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Watch out, it’s TMI Thursday!
This one should have you sufficiently grossed-out.
On with it . . .
—
Okay, sorry. That title made it sound like my Lawyerman is a fecalphiliac (why is my spell checker not recognizing this word? It is a legitimate word that people use in everyday conversation, spell checker! What is your fucking deal? Oh, and now that I’ve written this complaint, the spell checker is recognizing it as an actual word. WHO’S THE BITCH NOW, SPELL CHECKER? WHAT.) I can assure you that he is not.
That was a bad pun. I apologize.
Back to the story. That I never got to in the first place.
A couple weekends ago Claire, The Lawyer, and I enjoyed a nice day out on the lake. While Lawyerman was docking the boat, my bestie Claire and I went inside his house to use the facilities. Since we have been friends since we were basically both fetuses, we don’t mind peeing in front of each other. It’s what friends do. That, and braid each other’s pubic hair.
What, you don’t do that? Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything . . .
Anyhoodle, while Claire was getting her tink on, I reached into the medicine cabinet for some deodorant because I was feeling a bit rancid after a day of sweating and swimming in dirty river water. As I reached for the stink stick, I accidentally jostled a bottle of Aspirin (I had no idea people still kept aspirin in their houses. WTF, Lawyerman? This is not 1947). This started a chain reaction of events.
As Claire was flushing the toilet, the Aspirin fell out of the cabinet.
Into the sink.
Bounced out of the sink.
Into the now-flushing toilet.
Down the drain.
Oopsie.
Claire, being the awesome human being that she is, reached down into the toilet to feel for the Aspirin bottle (I suppose she’s touched worse. She is an LPN in a nursing home and changing old people diapers is sorta the norm there . . .), then said, “It’s gone.”
I told Lawyerman about our little mishap, and he said it was fine as long as the toilet still flushed. We flushed it a few times to be safe, and everything seemed to be in working order on his porcelain throne.
So, naturally, later that night, I had to take a poop.
I’m sure you can see where this is going.
It wasn’t a BIG poop, mind you. It was kinda like Mooooog’s daughter’s pellet poop (featured in his header). Like this:
Check out that detail!
I mean, there were like, three pellets. TOPS. Not exactly a huge load. Surely not enough to clog a toilet.
Oh yeah.
Three poop pellets was enough to clog the toilet.
It. Sure. Fucking. Was.
Oopsie again.
So my Lawyerman, bless his heart, tried to snake the drain, to no avail.
So he had to remove the toilet, fish out the blockage (read: Aspirin bottle covered in LRC poo), and replace the toilet.
And take a long, hot shower after getting up close and personal with my latest bowel movement.
That’s love right there.
As I was listening to Owner of a Lonely Heart by Yes earlier today, I got to thinking about how I’d like for that song to be played at my funeral.
Well, I guess I wouldn’t like it that much. I mean, I’d be dead. And everything.
Then that got me thinking about funerals.
You know how people always say, “When I die, I don’t want anyone to be sad. I don’t want a funeral, I just want everyone to have a freakin’ PARTY!”
Well, you know what?
When I die?
I WANT PEOPLE TO BE SAD, DAMN IT.
I want my friends and family to bawl their freaking eyes out. You know, the ugly cry. Punctuated with howls and snot bubbles. I’m talking totally devastated, can’t-live-their-lives-any-longer-without-the-sheer-awesomeness-that-was-LRC, suicidal states of mind.
Well, maybe not suicidal.
But would a little moderate to severe depression be too much to ask?
I didn’t think so.
When I die?
YOU BETTER NOT THROW ANY FUCKING PARTIES.
I MEAN IT.
YOU BETTER CRY, GOD DAMN YOU.
MOURN THIS GREAT LOSS, MOTHERFUCKER. SHOW SOME RESPECT FOR THE DEAD AND PUT DOWN THAT MILLER LITE.
Unless you’re drinking your sorrows away.*
Then that’s okay.
Does this make me a bad person?
Obviously not, because there’s gonna be a lot of sad, crying faces at my funeral.
And you don’t cry for someone who’s a bad person.
You just don’t.
*which is what I do every weekend
I’m going to attempt a lighthearted approach at this post, because 1) it’s FRIDAY! and 2) mi vida es muy loca lately and I need to start turning the negatives into positives. Or something.
Or, after speaking all that Spanish, maybe I just need a margarita.
Whatevs.
So, I effed up. But this time, I don’t think it was so detrimental that I don’t want to show my face in public ever again. I didn’t call my boss drunk or anything. I just gave in to a moment of weakness.
I mentioned that New York wanted to be friends, right? Well, what I did not mention was the manner in which this information was revealed to me.
In response to that well-thought-out, heartfelt, compassionate letter, I received a three-sentence text message.
“I got your letter. Twas very nice. Thanksfriend.”
Huh.
While all the friends I’ve told this to think this is an outrage because, honestly, is that the response I got? After writing perhaps one of the most perfect letters of all time? It’s been hard for me to feel anything but numbness and/or complete depression about it. I haven’t been able to feel anger toward him yet because I’m still so enamored with the kid. I can’t just turn my feelings off like a light switch. It doesn’t work that way. I need time to get over him, and I haven’t allowed myself that time yet.
So we tried the friend thing for about a week. He texted me to make sure my animals were inside when there was a tornado warning. I texted him telling him we should have a moustache growing contest (idea totally stolen from My Boys) with the loser earning a free milkshake and the winner getting a creepy moustache. Insert miscellaneous friend chatter here.
But last night? I got drunk.
Like, Let’s Make Bad Decisions drunk.
So I called NY. And much to my surprise? He answered!
And he was happy to hear from me!
And he wanted me to come over!
Like right now!
EEEEEEEEEEEE!!!, right?
No.
NOT “EEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”.
Bad LRC.
So I went over there, and he eagerly greeted me at the door. We hugged big time because we hadn’t seen each other in about a month. Then we went and plopped down on the couch with his arm around me and my head nuzzled against his neck, like old times.
We started talking for a few minutes. Mostly small talk and chit chat. Catching up and whatnot.
And then we started making out. Big time.
Clothes started coming off.
When things started to progress toward The Sexy Time, I could feel him pulling back. So I asked him a question I had always been too afraid to ask him, for whatever reason.
“Don’t you want to have sex?”
(Note [possibly TMI]: I have already given him a BJ at this point, which was met with great approval.)
“No. [insert random excuse here].”
Pause.
Blink.
“Why not?”
“I don’t like to have sex unless I’m in an intense relationship. With the possibility of my leaving and everything . . .”
And then I just stared at him for a few seconds.
“You’re telling me this . . . after we’ve . . . already had sex?”
(This is about the extent of my ability to take up for myself when I’m drunk. At least, with a guy I’m head over heels for. If I didn’t give a shit about him, I would have let him have it.)
So I just gave up on the conversation at that point. I don’t remember what his response was (I’m HAMMERED, remember?). I just fell back into his arms and he held me close. I cried silently, but I don’t think he noticed.
And then I realized, you know what? I don’t need this shit. I’m just letting him treat me however the fuck he wants. He’s handing out misery, and I’m the first in line.
I wordlessly got up, put my sweatshirt back on, picked up my purse, and walked toward the door. He came after me, but I just kept going. Walked out the door, got in my car, and left.
And cried. And cried. And cried. And cried.
And then. AND THEN? I sent him a drunk text. “I wish I wouldn’t have taken so long to ask you that.”
(Please ignore the bad grammar. Remember, I’m wasted. And yes, I should not have driven. I know this. Save the preachin’ for your Sunday School class.)
I don’t know what I thought that drunk text would solve. Hell, that’s the point of a drunk text. Saying things you probably shouldn’t have but seem like a GREAT idea at the time.
Then I realized, you know what? There I go placing all the blame on myself again. He should have been honest with me from the get-go. If he never saw this going anywhere, he never should have invited me to that James Bond movie. And, at the very least, he never should have made out with me afterward.
So I texted him again.
UGH.
“Then again i dont think it is my fault”
FUHHHHHHHHHH I wish there was a CTRL+Z for text messages. But you know what? He needs to realize what he did was wrong. He led me on, and wasn’t honest with me from the start. And I got all bajiggity about him because he rocks my world. And then he curb stomped my heart.
So yeah.
I guess that settles that. I can’t be makin’ out with boys who are just gonna inevitably hurt me over and over again.
It sucks. But I’ll move on.
Speaking of moving on, I mentioned joining an online dating site in my last post. I was very reluctant at first, but my mom, seeing my unhappy state, basically forced me into it. I think it’s a bit too soon to start dating because I’m still batshit insane enamored with NY even though it’s never going to happen. But I don’t think it will hurt to make some new friends and have a boy take me out on an actual DATE. One in which we go to a restaurant that’s not Quizno’s and doesn’t end with Jager Bomb shots and a massive sense of regret the next morning.
I’ve been in contact with two guys, one of which seems really fun and has a lot in common with me, but, to be brutally honest, he’s not someone I see myself being attracted to. He seems more like the big brother type. He’s not model hot like NY, BE, and Adam (but then again, “model hot” never seemed to work in my favor). However, he has a lot of friends and has a lot of fun things going on in his life, and that could be the breath of fresh air I need. I will probably have to explain to him that if we do date, things have to go reeeeeally slowly. I’m damaged goods here, and I don’t want to play any games.
There’s also another guy I’ve been talking to less frequently, but holy hell is he hot. And he’s an athletic trainer. HOT. BODY. Hold me. I didn’t think he was that into me at first, but after the second time we “talked” (we used the lame IM thing on the dating site), he asked if I wanted to do something next week. I said yes, but I think we’re definitely going to keep it casual. He’s new to the area and is looking for new friends. At the very least, maybe I’ll have a new hang out buddy.
I’ll keep you all posted for sure. I’ve got my sights set on dinner, drinks, and tomfoolery with the girls tonight, and from now on when I’m faced with a tough decision, I’m going to ask myself, “Is this necessary for my happiness?” and if it is, I’ll do it. And if it’s not, vice versa.
Happy weekend, lovelies.
That’s how I’ve been feeling lately. About blogging. About dating. About life. I feel like I’m just sorta hanging here in some sort of Happiness Purgatory. I’m not depressed, but I’m damned sure not skipping through fields of dandelions with a bunny rabbit named Sanchez, either.
(Note to self: get a bunny rabbit. Name it Sanchez. Skipping through fields of dandelions is optional. Coors Light is not.)
I’ve been keeping myself busy with work and other various activities. I participated in a spelling bee fundraiser with three other women I work with. We had to introduce ourselves by doing a skit, and for our skit I had to dress up like a French tourist, complete with beret and fanny pack that carried a stuffed poodle. I looked like a freaking idiot. But our skit won first place. Woot. We lost the bee, though. As a result, I will never misspell “thixotropy” again.
The Junior Service League kept getting all the easy words. TALC? SERIOUSLY? Not. Fair.
New York is gone again, on another road trip. Naturally, I don’t know when he will be back. It could either be tomorrow or Thursday (or possibly later), but he didn’t answer his phone when I called him today.
Whatevs.
And since I can’t go two weeks without some crazy shit happening to me, here’s what happened Friday night. I went out to celebrate a friend’s birthday, and I stayed in a hotel room with his sister ArtsyFartsy (also a friend of mine). We got way too drunk, danced, and had tons of fun. At 5:00 a.m. when ArtsyFartsy and I were finally back in our hotel room (and tired as HELL), one of the guy friends we’d been hanging with—I’ll call him Harry because, well, he’s hairy—called my friend and asked if he could come by our hotel room.
Knowing Hairy well, and also taking into consideration how drunk he was, I was completely aware of his reason for wanting to come hang with us AT FIVE IN THE MORNING. He’d been flirty with me all night but I had kinda just ignored it. Now, he was going to try and get some poon before he went to sleep. He and his girlfriend broke up about a month ago and he was probably not used to getting va-jay-jay on the regular.
I motioned frantically to my friend while she was saying, “Yeah, sure, come over. We’re in room 305,” as if to say “ABORT! ABORT!” but it was too late. He was already on his way over.
Eff.
Apparently, the fact that my friend and I had just inhaled three different flavors of 99 cent bags of Doritos from the gas station (after a failed attempt at hitting up McDonald’s) did not stop this guy. He wanted to kiss me. He told me he’d been “crushing on [me] for a while now.” I don’t remember what all I said to him (it was FIVE IN THE MORNING and I was DRUNK and SLEEPY AS HELL), but I do remember asking him this:
“Isn’t [NY] your friend?”
He stopped and thought about it.
“I don’t know” was his answer.
Apparently he’s not a very loyal friend.
So I pretended to fall asleep until he left.
Naturally.
Friday evening when I got home from work, I did a little tidying up and sat down at my computer to catch up on all the blogs I didn’t get a chance to read while I was, you know, working (sit in front of a computer for eight hours, come straight home and sit in front of a computer some more. My life is awesome).
As I was clicking away, all of a sudden I heard a noise. Kinda like “eee! eee! eee! eee!”
I knew immediately what it was.
I didn’t want to face the creepy little thing in fear of it flying at my head (I’m not afraid of being hurt by a bat, I’m just terrified of it touching me. NASTY), but I knew I had to remedy the situation sooner rather than later.
I tiptoed into the kitchen, where the sound was coming from, trying not to make any sudden movements. It was sitting on the rug, next to my dog.
GROSS. Those things are so vile.
So I went back into my computer room and did the first thing I always do when faced with an icky rodent situation.
I called my Dad. Duh.
“Dad, uh, there’s a bat in my kitchen. What do I do?”
“Open the door and get a broom to swat it out.”
“Ew, I don’t wanna do that. What if it flies at my head? OH SHIT. AHHHHH! AHH! AHHHH! AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
It was at that VERY MOMENT that the bat decided to fly into my computer room, TOWARD MY HEAD, screaming “EEE! EEE! EEE!” in circles the whole mother effing time.
So I did what any sane person would do. I ran, phone in hand, still screaming at the top of my lungs while my poor Dad listened to my embarrassing ordeal. Where did I run to? Anywhere that bat was NOT flying toward.
When I thought I was safe, I put the phone back to my ear, apologized profusely for all the screaming, and said “I’ll call you back, Dad.”
(He told me later that he’d let my mom listen in on my embarrassing ordeal.)
So I did what he said. I opened the door and grabbed a broom. Then I went to look for the little beast.
I found it in my living room, which is on the other side of the house, so I had to swat it across the room, through my kitchen, and once we got to the laundry room (ALMOST THERE!), he decided to crawl the rest of the way behind my cats’ litter box.
It took some maneuvering, but I coaxed him out from behind the litter box, made sure his disgusting little head was facing toward the door, and pushed him into flight.
DIRECTLY OUT THE DOOR.
Oh, but that would be too easy, right?
As soon as he was crossing the threshold, my kitty Pepper SWATTED HIM BACK DOWN, and he flew past me, back into the laundry room.
Fuck.
Thanks a lot, Pepper.
So I repeated what I’d done before, making sure Pepper was out of the way in the process (not an easy task, as she was WAY TOO INTERESTED in this bat situation and wanted to have him as her plaything).
SUCCESS. He flew out the door.
Directly into my dog’s mouth.
I closed the door. I wasn’t interested in what transpired after that. I just wanted to make sure the damned thing didn’t get back inside.
NASTY NASTY NASTY.
Every time I vlog I feel like it’s gratuitous (oh, but vlogging, why can’t I quit you?), and this is two minutes of your life that you will never get back, but I got inspired when Rachel at I’m a Mom in Real Life vlogged about the winner of her contest.
Guess who won, by the way?
ME!
And all I had to do was vote for her new comic blog, which, incidentally, you should be reading. So go there now and add it to your reader.
See what a good contest winner I am? Gettin’ all linky and shit? Future contest holders, take note.
I’m ecstatic about all the prizes, but I am especially excited about this little gem. I <3 it!
So here’s my vlog. You’re welcome. Or I’m sorry. It could go either way.
And yes, I know I have a ridiculous southern accent. Do it, y’all! REDNECK POWER!
Ahem.
Also, in the spot where I focus on my cat Oliver, you can see my foot, and I am wearing the shoes NY so lovingly calls “pilgrim shoes,” because they look like, well, pilgrim shoes.
I feel like my life is repeating itself. Like I’m walking around in some fucked up circle of Single Womanhood. It’s like effing Groundhog Day!
(And yes, I know today is Groundhog Day. This only intensifies my point.)
Meet a new guy.
Like him a little.
Make out with him.
Like him a LOT.
(Those last two happen in rapid succession.)
Begin having doubts.
(This is where The Crazy enters.)
Cry.
Go right back to extreme like when guy does something incredibly sweet.
Float on air for a few weeks.
Start having doubts again.
Fabricate an elaborate scenario in which guy decides to leave and begin needlessly resenting the guy in preparation, so that if he DOES leave, damage to the heart will be minimal.
Yep, that’s me. Preparing for my heart to get curb stomped before they even get the opportunity to love me.
Okay, that last sentence sounded really morose. It’s not that bad. I just wish there were some way to train my mind not to play tricks on me. I did this with BE and now I’m doing it again with NY. It’s like I just know he’s going to hurt me, even though he’s done nothing in the past to indicate that he would. I know that getting hurt at some point is inevitable in every relationship, but I’m not talking about the Oh God He Hesitated Just A Smidge Too Long When I Asked If These Jeans Made My Ass Look Like A Double Wide Trailer Barreling Down The Highway hurt. I’m talking about the I’m About To Up And Leave Your Ass You Worthless Pile Of Woman Who Is Not Even Worth My Time hurt.
I know I’m worth a man’s time.
I cook. I praise. I give BJs.
I’m a great girlfriend. I know this.
But do they know it?
I feel like I put so much time and energy into showing a guy all that I have to offer, that it’s just taken for granted. I don’t even know if it’s my fault or their fault, or if I’m just completely making it up. This dating shiz just has me so confused that there are days I just want to throw my hands in the air, scream “ENOUGH ALREADY!” and bang my head on the desk, never to pick up the “habit” again.
But no, I keep pressing on.
(Sometimes I wish I weren’t so obsessed with the peen. It would save a lot of stress and worry.)
I feel like I’ve got this constant Push and Pull thing going with the men I date. I won’t allow myself to be vulnerable enough to be beaten down, but then I wonder why things aren’t happening for me.
I’m not allowing them to.
(For the record, things are fine with NY. Nothing has changed except for the fact that I have turned into Crazypants McGee. He’s still up in the Big Apple. I’m anticipating his arrival back home this weekend, but he hasn’t nailed anything down for certain yet. He’s got unfinished biz to take care of [that makes him sound a lot more diabolical than he really is] in NYC and he needs to get as much of it done as he can while he’s still there.)
Having said that, I’m keeping my options open. I’m not dating other guys, nor do I want to. But I’m not going to throw all my eggs on one basket and risk breaking all of them just yet.
Blargh. I don’t even know if I’ve really said what I needed to say here. I don’t think I’ll ever be satisfied with the picture I paint of my life on this blog. There’s just so much going on in Noggin de la LRC that I couldn’t possibly begin to show you what The Crazy is a-brewin’ up there.
But damn it, I’m gonna try.
And you’ll probably lose some sanity right there with me.
For that, I apologize.
But damn it feels good to have Partners In Crazy.
Topics of discussion on gchat with Andy today:
- Steve Jobs
- The Dark Knight
- Blue balls vs. pooping in terms of importance (not as in, which should I take care of first—no, no. We discussed which was more newsworthy)
- Trans fats
- Jennifer Aniston
- Naked teens
- Robot sex
- Throwing away Christmas gifts from relatives
- PMS/Bloating
- Wagering on someone’s death (Andy’s co-workers actually do this)
- The abstract nature of happiness and love and how our perspective distorts our hopes for both
- Pooping in the river
- Purses made out of cat fur
- Medicaid reimbursement rates for rural hospitals
- E-Penis
- Dog farts
- Analog to digital conversion
- What does Edward do when Bella is on the rag (Related topic: Oxygen content of period blood)
- Actual topics of relevancy
OK, that last one was a lie.
We clearly have too much time on our hands. Although, we did manage to cover a myriad of topics in a relatively short period of time. You know what that means—we got SKILLS.
Either that, or we’re slightly retarded.
