the cheesiest movie you own?

12. I suspect Richard Simmons *might* be gay. What do you think?

13. Have you ever had a dirty dream about another diarist?

14. Will Britney and Kevin last? Because, seriously, if those two crazy kids can't do it, who can?

15. Aren't surveys just a cop-out for a real entry?

Current Results

Wacko Jacko.

2005-06-13T20:40:00.000-07:00

Well. I'll be goddamned.

I have said it before, and I'll say it again. I really do have the best readers ever.

Huge thanks to everyone with the encouraging comments and the wonderful emails. That was a hard entry to post here, so I thank you all.

You guys rule.

And, a special thanks to the awesome Miss Pea for sending her eleventy billion fans over by linking to that entry.

So.

Michael Jackson's not guilty of being a child molester.

Great.

California juries really do have their heads up their ass when they get to preside over a celebrity's trial.

I mean, if OJ filmed himself hacking Nicole up and practically decapitating Ron Goldman, the idiots on that jury still would have let him walk.

I think if they had tape of Michael Jackson with his dick in a kid's ass, he'd still get off (literally).

California WILL NOT convict a star.

And then, when they finally DO find one guilty, it's Tommy Chong, going to jail for selling bongs online.

FUCKING. BONGS.

Jesus.

Well, I am now officially a pedestrian-runner-over person.

If a tweeker on a bike counts as a pedestrian, and running into the back of his back wheel counts as running him over.

I was waiting to make a right hand turn at a light, and when it was clear, I started to turn, and in the two seconds it took me to step on the gas and start turning, he flew by out of nowhere, and I hit the back of his bike.
But the guy was so strung out, he didn't stop, or even look. He just kept going.

So I did, too.

I feel just like Halle Berry hitting and running.

Tonight was RAM's kindergarten graduation (I was driving over to his church when I hit the guy). I have to tell you, I don't get all touchy-feely and girly very often, but when my feelings for that kid are involved, I am a total SAP.

It was pretty funny to see 35 five year-olds playing dress-up in frilly dresses and suits and ties, the girls in curls and the boys with the slicked down hair.

When the kids were walking up to stage between the aisle, they all looked petrified. Not RAM. He was beaming. That kid is just happy all the time.

It was funny, because he didn't see me when he walked up, but when he was on the stage, when everyone was getting ready to do a prayer (he's in Catholic school), everyone was bowing their heads, ready to pray, and RAM saw me and screamed out "TT! LOOK I'M GRADUATING!"

He also draws the biggest crowd wherever he goes. Between me and my parents, Kay and her parents, and DMX's family, he usually has at least 25 people at his events. We took up half the stands at his tee-ball games.

So, when they called RAM's name to go and get his diploma, we behaved in the only way appropriate for such an event: waving our hands in the air, jumping up, screaming and clapping.

We had to represent, yo.

We are so white trash.

I heard an interview with Mike Tyson after his fight this weekend, and the interviewer asked him, "So what's next for Mike Tyson?"

And Mike replied, "I don't know. Fade into bolivion."

Bolivion.

Eh, I got nothin'.

2005-06-12T20:39:00.000-07:00

Last night, a bunch of us went out to dinner for three of our friends that have birthdays in June. One of those friends (and I use the term loosely for this fuck because he's married to one of my best girlfriends) is Barney The Big Giant Fucking Stupid Ass. I have written in the past (too lazy to look those entries up and link them, just take my word for it) about what an ordeal it is to be in public places with this guy, because if he's not acting like a petulant child, he is acting like a disgusting pig. I keep meaning to write about our first camping trip with him in the mountains, but I always forget. That was when I realized what an uncouth, disgusting ass he really is. I have not been fond of him since.

So Kay, DMX, RAM, our other friend Briton, and I arrive and order drinks. Martinis for the girls (yeah, we're sophisticated like that) and beer for the guys. My Dad leans in and says that he and my Mom and going to pop for the drinks and appetizers, so we should get some more since The Fucking Pig ate the entire appetizer they ordered already.

So we all have a few drinks a piece, and ordered four or five appetizers. When the bill came, my Dad says that for their birthdays, he and my Mom are going to pay the bill. The $200 bill.(I am not bragging, but this comes into play later for when I have a fit). They couldn't stay for dinner.

We were all sitting around, and after the three birthday people opened their gifts (as a group, we usually always pitch in and get one good gift), Barney looked over his card and said to Angela, "Did Mike and Becky sign this?" Mike and Becky are my parents.

"Well, do you see their name?"

"No."

"Well, then I guess they didn't."

Then he leans in to Angela, and says to her that he and Angela gave my Mom and Dad a $50 gift certificate to some restaurant for Christmas, they could have at least pitched in twenty bucks for his gift. I don't exactly know what he leaned in for, since he said in a volume that everyone could still hear, including me.

"Hey, dumbass. Did you notice they paid the goddamned $200 bar bill? That's their gift, you stupid fuck." I probably shouldn't have said it like that, but I did. And I was not about to apologize to him for it, either. He is a fucking dumbass.

And I was cranky because I didn't feel good.

Even though I only ate about 1/3 of my chicken, and 1/3 of my ice cream, it was too much. About five minutes after my last bite, the urge to throw up all over myself came upon me. I hate hate hate throwing up. It is not anywhere near comfortable for me (not that is for anyone, but I just don't handle it well).

Angela flipped out when I called her husband a stupid fuck, so Kay decided we should probably go home. Which is just as well, since I really just wanted to die.

Kay stopped at her office on the way home, and took RAM in with her. DMX and I had a chat.

“Jesus, I am going to puke. I can’t believe how shitty I feel right now.”

“Stick your finger down your throat. It’s not like you’re not used to having something that far down your throat. At least not from what I heard.”

“Haha. Asshole.”

“Want some water? That might help.”

“No, I can’t eat or drink one more thing.”

“So, I guess you won’t be getting any action later, then.” Yeah, as if that was even an option, sick or otherwise.

“Well, I could. I just can’t swallow.”

Sometimes it occurs to me that I don’t have to say every single thing that comes to mind all the time.

But I can’t help it.

My sister Jackie came over this morning, and we were having a sex chat. She told me that her asshat boyfriend hasn’t been delivering the goods lately, and that she was frustrated.

So, I did my sisterly duty of informing her that she needed to get a vibrator toute de suite. She told me she could never go into a store and buy one, so I volunteered to do it for her (plus, I’ll find any excuse to go the porn store). I have no shame in such circumstances.

She was a bit traumatized by the all the different kinds of toys there are. She was looking at some items in particular, and looked at me, perplexed.

“Dude. What are these?”

“Butt plugs.”

“Huh? What do they…huh?”

“I think the name’s pretty self-explanatory. BUTT PLUG. Think about it.”

“Oh my god… how? What..? I don’t get it. Do you have one of these?”

“No.”

“Have you ever used one before?”

“Um…uh…no?”

“You’re a freak.”

I was reminded of a story today in which I made a complete ass out of myself in front of hundreds of people.

I know. It’s hard to believe.

A few years ago, we were in Vegas (my personal Disneyland). We always hang out downtown, because we’re hipsters like that. That, and the strip is more expensive and full of 21 year-olds. Some hotels have these massive 64 oz. plastic footballs that you can fill with beer or mixed drinks for like, ten bucks. For a lush like me, this is the deal of the century.

I was on my second football of Captain Morgan and Diet Coke. To say I was drunk would be putting it mildly. We were walking, and in what can only be attributed to my drunken stupid clumsiness, I ate shit. As in, I was fully erect (hehe…erect) and vertical one second, and then completely horizontal the next. And, what’s even better, my shirt flew up over my head when I landed.

So, there I was, in the middle of Fremont Street, on the ground, with my girls (luckily I had a cute bra on that day) on display for everyone. And, because I am a good drunk, I didn’t spill a drop of my drink. I jumped up as fast as I could, but there was this group of retard frat guys across the street, and they were all yelling crap at me.

It might have embarrassed me, but they told me I had nice boobs.

I have no idea how many people got home from their Vegas trips and went to pop in their videos and saw some drunk redhead eat shit in the background.

It’s so good to be me.

Not.

Ghetto fabulous.

2005-06-11T20:38:00.000-07:00

First I must get this out of the way.

I tried to do a "private" entry, but guess what? I can't because diaryland blows goats. I would send them an email about it, but I am still waiting back to hear about why I have run out of banner views, in spite of the fact that I have never run ONE.

And because I like this diary to be funny, I have thrown all my angst here. And, as if asking you to keep up with two seperate diaries isn't enough, I even locked it! The last feeling-ridden entry I did resulted in me getting an email that sent me in a downward spiral for about a week, so if it's locked, I know who's reading it.

My feelings won't be hurt if no one reads it. But I had to put these thoughts somewhere, and there are a select few who I don't mind sharing them with.

No matter what I am going through, I use my sense of humor to sustain me. That is why even when I am all sad and rainy inside, I try to be as goofy and sunny as possible. I don't know how good that is, but it's how I've pretty much always done things.

Ok. Enough of that shit.

I love living in the ghetto.

Because then you have neighbors who have friends with cars that look like this. If you haven't noticed, that's a bootylicious chick in a thong on the door.

Nice.

That's high class, yo.

Some crap happened at work this week.

First, one of my co-workers' husband tried to pick me up RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIS WIFE. They are in this weird relationship, wherein they are still married, but don't live together, and don't intend to get a divorce. They spend holidays together, and talk and see each other every day. She got fat, he didn't like it, and left her.

Which is why I don't understand why he's hitting on me. I'm not as big as she is, but I am no petite flower, that's for sure. He tells me all the time that I look "particularly lovely" and always comments on how good whatever color I am wearing looks on me, or how pretty my smile is, or how funny I am to him on the phone, etc.

It bothers me. But I don't know how to say, "Hey, you creepy old fuck. Stop acting like you have a chance. I am not into chauvinistic assholes. Sorry." I just don't see how the wife can sit there and do nothing. I have no respect for women like that.

Celestia and I were notified that we have to go to a hearing about the lady that left her baby in the car while she went shopping. I am not looking forward to this.

My best bud at work, Chris, has a step-daughter that he can't stand. She's an asshole, doesn't respect him, doesn't listen to anyone, doesn't go to school half the time, and doesn't exert any effort whatsoever to be a decent human being.

When he first got married to her mom and they all moved in together, they left her alone for a day and she racked up $200 in pay-per-view porn. She was 13.

Now she's 15, and the wife came in and introduced me to her. Sadly, I see a lot of myself in the girl, in that she is saddled with thick, somewhat frizzy hair, and she is not a skinny girl. The worst part of being that age and being overweight is that you're so eager to fit in and look like everyone else, that you don't realize you should not be wearing the same clothes that the skinny girls are wearing.

All that sympathy was quickly thrown out the window when I made a joke to her about Chris, and she started laughing. No - she started snorting. Loudly. She snorted so much, in fact, that she fell right down.

Last night, I had a date with RAM while his parents went to some fund-raiser for his little league. I had planned on taking him to see "Madagascar," but Kay already did. He told me what he really wanted to do was kick my butt in the Memory game (which the little fucker does every.single.time), and then play with the little ~~asshole~~ girl next door. I don't like him playing with her. She's a bad influence, and she's a tattle tale. Instead, we hung out and watched a few movies and ate some pizza.

"TT, we love pizza."
"Yeah we do, RAM."
"TT, you know what else I love?"
"No, what's that?"
"Kicking your butt! Hahahahahaha!!" At which point, he actually runs behind me and kicks my ass. "Hey, your butt is smaller than it was before. You're losing some pounds, TT."
"Uh...Thanks for noticing, kid."

Later on...

"Hey, are you glad school is almost over for summer?"
"Yeah."
"What are you going to do this summer?"
"Well, I don't know yet. Probably just play. Oh, and I want to get a girlfriend."
"A GIRLFRIEND?"
"Yeah. You know, a girlfriend."
"Who?"
"I don't know yet. I'll know when I see her."

I am pretty sure at five, I was still pissing myself and picking my nose and speaking incoherently (ok, I still do all that). I can't believe the shit this kid says to me.

Then I had one of the very few maternal moments I ever have EVER (since he is the closest I want to get to having a kid of my own, I think), when it was time for him to go to bed and he crawled up in my lap and let me hold him. I haven't held him like that since he was a baby. And goddammit, I have to admit it brought a little tear to my eye, because I couldn't imagine that my bitter, cynical, pessimistic heart could be filled with so much limitless love for one little person.

I hate when that shit happens.

Chewing the fat.

2005-06-11T20:36:00.000-07:00

I hate that I am even writing this entry. I hate that people are going to see it, which is why it is my first (and maybe only) private entry ever. I feel like a cry-baby, but I must vent. I resisted writing this because I feel like some people will think they have to step lightly around me, because they don't want the fat girl to go off, but I don't care. Those people probably aren't reading this anyway.

I do think that Cookie's entry about it was better, and much more intelligently written, but a few other entries have pissed me off recently.

Yes. You know who you are.

That's me on my last birthday with RAM and my (gorgeous) sister Jackie.

I'm fat. I just had gastric bypass seven months ago, for fuck's sake. I have been fat my whole life. I come from a fat family. Since about ten, I gradually started putting on weight, and by middle school I was bigger than the other kids. From that time on, people have been kind enough to remind me of how fat I am. I developed the personality I did as a coping mechanism. They won't make fun of you if you're really funny, right?

Wrong. It wins people over sometimes, but less often than not.

Unless you have struggled with any kind of weight problem, you just don't understand. You can't. And I try to remember that when people make comments. But at the same time, that's why they shouldn't be making the comment. You don't know what it's like to have kids at school call you names to your face everyday, to have boys completely ignore you, to not be able to wear the cute clothes all the other girls are wearing, to be so afraid of speaking in front of people who are going to be looking at you that you develop social anxiety disorder, or to be afraid to eat in front of other people because they are going to make fun of you. You just don't know.

I think it's bullshit that people think it's ok to make sweeping generalizations about fat people (or any people really), and ridicule them for no other reason other than that they are overweight. People assume that I am constantly eating, that I smell, that I am lazy, and that I am stupid. Before I even open my mouth to speak, most people have already formed a complete characterization of me. I think this is why I am so vehemently against homophobia of any kind. Because if you think about it, the gays and the fat people are really the last two groups that it's ok to make fun of in every day society.

I accept my responsibility for my size. I blame no one else but myself (well, genetics are partly involved). However, that doesn't mean that it's ok for someone to talk shit to me about it, or that I think it's funny for one of my friends to make a comment about it. Sure, we joke lightly, because a lot of my friends are heavy, too, but it's never hurtful.

I don't want to become some fat-basher nazi. It's not about that. It's about being fed-up. And fucking frustrated. It's about trying to get people to see something from a different perspective, or to change some misconceptions.

I'm not asking for pity. Or sympathy. Just a little tiny bit of understanding.

I realize that there is a degree of hypocrisy involved here. I mean, I talk shit about people in my diary all the time. But all of my ridicule is based on something other than superficiality (I am not trying to make excuses here, I really do believe this). I have even made comments about how I think it's wrong for fat girls to wear low-rise pants. And I still think it's wrong. It's about the pants, though. Not the girl in them. I don't even know if that makes sense. It's two in the morning and I've had some wine.

I am still not entirely comfortable writing this. I originally wanted to write this entry about a month ago, when I saw something in another diary, but I resisted, because I was afraid of the feedback I would get, and I didn't want to look like a cry-baby who could dish it out but couldn't take it. But I don't care anymore.

I think I could go on about this much more, but I think I'll stop here.

Under the pink... inlfluence

2005-06-09T20:35:00.000-07:00

I have been a non-dress wearing, non-girly girl my whole life. I have always had Tonka trucks, played in the dirt, and fought with boys.

Well, I don't know what the hell happened to me, but in the last year or so, I can not get enough of the goddamned color pink. I never used to like pink. I have always been a purple girl (still am). Now I have about ten pink shirts, pink hand bags, pink lip gloss, pink nail polish, and I about flipped out when I saw iPods came in pink. I wish my cell phone was pink.

Watch out, because this template may be pink soon.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I hate when people state the glaringly obvious.

In further proof that I am the clumsiest jackass on Earth, I spilled fucking Diet Coke syrup on my shirt YET AGAIN changing the soda machine at work. You'd think I would learn how to open it away from me, seeing as how I've spilled about five times. But, I never learn anything. EVER.

Every dumbass person in my office said the same thing: "Did you spill something on your shirt?"

No, you fucking moron. This pink (see, I told you - it's a sickness) shirt comes with these sticky brown spots all over it. FUCK OFF YOU STUPID TWIT.

In the little neighborhood I work in, there are a few homeless people that hang around all the time. I see them everyday, and I have made up names for them based on what they look like. There's The Star, so named because she wears her sunglasses at all times, and wears this blanket around her arms and shoulders like it's a mink stole. Then there's Bozo, who has a clown face sans makeup, if that makes sense (I hate Bozo because I am afraid of clowns like nobody's fucking business. I would rather run through the streets of Iraq naked singing "Jesus loves me, yes I know" than have a clown around me). There's The Stud, who is far too attractive to be homeless. It's scary because he's not much older than me - I would guess about 35 or 36, maybe. And, finally, there's Florida Evans, my favorite. She looks EXACTLY like the mom on "Good Times," and she's the only one I talk to. She calls me Precious, or Baby Girl (she calls everyone Precious, but I prefer to think that *I* am the real precious one).

Florida is the only one I never see hanging out with any of the other homeless. Like she's too good to be associated with them, or something. She spends most of her time in the shopping center I go to pretty regularly, since it has the store I buy my lunches at a lot, and Starbucks (I am an iced vanilla latte whore), where I go almost every day. She is a trip to talk to. She is funny, and completely bonkers. She says shit that blows my mind sometimes, which is why I keep talking to her.

Today, I was buying stuff for our Friday lunch (we have free lunch on Fridays, and I am the lowly loser who gets to coordinate it), and Florida was sitting outside the Starbucks drinking coffee.

"Hey, Precious! Come here, baby girl!"
"Hey, Florida. What's going on today?"
"Precious, I got in an accident today taking my kids to school. Some fool ran a red light and ran right smack into my car. I wasn't hurt none, but my car's ruint."

Yeah, she said 'ruint.'

"Did you get his license plate number? You have insurance, right?"
"Baby girl, do you think I would drive without having insurance on my car?"
"That's a good point, Florida."
"Baby girl, you know who I saw today?"
"No, who?"
"Ronald Reagan! RONALD REAGAN!"
"Wow, Reagan was in the Village? That's incredible. Well, I have to get some stuff at Trader Joe's. I'll see you later, ok?"
"Baby girl!"
"Yeah?"
"Don't tell no one I saw Ronald Reagan. They're already looking for me. I don't need no more trouble from them."
"Who's looking for you?"
"You know... them." And then she leaned in and whispered, "Hoover and his men. They're all looking for me."

I looked at her for a second, perplexed.

"J. Edgar Hoover?"
"Yes."
"Why is the FBI looking for you?"
"Baby girl, now you know I can't tell you that. I don't want them coming after you, too."
"Alright, Florida. Your secret's safe with me. You want me to get you something at the store?"
"No, no, Precious. I am on a diet!"

I love her.

"Be Cool" is not cool. Not fucking cool at all.

2005-06-08T20:34:00.000-07:00

I read PurpleCigar's entry about the silver balls she saw hanging from a truck, and I laughed, because I had never heard of such a thing (I don't get out much).

Then, by some weird ass coincidence, I saw this in traffic on my way home from work.

Wow, that guy's got some blue balls.

Fuck, I am so clever.

Many thanks to the Pimp for pointing that diary out.

I was reading my Entertainment Weekly on my lunch break today, and I read an article about upcoming tv shows for the summer.

Two of them stood out in my mind, and will burn up my tivo.

The first show is the Bobby "where in the hell did my career/life go" Brown reality show. I hate reality shows. But I like watching celebrities imploding more, so I am all over it.

In the article, it says, "Highlights of the reality show include Brown recalling the time he assisted Houston while she was on the toilet - at which time she chimes in, 'That's black love!'"

Huh?

What the fuck?

That's black love, Whitney? Your husband wiping your ass because your-coked out, cracked-out self can't do it? Black people everywhere should be beaming with pride that they have their own brand of romance. And it includes cleaning up shit.

Awesome!

But, that made me think. If that's black love, what is Chinese love?

Or white love?

Or Hispanic love? Does it involve refried beans? Or cheese? Because, seriously, if it does involve cheese, I am going out to find me a latin man right. now.

Who knew Whitney Houston could be so thought provoking?

The second show is some Mark Burnett show about finding a new front man for INXS. This is sad to me for so many reasons. But mostly, because I loved INXS. They kicked ass, and it makes me sad that they can't let the INXS thing go, and start something new. You can't just throw a new guy in and hope no one will notice he's not Michael Hutchence. He was a majority of the appeal for that band. Without him, as talented as the other guys are, it's just not going to be any good, in my opinion.

There was also a cool article on the movie "Manos: The Hands of Fate." Which, if you're any kind of cool dork like me, you know that that is only one of the best (if not the best) Mystery Science Theater 3000 episodes EVER.

Watch it.

Does anyone know where John Travolta lives? Because that motherfucker is in for the beatdown the next time I see him. I watched "Be Cool" this weekend, and I don't know that I've ever seen a movie that was so bad it made me violently angry. I think I got so mad because I expected it to be as good as "Get Shorty", which is a great movie.

WRONG.

What a heaping, stinky pile of shit.

Sleep with one eye open, Johnny. Even your Scientology minions won't be able to save you if we meet in a dark alley.

I really never thought anyone would read this diary when I started it almost a year ago.

Well, theotherchad is the 50th ~~sucker~~ person to list my diary as a favorite. I feel like he deserves some sort of prize, yet I am unsure what exactly.

As if the gift of my words isn't already enough.

Pfft.

Bon anniversaire a toi, mon ami.

It sucks to work for the Y-M-C-A

2005-06-08T20:28:00.000-07:00

I have been really fortunate that such an awesome group of people have found my diary, because they have made me laugh my ass off, and lately, I have needed that more than ever.

So, to everyone who has entertained me via phone, email and instant message, thank you. More than you know.

Speaking of diary buddies, Cookie is a total sicko. But she and her diary kick ass, so go read it.

I used to work in childcare for a certain Christian Association for Young Men. I loved this job. Correction: I loved the kids, I hated the people I worked with. I even considered being a teacher (jesus...could you imagine?) for a while, but never pursued it. I don't ever want to shoot a kid out of my own vagina, but I love other peoples' kids (mostly).

When I started there, I had never worked with kids before. I just really needed a job, and Kay worked there, and they were under-staffed.

The way I type is the way I talk. I didn't know how to talk to a bunch of kids. It didn't occur to me that I should talk to them differently than I did to adults. So I didn't. And, at first, this was a little jarring, mostly for the parents. The kids, like most kids, loved me immediately.

I bonded with the parents of the kids in my group. I talked to them in detail about shit their kids were doing, and how they needed to get off their fucking yuppie asses at home and do something so their kid didn't think it was ok to act like an asshole when he/she was in my care. A few of them were put out, but ultimately, it ended in their kid being a lot less of a dickhead all the time, so it worked out nicely.

One kid in particular, Brian, was a little jackass. Like the kind of kid you just hate. No matter what, he wasn't happy. He hated me. He hated having to go to daycare (which I can't say I blame him). He hated the other people that worked there. He hated the food we served for snack. He hated EVERYTHING. Everyday I would drive home, smoking ten cigarettes at a time, and ready to pull my hair out from the stress of this kid. I couldn't control him. His parents didn't want to try and control him.

One day I sat the parents down, and told them that we needed to work together to get their kid to work on his anger, and find something that he liked, and to do it like crazy, to keep him occupied and happy.

We figured out he liked cards. So we started playing cards everyday. Go fish, crazy 8's, bullshit (the kids especially liked this one - I wonder why), slap jack, speed, it didn't matter. Whatever kept him calm and quiet.

The kids got bored of those games, so I decided the only logical thing to do with a group of bored eight year olds is teach them poker and black jack.

Hey, there's math involved. It's educational.

So, everyday, after school, while the other groups were running around like chickens with their heads cut off, my group sat at the table, with checkers as chips, and gambled. Other parents bitched about it, but none of mine did. You know why? Because their kids weren't being shitheads all the time anymore. I learned so much about kids during this time. Actually, you could learn a lot about dealing with adults working in daycare. Dealing with stupid grown-ups is not any different from dealing with some punkass little kid.

Except you can punch the grown-up.

During the summer, every week we would take a field trip. Dodger games were a popular one. On one trip, I couldn't go, so I thought it would be funny to make a sign for the kids to hold up whenever Mike Piazza was at bat that said "Mike call me" with my phone number on it. All the kids thought this was hilarious, and they were all over it. They only got to hold it up a couple of times, because the jerks in charge didn't think it was "funny or appropriate" for the kids to be doing it.

When we would go to the movies, we would all speak a weird made-up language and act like tourists. It drove the theater people nuts, because they could never understand us, and usually one of the kids would pretend to start crying when someone didn't know what they were saying. Brian always had his shirt pulled up on his head acting like The Great Cornholio (if you don't know what that is, you suck), running around in circles asking the manager for "tp for my bunghole!"

That kid was such a little evil genius.

At this point, you may all be scoffing at my leadership skills, and letting the kids behave in a way they shouldn't. Well, fuck that. We had fun everyday. We laughed all the time, and we all liked each other. My kids got along and stayed out of trouble. They were happy. They did well in school.

The bond that I developed with those kids was strong. I had the same group of kids all through my time there. They were six when I started, and eleven when I left. Leaving that job was incredibly hard.

I miss those punkass kids. I still keep in touch with a few of them, and (go figure) I still talk to Brian and his family on a regular basis.

I bought the new Coldplay record today. It's excellent (but I already knew it would be).

I also downloaded an assload of Skatalites and Nikka Costa.

Nikka Costa kicks ass. Britney and Hilary and Ashley and Lindsey should lick the bottom of her shoes and hope to get a little bit of her talent.

That's all.

Cause I am barely breathing, and I can't find the air.

2005-06-06T20:28:00.000-07:00

My sense of humor has always been my defense and/or coping mechanism. I would much rather act like a jackass and laugh than deal with what's really bothering me, and let people think everything is ok.

Completely unhealthy, I know.

My problem is, and has always been, that I never want to let people know when I am this upset. I would just assume everything stay cheery and normal and then I don't have to tell people how I feel, and no one worries about me losing it or feeling sorry for me. I hate having people feel sorry for me.

Recently, things have spiraled in a shitty direction, and I am barely breathing (to quote the Duncan Sheik song). I have so much shit going on right now that I just don't know what to do with myself sometimes.

I got myself into a situation with somebody that I thought was something that it wasn't, and now I feel foolish. And a little bit hurt. That's all I want to say about it right now.

The owner of my company's son (the junkie criminal one) tried to steal money from the company, and when he got caught, told me that he knew it was me that got him into trouble. I denied it like crazy (but it was me), and he looked me right in the eyes and told me that he'd make sure "whoever did it was going to be sorry."

My friend is days away from dying. I only get to see him a few minutes a day. I hate this. In the last two weeks, every single memory of this man has played in my mind over and over, reminding me that soon he will only exist in my memories. It's fucking hard to deal with, and I hate it.

My frustration with this was punctuated by an ignorant comment someone made.

"No one dies of AIDS anymore. At least not in this country. That's just a myth."

I really had to restrain myself from hurting someone for saying that. What's worse, is that it was one of my fucking friends that said it. I hate all of the ignorance that still surrounds this disease. I hate that people refuse to educate themselves, and realize that people ARE dying, and that a lot of times, they're made to feel like some sort of freak for having this disease. It's wrong and it disgusts me.

Kay and I have been bickering like crazy. This happens every once in a while, usually when we spend too time together. We get tired of each other, and start nit-picking everything. Sunday, at dinner, it came to a head when she asked me to proof a marketing letter for her, and I told her it contained a lot of errors. She took it personally, and blew up about how I am so anal about grammar and spelling (uh, isn't that why you asked me to do it?). Whatever. It was stupid.

I am pretty sure my sister's asshat boyfriend has driven her to an eating disorder. I will kill him if she harms herself and stops eating. I hate him. I wish she would get some fucking self-esteem and realize how gorgeous she is, and that she can do SO much better than him. But she's 20. I can't tell her anything, unfortunately.

I hate feeling like this.

Luckily, I am better today than I was yesterday, and hopefully, tomorrow I will be better than I am today.

I watched Entourage tonight, and it seems that Jeremy Piven is the only man on Earth who is growing MORE hair the older he gets. He has more hair now than he had in Old School, where he had more hair than he had in PCU.

Ok, so my sweet little kitty might not be pregnant after all, because she is in heat like nobody's business. I haven't had a full night's sleep in the last five days because that bitch is whining all night long, which wouldn't be so bad, if there weren't like, ten neighborhood cats outside my bedroom window howling for her all night.

The fun just never stops.

On a lighter note (and thank god for funny people in times like these), I just want to say Bill totally wants me.

Read my comments. It's love for our little Billy Boy.

And, really... how could he not love me?

I'm pretty damned charming.

Whore no, hoar, yes.

2005-06-06T20:27:00.000-07:00

I recently got googled for “2005 Diaryland whore,” which made me laugh for a few reasons.

In spite of my filthy mouth, dirty mind, and love of porn, I am really not that slutty (no, really). Granted, I have put out on the first date a few times, but that does not a whore make.

I (and a lot of people who read this) have laughed and hijacked the term “hoar,” a title foisted upon me by My Fan/illiterate moron. I have embraced the term, and think it’s funny.

Now, I am not admitting to being a whore (keep up with the difference between the two, people). A real whore is someone who proudly admits to sleeping with HUNDREDS (we’re talking like 250+) of people. I know someone like this.

I mean, at that number, I have to imagine that there might be men lost up in there that haven’t been seen for years. That’s a lot of fucking people.

LITERALLY.

Speaking of whores, the conversation I had with my Mom on Saturday both disgusted and entertained. And, to respond to Rachel’s suggestion that we enact a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy about our sex lives - believe me, my sister and I discuss nothing with our parents. My parents love how uncomfortable it makes us when they talk about their sex life. And, god, does it ever make me unfuckingcomfortable.

How would you feel if your mother talked about swallowing?

At least I know I come by my vulgarity honestly.

My diary may have its first guest writer ever, because my friend Jen, aka Mrs. Mitchell, reminded me the other day when I was ranting about Tom and Scientology that I completely forgot to recount her own run-in with the wacky cultists. And since it’s her story, and she’s a way better writer than I am (evidence of that in this very sentence), I will force her to write it.

I did remember the story when I wrote that entry, but it was late, and I couldn’t remember all the details. But it’s funny.

Ps – you really should check out her journal. She is beyond talented. And smart. And funny.

Now go read it.

This guy that answered my personal ad a while ago (we emailed once or twice, but that was it) IM’d me Friday, and after we chatted, he asked if I wanted to meet me for coffee.

His name’s Jude, he’s 38, and not my type at all. Which, given my track record, could be a good thing.

How could I say no to a guy that tells me how cute and funny and smart I am all the time?

We’ll see.

God, I hate dating.

I also hate anonymous comment posters.

I got a comment today (mysteriously buried in an entry from May 4) from “Bitch” that just said something like “Don’t blast other peoples’ diaries… have some respect!” Or some shit like that.

First – I don’t recall ever having blasted ANYONE’S diary.

Second – If you’re going to talk shit to me, have the balls to put your URL and/or your email address. Don’t be a pussy your whole life.

Third – Quit reading my diary. RIGHT NOW. Only smart and funny people are allowed to read this, and you, my dear, are neither of those.

Now, please take your stupid comment and shove it straight up your fucking ass. Is that respectful enough for you?

God, I hate losers.

Except Bill. Even though he clearly lost the 80’s game, he’s still alright in my book.

I win, dear. Just like Gloria and the Miami Sound Machine said, the rhythm is going to get you!!

Hehe.

It's all fun and games til your Mom starts talking about semen.

2005-06-04T20:26:00.000-07:00

Hey, guess who the two biggest dorks on the planet are.

Give up?

It's me and Bill.

What started out as a challenge to stick the cheesiest 80's song in our heads in my comments Friday turned into a conversation putting the titles in as dialogue.

AndriaL24 [9:19 PM]: Should I stay, or should I go?
JustUhBill [9:19 PM]: I don't know, because I am Too Shy
JustUhBill [9:19 PM]: You've been Kajagoogoo'ed!!!
AndriaL24 [9:19 PM]: Don't be. I'm mad about you.
AndriaL24 [9:20 PM]: (I just) died in your arms
JustUhBill [9:20 PM]: Oh baby, just you shut your mouth (china girl, David Bowie)
AndriaL24 [9:20 PM]: I knew what it was. You're a hard habit to break.
JustUhBill [9:20 PM]: I want to dance with somebody.
JustUhBill [9:21 PM]: You've been Whitney'ed!
AndriaL24 [9:21 PM]: Rock me amadeus!
JustUhBill [9:21 PM]: You would think I would get tired of doing that.
AndriaL24 [9:21 PM]: I've been waiting for a girl like you!
JustUhBill [9:21 PM]: Red Red Wine makes me feel so fine...
AndriaL24 [9:21 PM]: Keep your hands to yourself.
JustUhBill [9:21 PM]: She's a beauty - a one in a million girl!
AndriaL24 [9:22 PM]: Give her some sexual healing.
JustUhBill [9:22 PM]: TRUE!
AndriaL24 [9:22 PM]: But... Don't, don't you want me?
AndriaL24 [9:22 PM]: It's such a nice day for a white wedding.
JustUhBill [9:23 PM]: Keep feelin' fascination...
AndriaL24 [9:23 PM]: I want to know what love is.
AndriaL24 [9:23 PM]: Because our love's in jeopardy
AndriaL24 [9:24 PM]: And, after all, girls just want to have fun.
AndriaL24 [9:24 PM]: BAM!
JustUhBill [9:24 PM]: Then ask Donny Osmond - he's a "Soldier of Love "
AndriaL24 [9:24 PM]: Time after time. So you say say say.
JustUhBill [9:25 PM]: Damn, we've got the beat!
JustUhBill [9:25 PM]: you'd think it was a manic monday!
AndriaL24 [9:25 PM]: Don't worry, be happy!
AndriaL24 [9:25 PM]: And, Don't stand so close to me. Please.
JustUhBill [9:25 PM]: When I hear that song, I want to do "The Curly Shuffle"
AndriaL24 [9:26 PM]: Really? I want to drive my little red corvette
AndriaL24 [9:27 PM]: A million miles away.
JustUhBill [9:27 PM]: Damn it - I can't think of the words to Arthur's Song from the movie Arthur - "Once in your life you find her - someone who turns your heart around" or something like that.
AndriaL24 [9:27 PM]: hahahaha.. LOSER.
JustUhBill [9:27 PM]: wrong...
JustUhBill [9:27 PM]: not knowing the words to that song makes me a winner. hehehee
AndriaL24 [9:27 PM]: Another one bites the dust!
JustUhBill [9:27 PM]: To all the girl's we've loved before.
JustUhBill [9:27 PM]: I think that is 70s
JustUhBill [9:28 PM]: girls too
AndriaL24 [9:28 PM]: Oh, bill, just cum on feel the noize
AndriaL24 [9:28 PM]: and take the long way home
JustUhBill [9:28 PM]: I will - because my future's so bright I've gotta wear shades!
AndriaL24 [9:28 PM]: Hahaha

That went on for an hour.

Yeah, we're cool like that.

And Bill, I won.

BOOYAH!

We rule.

I saw something on television this week that disturbed me. It’s called “Sports Kids Moms and Dads” on Bravo.

It should be called “Here’s 60 minutes worth of evidence why my children should be taken away from me,” because it’s child abuse. These parents force their children to do hours and hours of grueling workouts and training every week.

Example: One psycho mom has her daughter, who’s 7 or 8, in dance and cheerleading. She does 12 hours of working out, in addition to 7 hours of practice. That’s 19 hours A WEEK that this child is working out.

The parents try to defend their actions saying that it’s the kids that really want to do it. What 8 year-old kid do you know wants to spend every minute of their free time running up and down stadium stairs while their dad stands their barking at him to go faster, or have their mother wake them up at five so they can get to the ice skating rink so she can tell you how disappointed she is that you just couldn’t land that double axle?

The most troubling part of all of it is that education is the last priority. One of the kids’ teachers said that the mother regularly pulls her out of class, and she misses whole days because she is off at some competition. The figure skating kid only does half days three days out of the week. He only goes to school full time TWO DAYS A FUCKING WEEK.

Doesn’t sound like any childhood I would enjoy. These parents are so in denial, claiming that it’s the kids who really want it, but they’re too fucking stupid to realize that children want to please their parents, and that the kids have picked up on the fact that success=love in their eyes.

It’s disgusting.

The most uncomfortable conversation my sister and I have ever had with our mother, at lunch today. This also came after she had a cosmo before lunch.

Nice.

Mom: What are you guys going to get?
Andria: I am not sure.
Jackie: Shrimp and linguini.
Andria: Nasty fish eaters.
Mom: Fish is good for you. It wouldn’t kill you to eat piece of fish once in while.
Andria: Mom, I am 31. When do you ever recall me liking fish? Why would I start now?
Mom: You should try sushi. You’d love it.
Andria: Uh. NOT.
Mom: We’ll go to Rock and Roll Sushi (trendy sushi place by my house) and you’ll love it. We had this sushi in PV, and this sauce we had tasted just like semen.
Andria & Jackie: Um… what?
Mom: Oh, you know. It was warm, and had this bitter, salty taste. Like cum. Don’t tell me you guys have never swallowed before. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!

*shudder*gag*puke*die*

I think that conversation may have traumatized me more than hearing my parents have sex.

Seriously.

Kill me. Now.

Everybody's working for the weekend.

2005-06-02T20:25:00.000-07:00

Remember when Lola was a name for old ladies that were born in the 1920's? When the sweet fuck did it become so fashionable to give your kids names that even geriatric people cringe at?

Every goddamned celebrity is naming their kid Lola now.

Thanks a lot, Madonna. You had to start it, you bitch.

Kelly Ripa. Lola.

Chris Rock. Lola.

Denise Richards. Lola.

Carnie Wilson. Lola.

Stop the fucking madness, you whores.

And I am not even going to get started on Julia "I'm the biggest phony on the planet" Roberts naming her poor child Hazel. She should be killed.

My Grandmother was named Gladys, and her two sisters were named Blanche and Lola. You know why? Because they were born a thousand fucking years ago, that's why.

I never thought I'd see the day I'd rather see some idiot name their kid Apple instead of anything else.

And if you're reading this and you have a kid named Lola, well, get over it.

Did you see "Hit Me Baby One More Time"? The premise is bands and/or singers that had hits years ago come back and sing their big hit, and then they sing a current song.

Thank you, Jesus.

Normally, I hate the reality tv, but I can't take my eyes off of this magnificent pile of crap. I mean - it's Loverboy. A million years after it hit, singing "Everybody's Working For The Weekend," and Flock of Seagulls singing "I Ran."

For the eleventy billionth time.

Oh, the tragic comedy of it all.

Fucking BRILLIANT.

I was reading Clarity's entry today, and she listed movies that made an impact on her. And, because originality is for suckers, I am going to entertain you fine people with the movies and records that helped turn me into the lunatic that I am today.

Movies

Grease - The first movie I remember seeing in the theaters. My aunts took my cousins and I to see it, and it has been one of my favorites ever since. I have bought it on VHS about five times over the years, because I have worn out the tapes from constant viewing. I love love love this movie.

John Hughes movies - Sixteen Candles, The Breakfast Club, Pretty in Pink, St. Elmo's Fire, and Some Kind of Wonderful - These are my favorite movies from my early teen years, and I still watch them religiously. I pity teenagers today that don't have movies like these to wax nostalgic with. These films so perfectly encapsulated what it was like to be young and stupid and in love.

Caddyshack - This movie, while it is a classic, has sentimental value to me. When my Mom and Dad first got married in 1981 (when I say my Dad, I am always referring to my stepdad), they bought a VCR, and the only movie we had was Caddyshack. So we watched it over and over and over and over. I must have seen that movie 100 times by the time I was ten.

Gone With The Wind - a classic, and another sentimental favorite. Every year, my Mom, my sister, Jackie and I hang out on the couch and watch it.

The Godfather I & II - These movies pretty much speak for themselves. They were the second and third movies my parents bought on VHS, and they started my obsession with organized crime and mob families. I adore these movies. Everything about them is perfection in my eyes.

Cat On A Hot Tin Roof - Paul Newman at his absolute HOTTEST. This movie is fantastic. I never paid much attention to old movies, but I stumbled on this when I was about 15, and have loved it ever since. The dialogue and the acting are fantastic. Mmmm... Paul Newman. Mandacity!

Top Gun - The first movie Kay and I saw together, and about the last movie I liked Tom Cruise in. Total girl porn. I have seen it a bazillion times, and will watch it a bazillion times more. Perfect 80's cheese.

Music

Off The Wall, Michael Jackson - The first record I ever bought with my own money, and probably one of the five or ten records that I can NOT live without.

Ride The Lightening, Metallica - The first time I ever heard metal, and it made my head want to explode. In the best possible way. Too bad they turned into such pussies.

Catching Up With Depeche Mode - The first DM song I ever heard was "See You," and I fell in love with them immediately, and it turned me onto the new wave/synth pop music that would become my musical love.

Like A Virgin, Madonna - Another sentimental favorite, and another record I can't live without. My friendship with John started on our common love of Madonna, and this record, along with Like A Prayer, are our favorites, and I listen to them both repeatedly. Even though she is kind of lame now, I love Madonna.

Exodus, Bob Marley - Gorgeous, gorgeous music. Bob Marley is in a class all by himself, and this is another record I can't live without. It also has one of my all-time favorite songs "Turn Your Lights Down Low." Listen to it. It will change your entire mood.

Kind Of Blue, Miles Davis - I never paid attention to jazz until I watched a documentary on Miles. This record is... beyond brilliant to me.

Supa Dupa Fly, Missy Elliott - The first time I heard the song "The Rain," I didn't know what to make of it. It sounded like no other rap song I had ever heard. I couldn't get enough of this record, and her records to follow, for that matter.

The Clash, The Clash - The first punk music I heard and loved, and still love. I had never even heard of The Clash, but the boy that lived next door to me when I was about ten used to listen to it in his garage all the time while he was working on his car. He was hot, and I used to ride my bike by his house all the time, and find any excuse I could to talk to him. That record always reminds me of that time, and the first boy I remember having a crush on.

Hmmm. I just realized I could do this music list all night, so I better cut it off here. But there are about at least a hundred other records that blew my mind and left a lasting impression on me.

Someone once asked me if I had to get rid of all my cd's and could only keep three, which ones would I choose? I stared at my cd's for about an hour before I decided there's no way in hell I could decide. I think I would have to get rid of all of them before I pick only three.

So, here's a question a la NoGoodDaddy's book project: What three records could YOU not live without?

Even I like Paris in the Springtime.

2005-06-01T20:24:00.000-07:00

Things that make me happy:

1. Diet Coke & Iced Vanilla Lattes
2. RAM
3. My diary (usually)
4. Burritos
5. Lip Gloss
6. Music
7. Realizing I was completely wrong about something.*

*When I saw them on SNL, I immediately dismissed Scissor Sisters as cheesy 70's-style crap. But then, while I was perusing Dixie's CD list, I thought, "Hey, she kicks ass. They must be alright."

I went to iTunes and listened to some of the songs, and I downloaded it immediately, and listened to it at least ten times at work today. I love love love it.

Ok, so I know everyone's panties are in a bunch over Paris Hilton's Carl's Jr. commercial.

I don't like Paris Hilton. I don't even think she's particularly attractive.

And I think that commercial is HOT.

There's less sexuality going on in that commercial than almost any video on TRL, which is only watched by the youngsters whose morals everyone thinks are being corrupted by this commercial.

One woman actually called in a talk radio show I listen to, and said that she was pissed it aired while she was watching The OC with her 11 year-old daughter.

She's letting her 11 year-old watch The fucking OC and she's upset about this commercial?

Jesus.

I think it's hilarious Paris is marrying a guy named Paris. Now when she yells out her own name in bed, he'll never know.

I was talking to my friend Jeremy today about Scientology, and how laughable and ridiculous it all is.

I never really read too much about it, until I met a guy named Mark, who wrote an article about it. After I read it, I really thought that anyone who bought into this scam was a huge sucker.

Read it. You'll laugh at them, too.

Tom Cruise was on AccessEntertainmentHollywoodInsider, one of those dumb entertainment shows, talking about how he saved the life of an adolescent girl who was strung out on ritalin. Not only did he and the Scientologists get her off that evil drug, but she even miraculously grew six inches afterward!!

That retard actually attributed her growth to stopping the ritalin. Not the fact that she was a 14 year old girl, and that that is the time when KIDS GROW.

Then he actually criticized Brooke Shields and blamed her post-partum depression on the drugs she was taking, and from what I gathered, he said she did this all to help her career.

Nice, Tom. Why don't you go back to dipping Katie into guacamole and eating her face and shut the fuck up, ok?

Thanks.

An open letter to Jesus.

2005-05-31T20:23:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-05-31T20:21:00.000-07:00

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.

My Mom's drunker at your mom - part II

2005-05-30T20:20:00.000-07:00

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.

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

2005-05-26T20:19:00.000-07:00

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!!!

Go away.

2005-05-25T20:18:00.000-07:00

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.

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

2005-05-24T20:17:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-05-24T20:16:00.000-07:00

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.

Proper work conversation.

2005-05-21T20:14:00.000-07:00

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?

Adventures from the midget rodeo.

2005-05-20T20:13:00.000-07:00

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.

Butch isn't butch, but femme.

2005-05-19T20:12:00.000-07:00

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*

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

2005-05-17T20:11:00.000-07:00

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.

Dave Chappelle can kiss my (white) black ass.

2005-05-16T20:09:00.000-07:00

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.

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

2005-05-15T20:08:00.000-07:00

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

2005-05-15T20:07:00.000-07:00

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.

Celestia Part One, and hanging out with The King.

2005-05-14T20:06:00.000-07:00

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.

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

2005-05-12T20:04:00.000-07:00

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.