February 8, 2008

Throwing A Bone

I've been flying low low low under the radar. Mostly I have been busy drinking too much, losing track of my panties, and falling down on dicks that any self-respecting girl of a certain age and station in life should steer clear of when drunk and falling down on things. Stumbling home reeking of liquor, cigarettes, and sin. It is shameful, I tell you. I am a disgrace. Fun, though.

It would seem that this weekend, I'll be doing a little celebrating in advance of the 38th anniversary of the day I first drew breath. I'm starting tonight by going to the opening reception for the book, "Love Song: Erotic Photographs" by Arnold Skolnick. He's a pretty superfantastic artist with a remarkable resume and is the dude who designed the dove and guitar poster for the Woodstock wing-ding back in the 60's. My big sister occasionally models for him (she's beautiful and a good model because she's a yoga teacher. Thus, by definition, a poser). More importantly, Arnold is a real swell guy. You should look him up and see some of his art. Lovely stuff, friends. Lovely stuff.

This may be a hit and run post. I may find time in my busy schedule of defiling and debauching myself to post more often. Either way, know that I am thinking about all you sweeties all the time. XXX

January 12, 2008

Hell in a Handbasket

Hokay . . . So!

Even though my blogging credibility will lose ground in the eyes of Old Knudsen, I’m daring to post a video that has made me laugh my fool ass off for years now. You may have seen it, but if not, you are in for a treat.

They tell me that the political climate is heating up and that someday soon, there will be an election for the new Chief Whore of the Free World. People are in a lather about who is the best whore in each party and whatnot. Republicans are in a tizzy about a Democrat getting into office and taking all their money away and enabling poor people and foreigners to live with some dignity. Democrats fear that Republicans will maintain the ever coveted Chief Whore of the Free World Office and they will turn all free thinkers into Bible-thumping, war-mongering, automatons that are hopped up on booze and prescription drugs, and that everyone who needs a helping hand will become more so downtrodden than they already are. Either way, chaos will ensue. The sun will cease to rise. And worst of all, we'll have a recession. There, I said it.

Politics. I pay attention, but I don't really give a damn how things pan out. I realize that position is not very politically correct of me. However, whatever the whore parade does, I still know how to make rice and beans. I can darn my socks and mend a hole in a pair of jeans and unravel a sweater from the thrift store to knit myself a new one. I have a car, but I also have a bicycle and I know how to use it and repair it. As was pointed out to me recently, I am resilient and resourceful. And frankly, I am a little bit Buddhist about politics.

Last night I was speaking with a friend who has never been "rich" but has always been comfortable. Her family didn't have to scrimp to get by. She doesn't remember going to the market with a single mother and $5 to feed two kids for a month. If that was her situation, she would be a turtle on her back.

I told her that if the bottom fell out of the economy, I would sit back and laugh my ass off as people fell apart in panic and desperation as they lost their cars, houses and . . . horror of it all . . . their god damned, flat-screen, high-definition televisions. Is it such a surprise that Americans are fat? She wondered what I would do if I lost my job in such a hypothetical. I reminded her that before I had my current job, I always had some job or another. They weren't always professional. They didn't always hold the esteem that my profession does. And they certainly didn't bring me the scratch that I earn now. Even so, there is always a way to turn a dime if you are willing to do what it takes.

She could not imagine that anyone who has worked hard to get ahead could go back to the holding hands of modest means once they've discovered the vibrating joys of gluttonous affluence. Perhaps she has never really held hands. She bought her house just a couple of months before the real estate market took a header. I urged her to hold off for a spell while the sub-prime adjustable rate mortgages adjusted and people started to panic. Her property has lost about $15,000 in the past six months. Fear and desperation always smells of opportunity to people like me who are patient and good at being poverty stricken.

January 7, 2008

I’ve Been Remiss

And I’m still sorry.

December turned out to be a busy-ass month. If it’s any consolation, I thought of nothing but you, my faithful blog pals. OK, I lied a little with that last bit, but I often thought of all y’all and occasionally, I had moments of inspiration that went like this, “oh . . . hilarious . . . I should post about that.” And then I’d proceed to completely forget about it.

Anyhow, over the month of December, I completed a F. U. C. K. I. N. G. H. U. M. U. N. G. O. U. S. closure report and became sick as a dog.

Actually, I don’t often get sick so when I do, I don’t fuck around. This was one of the worst of the mothers of all head colds anyone could imagine. I was solidly in bed for about a week. When I finally mustered the gumption to haul my arse out of bed and go to work, last Thursday, I took a look at my environment and found this sad situation:

On the floor around my bed, there was a sea of soiled snot rags. Actually, a box and a half worth of them. In case you were wondering, they take up a lot more space out of the box than in it. On one side of my bed there was (here’s where the wheels came off the bus with the red wine pickled writing) ampty bottle of Niquil on the floor, On the bedside table there was a discussion about who has or who has no sense aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa (whoops, I may have fallen asleep a little mid-blather) an empty bottle of Nyquil on the floor and on the bedside table there was a half full bottle of Nyquil. I spent an hour finding all the tissues strew about the house and did the dishes from can after can of pre-fab (read: not-so-fab) chicken soup. My strength is coming back now and I’m beginning to regain my feistiness. Couldn’t be more pleased at that prospect.

In other news, I found a condominium that I may actually make an offer for. Maybe not. I’m scared witless about it. Most people I know have a significant other jumping with them which spreads out the risk. And most of the people I know who go it alone, at least have parents who can offer an assist if things become overwhelming. In this case, it's just me. That makes me extremely cautious and hesitant with large purchases. I want my mommy (seems to be my fall back position when I’m sick or scared).

That's all for now. I have more up my sleeves, so stay tuned!

January 6, 2008

Happy 2008

Confession: I'm a bad blogger.

Someone should spank me . . . no, really, please . . . I'm in to that kind of thing. It's OK, though because my therapist doesn't think I'm much the worse for it so it's game on with a paddle.

I've been neglecting my blog and my blog pals for a month and I am truly sorry. Things have been busy: work, family, illness, not necessarily in that order. The other night I got fitfully crocked and hammered out some writing that I wanted to post, but I haven't had the guts to open it up and take a look at what sort of crazy talk I was spewing into the computer in the middle of the night, while soaked in red wine. I'll take a look and fix some typos and try to get it up soon so the blog goon squad carrying torches and pitch forks doesn't hunt me down to hurt me bad in a not so fun way.

Happy New Year, y'all!

December 11, 2007

Ali Blah Blah is Right on the Money!

After I got home from work last night and got all my comments on yesterday's blog, I went on a hunt for my high school diary. Ali Blah Blah suggested that I had actually written about the first time I rutted with my first love boyfriend of The Volvo Wagon fame as I suggested in yesterday's post. She imagined that my diary entry went something like this:

'dear diary, today we rutted for the first time, I was so excited, he wore blue.....'.

I must tell y'all, I found it and this is what it said:

Dear Diary,

I had so wanted to wait until the time was right and it would be special to pop Boyfriend's cherry. As that sort of thing goes, I really wish that it was more special and memorable when I had my first day in the saddle, but it wasn't special, more a task to get out of the way. Anyway, he had band practice tonight and his buddy, you know, 'Stoner Trust Fund Stinking Rich Kid - Part III' (ok, there were several of this animal in my youth) was having a party at his dad's place in Montecito. I wish it was at his beach house, because that would have made it more special, but it was just the house in the Village. Damn. So we were playing quarters with really bad beer. Milwaukee's Best. Again. And boyfriend asked me to go downstairs with him to use the bathroom. Honestly, I thought, he is so not a girl like that. What the hell has gotten into him. So I go downstairs, and we start fooling around in a dark room with laundry strewn across the bed. What does Boyfriend do, I ask you? What does he do? He starts taking off all our clothes. I resist at first because I could see where this was going and I have to tell you, the laundry strewn basement bedroom of Stoner Trust Fund Stinking Rich Kid - Part III is so not "special". But we were already past the point of no return so I went with it. I was so excited. I thought I was done with "inexperienced" boys, but that's what I get for falling for a younger . . . ahem . . . man. Thank God he was fully grown in the important parts. Yeah, it matters when you are young and don't have any compensatory moves. Amazing that boys don't always come out of their first sexual experiences totally damaged! So off he went pumping like a bunny until he started panting out "Here I go, here I go, here I go." I took that as a sign that he was about to fill me with sweet adolescent man boy juice. It was. And he did. And I had all I could do to keep from laughing out loud. I said to him, 'Here I go? Here I go? Here I go? Seriously.' He was sheepish and said that he didn't know what he was supposed to say or do but wanted to give me fair warning. Aww. Sweet. Being the kind nurturing type, I went upstairs and told everyone what had just happened and what he said. We laughed and laughed and laughed. Because I'm cruel, I think I'll be the girlfriend to him that gives a lot of blow jobs to make up for it. I wonder if he will appreciate that . . . So, Dear Diary, that is how I spent my St. Patrick's Day of 1988.

That was my first love, and the last time I kept track of my boyfriends. The sex got better and he started calling me Bunny. It's pretty funny to think about if you ever met me, because I am sooooo not a Bunny type of girl.

Thanks for the sweet blog anniversary wishes, y'all!

December 10, 2007

Let Her Eat Cake

Anniversaries do not matter that much to me. As I grow older, their value diminishes and consistently becomes more and more insignificant. Across the history of my life, I haven't kept track of the dates of significant events and life milestones.

I have celebrated one anniversary with a boyfriend, and that was because I was 19 years old and it was just a 'thing that you do' when you have a boyfriend. Once was enough. Since then I could not tell you exactly how long I've dated any of my ex boyfriends. I certainly couldn't tell you when we met or had our first date, kiss, or rut.

I've not bred. That is probably why I don't look at children as 7 month old, 23 month old or any month old. To me, they are pretty much, newborn until they are a year old. Then they turn two after another year has screamed by. I think that is about as much tracking as is necessary. Anything beyond that is tedious and obsessive, but appears to be the standard in parenting.

So last year, during NaBloPoMo I was inspired to start a blog. I was totally unprepared for anyone to ever look at it much less come back and leave comments. Imagine my surprise when a few of you good people added a link to my blog on your blogs. High compliment, yet I always figured that it was just a matter of time before you realized that I was a fraud and you deleted my link. Any time now, I'm sure I'll lose you all.

The point is, as I was burning through writing a post every day during the month of November, I thought, NaBloPoMo is almost over, pretty soon I will have been writing this blog for a year. So I carried on writing away and finally November came to an end and this lady had a moment to step back and breathe a little. I also took the time to look through my archives and see exactly when I began writing this here blog. Guess what: Consistent with the value I put on anniversaries, my one year mark came and went. I had cake in celebration last night.

Actually I was hung over from my company Christmas party, so I dove into comfort food to try and regain balance and clarity in my system. Sugar is good for that, right? It didn't fix anything really, but having cake for no good reason seemed appropriate.

December 5, 2007

Social Hell

I am not good at the professional mixers/networking cocktail parties. At all. My profession and station in life, however, requires that I attend these types of events regardless of the social anxiety they inflict upon me.


Tonight I had to attend one of these events put on by the Environmental Business Council in downtown Boston. I was excited about going to a party in Town, but I also knew that it would involve a lot of smiling and nodding, talking to strangers as though I was actually interested in what they were blathering on about and swapping business cards. Gah!

When I arrived, my social anxiety kicked into full swing. I immediately sought out the bathroom so that I could escape the din of eager networkers rambling on about the services their companies provide and what new and exciting technologies they are applying in innovative ways too do fuck all to environmental problems. The secondary din was provided compliments of the lawyers. Theirs was a buzz of their own special jargon, discussing rifts and acquisitions and who is litigating who. Blek! By the way, several people at different times through the course of the evening encouraged me to go to law school because I was such a natural.

Oh please!

After escaping the throng of people that could not be traversed without touching someone (that is, shoving them to get past), I found a quiet balcony where I sent the following text message to some of my best mental health anchors. You know in case I went around the bend was hauled away by the white coat army, they can say the warning signs were there.

Social anxiety GAH!
I'm at a business holiday mixer with all the Bostonian environmental movers and shakers and I just want to puke and leave.

Here are the responses I received:

From my favorite hot shot Los Angeles publicist - Down a martini and show off some cleavage
Sound advice for many an uncomfortable situation.

From Sassy Sundry - I think I'm going to need to read about that!
Darlin', your wish is my command.

From Miss M of the 2007 Great Texas Adventure fame - Look for single dudes, or some other gal with a drink who is also bored. God, I hope there are drinks!
There were, but I held out and went for some straight scotch toward the end of the party. I didn't want to get myself juiced enough to get into trouble with the boss man.

I weathered it. It was ok. I sucked up to a client that I'd done a project for when I first moved to the east coast. I met a boy with a very firm grip and has hands that are comparable in size and girth to Andre the Giant's. I have a bonifide crush on him and think that I shall engage in filthy fantasies about him shortly.

G'night, y'all.

November 30, 2007



Although many of my posts left something to be desired, and I had the near miss back on November 2nd when Blogger was working against me and I had to post on Ning instead of this here page, I managed to pull through.

Drinking now.

November 29, 2007

Good Day

Some days, things just come together nicely.

Upon arriving at the office, my boss came in to see me. After the disaster which was my annual review (and nervous breakdown), I wasn't expecting anything fantastic from him. However, he informed me that he was able to give me a raise and it will be retroactive to my anniversary date (in July, at which time this year was when I started hemorrhaging cash . . . bad).

Then I was invited to three parties. All quite suddenly my anti-social ass has a social agenda. One of these parties is a Truly Horrible Holiday Sweater party. Since I am all about style and class, I don't own such a sweater.

On my way home from work, I went by my local thrift store to find such a beast and I found a horrible holiday sweater, but not a TRULY horrible holiday sweater. I won't be winning any awards for that. The good news is that I found four really gorgeous wool sweaters and two brand new cast iron pots (a small dutch oven and a large wok shaped pan) without a shadow of rust. Yippee!! I love new cookware!

I have not yet decided whether I will unravel to recycle the yarn or keep the sweaters as they are. Oh and each for $5.50 a throw. I feel rich. (even though I failed at getting an appropriately hideous sweater for the party)

On top of all that good fortune, two fellows in my office were having their birthdays. There was cake! Uh-huh! Cake! I even got accused of talking dirty while eating cake (which I was). So I asked, "Doesn't everyone talk dirty when eating cake? Isn't it the most natural thing you can do?" Yes, they also accused me of being a wacky Californian (which I am).

November 28, 2007

The Shrink

Confession: I have daddy issues.

Most of my adult life has been spent self-righteously gloating at my friends who are saddled with daddy issues. Apparently, that was a premature gloating because since I started masochistic hell therapy last week, it has become abundantly clear that daddy planted some seeds in my psyche that . . . Just. Won't. Freaking. Die . . . Yet.

So therapy is fun. All the creative stories I've told myself over the years, just don't hold up in the court of a perfect stranger sitting across from me, taking notes and throwing out the occasional, "Uh-huh, and how did that make you feel?" as he nods empathetically. OK, he doesn't really say that, but he does take notes. Is it wrong that I get paranoid about some potentially undiscovered neurosis or another every time he starts fervently scribbling notes as I pour some little tidbit of my soul out to him? Apparently my predilection for S&M is consistent with my intimacy, trust and commitment issues. Heh! Didn't see that one coming!

This will be an interesting adventure. Perhaps I'll come out the other side of this a nicer person. If so, what a shame to waste all this rich surliness.