h.a.g.s.?

listen, i know, i know what you're going to say before you even think it, let alone say it. its been far too long. i get it, you're totally addicted to this blog (by blog, i mean me) . . . so when i go for long extended stretches of time without updating, i can only imagine the questions that run through your mind. you probably lay awake at night thinking "omg! is homegirl engaged?" or "heavens to betsy! did she finally find a job that is both challenging and intellectually stimulating?" or even worse "did she finally overdose on tylenol pm and jager and will never post again?" (i hope that last one was a joke, but seeing as how i certainly cannot tell the future, we won't discuss it any further) LISTEN, its okay. its all good my little rays of heaven's awesome light shining down upon my life. i have really been busy . . . splitting my time between finding jesus, maintaining my 'sobriety' (not even asking for a lohan comment here), jetsetting across the nation and cutting coupons (no joke, we are in a recession, after all) all while listening to lady gaga. she's totes the new lil' kim (without pants). as we usher in a new season, however, i am going to try to continually update my blog. that's right, i said it. i even admitted i blog in public. sober. while some of you may think i am really scraping the barrel here, those of you that truly know me will realize the only way for chelsea handler and i to have a symbiotic relationship (she will feature me as a regular on her show and i will teach her the trick to get a little more volume in her blowout) is for me to continually talk about my blog, which is akin to talking about myself, so really, nothing is new. please act surprised. ahhh thank you. using the above paragraph as a brief update, i am sure i will not have the hours and hours necessary for a full LU (put it in the dictionary) but i'll do what i can (if i had a dollar).

first of all, let me get out that i have been having dreams that i am mormon. and that my legs detach . . . i've tried to analyze this, but surprisingly the 'american girl's guide to dreams' has nothing on either topic in its 50 wonderfully illustrated pages. i went to barnes and noble and ended up in the new age section . . . OR SO I THOUGHT, but turned to my left and saw what appeared to be the yin and yang of asian lady couples (too many images put into one phrase?). anyway, they were looking in the new age section too, and upon having flashes of what their dreams probably look like, i decided i'd just deal with the mormon/fake legs business on my own and got the hell out of there, as i would expect anyone to do.

ergo, thank you. i had to get that off my chest. i highly doubt my roommates would know what to do with that kind of confession, so, i leave it with you. you're welcome. now, i figure i should start from the beginning.. so, january 30th-- if my memory serves me correctly (i actually have no memory left, so lets just pick up at february 2nd, groundhog's day, which, coincidentally, happens to be my 5th favorite holiday). as i embark on this entry, i am not quite sure i am in a good enough spot to realize the hilarity of all situations which occur in the day to day that is my life, but, for the sake of all of us, and a prime time spot on a network better than the Entertainment! Channel, let's have a go.

im going to start out by saying that it is truly miraculous to be alive in this day and age. technology is making advances in ways i could have never imagined, well, i guess that's it-- i can't really go on about the economy or the state of conflict in the world. whatevs, i'm not currently fighting with any short, unattractive dictators, so things actually, are looking up in comparison to my presidential counterpart (can i use that word? oh well, i just did). one of the many reasons that i love that 2009 is what it is is because there really is no excuse for someone not to be absolutely perfect . . . and if they aren't, fucking fix it. yes, really. like, get a self-help book (you don't think steve harvey's "act like a lady think like a man" just fell on my doorstep do you?), get a doctor (when obama took office, didn't like everyone automatically get free health/vision/dental care? right, they did, i saw him sign all those bills, gmab) OR turn on oprah. that shit isn't even on cable. there is no excuse. that all being said, i consider myself to be pretty close to perfect. sure, i have like a half of one thing i don't abso love about myself, but, i mean, come on, you'd never know it. for all intents and purposes, i'm way happy with me, and being a thinking human, i am continually evolving. the same goes for those i love and surround myself with . . . however, unfortunately, idiots, i have no time for. seriously, 99% of my friends are adorable, funny, cute and witty. and those of you that aren't, well, i suppose this is the time to tell you that you won't be getting a christmas card this year (not that you did last year but, well, lets save this awkwardness) . . .

so. when it comes to my engagement and hopeful marriage, i really like to not have a 'type', obvi you have to have a pair of jorts SOMEWHERE but other than that, if you're pretty cute, i'll give you a try (lit/fig). this all being said, man this is hard to admit. . . i willingly went slumming. slumming for sport, i suppose. and i know some of you out there are saying "omg! she is so saying that because she got jacked" . . . which, this would be true if homeboy wasn't . . i mean he wasn't even jack on the titanic, not even fabrizio for god's sake, or that irish man that got shot trying to get through the gate . . idk if his health (read: dental) clearance even would have allowed him on the steamer, so i won't classify yet (although i already have judged). all of these events are, in my heart of hearts i know, hilarious. hi-fucking-larious. and i took each on pretty much knowing that, really, i'll end up with someone with straight teeth, two tattoos max (one being of my face, the other probably being a chinese character of some sort) and a dog that can speak proper english.

this most recent homeboy, idk, he wasn't that person. i thought he had the potential to be, but, that old adage of not being able to turn a ho into a housewife . . . ? yes, insert here. to continue, i boo'ed up, long distance boo'ed up (thereby allowing myself to still go out and have my birthday every thursday through wednesday nights and etc. etc. -- everything that goes with being blackout drunk . . . don't judge me). so check it. we boo up-- he's a family friend, which, i will say, unless you're joey and fucking dawson (well even then, look what she did with pacey!) don't do it-- just don't. find someone you can text inappropriately that went to college and didn't go to the same high school as your roommate/momz. for realz y'all. basically, this is not as hilarious as i imagined it being, but, as i digress, i am healing, so either skim the rest or love it-- i reel this sucker in, and normally, the normal me would take a look, kind of examine his gills and scales and coloring and maturity and age and if he could speak with a cockney english accent and depending on me getting all "yes" answers, i'd keep him.

so, as i normally do, i inspect, over a period of months, find that most of my requirements get submitted and come back with unpolished "no" answers, unbeknown to him, but, around this time, i had just finished "the shack" and wanting to be a truly good person and not the typical shallow bitch that i may have been like once before, i figure, "ehh, we are meant to be, FOR NOW"-- this is where the fatal mistake was made. when oprah told me to make a list of my standards back in october of '04, she didn't say to include things that you'd let slide. for example, if, say, one of your qualifications is that your significant other (and/or late night holodex connection) knows how many countries make up the continent of africa and when asked they reply: "africa is the country." (ouch, my nearly perfect SAT score took a hit with that one) you have to nix that bitch and move on. but no, i thought i'd let feelings take the wheel, or jesus-- didn't carrie underwood sing that?

after this experience i found out a lot about myself and the following i just cant let slide: not being born perfect (or relatively close), not using your dental insurance to the full extent you're allowed, not enrolling in college, and having an unhealthy obsession with someone that isn't me or raven-symone. i feel like i should totally quote a lady gaga line right now, but, to be honest, i'm wearing pants, and i know that would make her unhappy . . . which is the last thing i would ever want to do.

anyway, long story a little shorter, my ass gets punk'd. and over what! a twenty seven year old that still shops at hollister and abercrombie but doesn't really fit into any of their clothes (so awkward, cue yours truly until i got hot) . . . ? a lad that doesn't know the difference between you're and your (which was cute until, okay! fine, it never was, fuck) truly. i felt like j. timberland sitting on his curb crying (which i did, maybe, but they weren't real tears-- people with stone hearts can't truly cry) i know jesus is up there trying to soften me and make me a true adult & independent woman (cue destiny's child) but, man, this will do nothing but make me an even pickier bitch looking for the ultimate . . . or at least someone that knows what the fuck seersucker looks like. gracious me! its all unacceptable.

rather than continue to emotionally exhaust myself acting like he was the prize i was missing, rather than just the fact that i fucking hate losing . . . especially to poor (i know y'all, i know) white (questionable, i didn't get far enough to see a family tree) trash (not debatable judging by the fact his room was dusty and he used PERT PLUS) i totally unfriended. omfg. love it. love the people that made me do it. do not love the fact i played rose for all intents and purposes and didn't even get to float in mexican waters or have my picture drawn 'like one of your french girls, jack' (cue kate winslet's fake english accent now) . . . okay, i think i'm done.

mark this down ya'll, i am bowing out of this fight and (i think this is where the influence of jesus and my growing maturity comes in) there were no verbal blowouts, mysterious deflated tires on his MITSUBISHI LANCER (manual, of course), or any type of correspondence informing him that i'll be connected to him for the next 18 years and nine months, if you get my drift.

no, no. your little girl's all grown up.

please find me THIS GUY.

so, in a never-ending effort to fill my time while at my FTJ, i often peruse craigslist, if only to make fun of all those wacky bastards on that shit. (please note: i have never posted to craigslist, but might add this to my 'bucket list'-- we will have to see.) anyway, in my usual wednesday afternoon routine, i'm looking over the 'best of' aforementioned website. for those of you who are unaware as to the types of posts found in this section . . . they are vastly different, but all are usually hilar. while going over this list, i laugh, i cry, sometimes i recoil in a twinge of disgust, but NEVER have i EVER (freshman year of college drinking game..? no.) been able to understand the poster's emotion--be it anguish, annoyance or joy.

please read the following san francisco area (of-fucking-course) post:

"I've been trying to think of ways to spice up my life. I'm 35 years old, happily married with two kids and I have a good job in insurance. But somethings missing. I feel like I'm old before my time. I need to inject some excitement into my daily routine through my arm before its too late. I need a challenge, something to get the adrenaline pumping again. An addiction would be nice, but, in short, I need a nemesis. I'm willing to pay $350 up front for you services as an arch enemy over the next six months. Nothing crazy. Steal my parking space, knock my coffee over, trip me when Im running to catch the BART and occasionaly whisper in my ear, "Ahha, we meet again". That kind of thing. Just keep me on my toes. Complacency will be the death of me. You need to have an evil streak and be blessed with innate guile and cunning. You should also be adept at inconsicuous pursuit. Evil laugh preferred. Send me a photo and a brief explanation why you would be a good nemesis. British accent preferred. Compensation: $350 up front."

now, please hold your laughter, contempt and/or pity for this man. poor chap. (english lexicon, obvi) i could apply for this position, but that's neither here nor there. i genuinely feel bad for the poster. missing something in his life.. SEEKING ARCH NEMESIS. that's an obvious filler/solution/amazing idea. however, i highly doubt this person really realizes what goes in to having and being an arch nemesis. i should know, i've got one.

laugh if you will. we'll call my arch nemesis alexander. you're probably thinking to yourself "how does a beautiful, intelligent, hilarious lady like yourself find yourself in this situation . . ?" well, i'll give you a quick re-cap.

let's rewind to the time when i still had a full fringe bang and wore denim skirts-- 2001. the scene: honors french class, the verb conjugation race. i'll tell you this, if there is one thing i know, its my french verbs. i didn't ask for "501 french verbs" for christmas prior to starting my mastery of the language of love for nothing. obviously, as in all my other pursuits, i was going "in it to win it," fig speaking. there i was, down to the wire. said nemesis had already been eliminated from this conjugation bee. i was pitted against some idiot from canada (the province of quebec to be exact-- so he already knew french) whose french name was aurelian and who aspired to be a pilot when he grew up. sometimes i wonder if he achieved this goal . . . given what i know of the effort with which he tried to outsmart me that day (and the fact that he also wore a leather bomber jacket to school every single fucking day) i am confident to say that he is probably sitting at his mom's house, playing some video simulation flight game. regardless, he was in this clique of losers (i'm sorry, i know, i know, bitchy, but i like to call a spade a spade) and it was his turn. he got some crazy off-the-wall verb and had to conjugate it in formal, subjective and some other bullshit tense i have no recollection of, nor care enough to remember. i don't recall what he said, but i do remember that it was absolutely fucking wrong judging from the snickers of the class. the pressure was on.

as i saw my teacher flip lovingly through her copy of '501 french verbs' she had probably JUST BOUGHT i began to get nervous and think of the last time i was in this horrible situation. (that being the wake county third grade spelling bee. on the final word, i was in the exact same situation and had successfully spelled all kinds of jackass words and with my adorable smile and boy haircut i was confident . . . overly confident in the hours that my mom had drilled me from her standard 1979 edition of the american heritage dictionary--needless to say, i was wrong. i got out and lost the bee on the word . . . wait for it . . . TRAILER! i had thought it was t-r-a-y-l-e-r. IDIOT, i have never forgiven myself, and i am sure that event, coupled with the fact i couldn't sell more than five boxes of girl scout cookies that year led to the extreme disappointment my mother had in me until 1995, but, i digress.)

anyway, back to the task at hand. my word was assigned. prendre in "indicatif passé simple" -- cakewalk, right? psh, this was child's play! as i began to spell, i hesitated and if that jackass in the section of students who had lost on the first round didn't chuckle and make a comment. oh he did. much to his dismay, this allowed me to refocus and win. player please! i gave him the absolute worst look i could muster through my thick bang victorious joy.

however, from then on, i knew we would be nothing more than adversaries, in the truest of senses. i repaid him by not picking him for an officer position in french club which i knew he so badly wanted. and he returned the favor by not showering for the rest of the year and having crooked teeth. turn about is fair play. we continued on most of our senior year with no notable interactions. we graduated, i went off on my path to become a taxpayer and law-abiding citizen and he, i heard, traveled to chicago to join a roving-actors troupe while attempting to grow a beard. we were both moderately successful.

i was thankful that, being in austin, i would never have to run into him again, or so i thought. our next encounter was his final straw.

the scene? thanksgiving break, freshman year of college. i had traveled home and had been picked up on a random night to attend a party thrown by one of our favorites. being picked up by your best friends with 40's and seeing people you haven't seen in months? amazing. we brought the party. in the apartment, off to the side, in the living room, i notice a tent, fully assembled. not just your run-of-the-mill pup tent used for a quick overnighter . . . an elaborately sized, army green nylon habitat. it was zipped tightly. obviously when someone doesn't want me to do something, i have to do it--especially after multiple dranx, if you will (and we had).

naturally, i began inching closer and closer to this tent of mystery . . . "who in god's name would put up a tent in the middle of a living room?" and other similar questions ran quickly through my mind. i absolutely had to know more. my best friend must have read my mind, and thank god, that's what best friends are for . . . mind-reading and encouragement. she nudged me as if to say "i've got your back, do it. now. right now. you go girl."

whether or not that is what she meant is of no consequence. in a stealth move i unzipped said enigma and stumbled (rolled, fell, whatever) right inside! it was strangely (by strange i mean with the strong aroma of pot and insence mixed with christmas lights and dirty linens) glorious! i looked around, and there, to my left, a SHRINE! on top of that shrine, buddha himself! with the exception of various anarchist manifestos, i oddly felt right at home, so much so, that i sat down, careful not to bump over the LIT CANDLES burning inside and tried to zip the flap, shutting out the cares of the world (which, at this time consisted of two friends trying to bump and grind with no music, audience or encouragement and a home-made keggerator in the background)

good things don't last forever, and i should have known; for no sooner than i had started zipping up than i heard a bellowing "WHO IS IN MY TENT?" from somewhere within a mile radius of this raging party. i mean, i wasn't worried, everyone loves me and its not like there was a sign that said "please do not go into my mini-house-tent and desecrate the things i hold near and dear to my heart" . . . if had i seen that sign, no questions asked, i would have never been called inside. blame buddha.

now, the question was bellowed again, however, this second time, i heard an included sense of anger that was unmistakable. i began to get nervous. i didn't want to die in that tent, or catch on fire, or make buddha mad. i figured if i was silent and didn't move that i would be able to simply let the moment pass and escape sometime later that night.

as i arrive at the above conclusion someone bounds into my space with a certain, mastered delicacy as to not knock over any of this tent's contents, most notably the candles. i looked up and was face to face with my arch nemesis! OF COURSE THIS WAS HIS TENT! it reeked of irresponsibility, a poor english accent and a high school rumor that he only had a year to live (i was not that lucky, obviously). how could i have been so stupid? i tried to escape without letting any part of my skin or clothes touch him, it was a futile attempt! as he began to angrily question me as to why i was in his 'apartment' . . . i responded with smartass answers that 'he didn't even pay taxes, let alone rent' . . . after what seemed like years, i was finally able to escape, with my life, all my limbs and this story.

i carry this event with me always, thanking god that i am alive to tell this cautionary tale. since that night, i have carried pepper spray as a safety precaution for, as i'm sure you can imagine, i never ever want to be caught in a dank buddhist shrine tent without protection. i recommend the same for you all.

perhaps i should write to the fellow seeking an arch nemesis in san fran. tell him my story, try to save him the danger i have seen.

as they say, 'fortune favors the bold.'

i mean really, don't even give me shit about that ending. how do you top that story?

you're right, you don't.

happy new year! (applies only to me and america)

well, well, well. good morning my delightful ray of sunshine! i hope this post finds you as glorious as it does me. no, its not because of raven symone calling me and rousing me from sleep with a heartfelt ballad or because i've gotten rid of all the stupid bitches i have to deal with. so, you may be asking yourself "well, if its not raven and its not bitches, what's got you so full of giddy exuberance?" the answer is simple, y'all.

two words. five syllables. barack obama.

i'll continue, but first, let me set the scene.

a few weeks ago, my friend and i stumbled (literally) into 101 lounge to watch the third and final debate. sure, we were the only democrats in that bitch, but (not surprisingly) a great time was had by all. the owner and his boyfriend smeagle (ne: bob shaw) loved us, and by the end of the night, not only had i managed to make myself look like an idiot in my first (third) television debut but 101 lounge had promised us a deejay, two blocks of ice (i am a trained ice sculptor), pvc pipes and colored drinks for election night. my friend and i thought little of this night as we went on with our high-powered jobs and endless charity work. however, as election night drew near . . . we planned to go to 101, just because we could talk shit about sarah palin. (i'm sorry i'm not sorry.)

you may also remember a few weeks ago, my post about a new dawn in america (for your information, i am going to try to use as many tacky cliches as possible, heads up)-- about the united states needing to restart and refresh itself, yes? you recall? excellent. i think its safe to say that most (intelligent) people could draw comparisons between america and a nameless (albeit beautiful) broad that woke up in durham without a phone or car last friday. whatevs.

the thing is, america was washed up, she'd used most of her trix, she had gotten one too many birthday shots . . . and that's fine. we all go through it (not me personally, but people i know) however, there comes a point where you have to wake up and at least try to make your life better, not only for yourself, but those around you who constantly have to hold your hair back and wonder where the fuck you go every night out at 2:00 am.

america has turned the tide and is finally ready to act like a respectable adult. thank god. with the election of barack obama, america said to her peeps: "yo! i'm not ready to go to AA yet, but i'm ready to give change a chance." and to that i say "you go girl!" i couldn't be happier. sure, it won't be easy, but, if anyone can do it, you can! i wish i could form a dance circle and get america in the middle and just scream out "go america, go america, its yo' birthday, etc." . . . but seeing how i can't, this will have to suffice. with america's new day, i, too, am going to attempt the maturity (and much like america's 43 previous attempts, this isn't my first rodeo, so to speak).

i'll keep you posted.