Today is just one of those fucking days.
I can't say anything right. I'm way too emotional. I'm being paranoid. I'm being a girl. I'm being weepy.
All I want to do is have a good cry in the bathroom. But every time I go in there, there’s someone lurking around in the last stall, or applying their mascara over the sink. It’s worse than trying to take a poo, I tell you.
I have no excuse for this emotional outburst, other than I am a girl.
I’m letting myself get OCD about things that I have no control over.
I’m also being a big baby.
Sample conversation from earlier.
Me: “I spoke to so-and-so yesterday. She sounds well.
Her: “Oh, did she tell you that she and I went to the movies the other night?”
Me: “No, she didn’t mention it”
Her: “Yea, she and I and blah blah blah saw Babel.
I stopped hearing her after I realized that she, so-and-so, and blah blah blah all went out without me. And then I said, “Well, maybe next time you guys will invite me to go with you.”
Nothing like putting your friend on the spot like that. You wanna hear total silence on the other end of the phone? Be a paranoid freakshow like myself and you can hear a pin drop.
Ugh. I’m one of THOSE girls today.
Dammit.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Til Now, I Always Got By On My Own
I have never thought twice about the fact that I live alone. Mainly because I am hardly ever actually "alone", but the one or two nights that I am in my apartment sans boyfriend, friends, etc, I really do enjoy. Me and the cat, chillin' with the remote. There's nothing quite like it.
Last night, for the first time in the almost year that I've been in my apartment, I was afraid.
Sometime in between going to the gym at lunch, and getting ready for my dinner at Devi, I developed a headache. I feared this headache with every bone in my body, because I've had them before, and they are EVIL. No amount of Advil will quell them. They usually develop after a heavy night of drinking, or as a weird reaction to certain foods (which ones I haven't quite figured out yet), but they almost certainly end up with a violent bout of puking. Quel horreur.
Fruitless downing ibuprofen by the handful, I met some friends for our dinner at Restaurant Devi. Being the genius that I am, I decided that a Ginger Collins (Makers Mark and ginger) would be the antidote I needed to rid myself of the beast inside my skull. I don't think it quite worked, but let me tell you--as an aside--if you like ginger, you GOTTA have the Ginger Collins. You just gotta.
After a delicious meal of chick pea fritters, chicken curry and a cardamom ice cream, with plenty of fluffy naan on the side, I was sated, yet still in pain. Thankfully the night was still young and I was home at the tender hour of 8, and I promptly threw my ass on the couch, remote in hand, cat by my side, and willed the headache to disappear.
Since my powers of persuasion seemed to be off that night, I decided the only way to be at peace was to just go to bed. Gray's Anatomy on Tivo wasn't doing the trick, and I felt too ill to read. So off to bed I went, and I almost thought I was going to get off without a hitch, as my head started to calm itself down.
After a quick chat with Beehive, I drifted off, only to be jolted awake with the BIGGEST pain in my eye socket that I have ever experienced. In addition, I was freezing, to the point of shivering under the covers, and felt dizzy as hell. I got up to make myself some tea, and tried to shower in the attempt to warm myself up...but I knew it was a lost cause, because little by little, I could feel my innards fighting to escape via my esophagus.
*PUKE* oh look, there go the fritters.
*BARF* hmmm...that chicken curry tasted way better on the way down.
*WRETCH* what the hell did I have for lunch that was purple? oh yea. jamba juice.
I thought that this would be the end of it. Puking accomplished. But no. That was only the beginning.
What scared the bejesus out of me was that I was purely and utterly alone, and I felt like I was dying. Which escalated into "what if this is it. what if this is where i stroke out and the cat eats my face off? Who would know? Who would find me? Will Celeste come down in a couple days, looking for some peanut butter, and instead find my dead body, puke covering the floor, my brain exploded all over the bathroom wall?
Which I guess could explain why, after I finally fell asleep somewhere in the early morning, I woke up crying.
Perhaps it is time to get one of those medi-alert bracelets that my 92 yr old grandma used to wear. Am now taking applications for my emergency contact.
Last night, for the first time in the almost year that I've been in my apartment, I was afraid.
Sometime in between going to the gym at lunch, and getting ready for my dinner at Devi, I developed a headache. I feared this headache with every bone in my body, because I've had them before, and they are EVIL. No amount of Advil will quell them. They usually develop after a heavy night of drinking, or as a weird reaction to certain foods (which ones I haven't quite figured out yet), but they almost certainly end up with a violent bout of puking. Quel horreur.
Fruitless downing ibuprofen by the handful, I met some friends for our dinner at Restaurant Devi. Being the genius that I am, I decided that a Ginger Collins (Makers Mark and ginger) would be the antidote I needed to rid myself of the beast inside my skull. I don't think it quite worked, but let me tell you--as an aside--if you like ginger, you GOTTA have the Ginger Collins. You just gotta.
After a delicious meal of chick pea fritters, chicken curry and a cardamom ice cream, with plenty of fluffy naan on the side, I was sated, yet still in pain. Thankfully the night was still young and I was home at the tender hour of 8, and I promptly threw my ass on the couch, remote in hand, cat by my side, and willed the headache to disappear.
Since my powers of persuasion seemed to be off that night, I decided the only way to be at peace was to just go to bed. Gray's Anatomy on Tivo wasn't doing the trick, and I felt too ill to read. So off to bed I went, and I almost thought I was going to get off without a hitch, as my head started to calm itself down.
After a quick chat with Beehive, I drifted off, only to be jolted awake with the BIGGEST pain in my eye socket that I have ever experienced. In addition, I was freezing, to the point of shivering under the covers, and felt dizzy as hell. I got up to make myself some tea, and tried to shower in the attempt to warm myself up...but I knew it was a lost cause, because little by little, I could feel my innards fighting to escape via my esophagus.
*PUKE* oh look, there go the fritters.
*BARF* hmmm...that chicken curry tasted way better on the way down.
*WRETCH* what the hell did I have for lunch that was purple? oh yea. jamba juice.
I thought that this would be the end of it. Puking accomplished. But no. That was only the beginning.
What scared the bejesus out of me was that I was purely and utterly alone, and I felt like I was dying. Which escalated into "what if this is it. what if this is where i stroke out and the cat eats my face off? Who would know? Who would find me? Will Celeste come down in a couple days, looking for some peanut butter, and instead find my dead body, puke covering the floor, my brain exploded all over the bathroom wall?
Which I guess could explain why, after I finally fell asleep somewhere in the early morning, I woke up crying.
Perhaps it is time to get one of those medi-alert bracelets that my 92 yr old grandma used to wear. Am now taking applications for my emergency contact.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Happy Endings
Sunday morning. I’ve got a long day ahead of me. 2 hrs in a car with Beehive, his mom, AND his Grandma (who I finally met for the first time, and apparently thinks I am the greatest thing since sliced bread) and a day of schmoozing with various family members during 5 yr old Christopher’s birthday party. All seemed to be moving along smoothly, and then BAM, I go and get my period.
Not wanting to announce to my boyfriend that I am riding the crimson wave, but wanting to allude to the fact that I’m not exactly in top form, I discreetly say to him, “I’ve got cramps.” Shortly thereafter, I let on that I need to pop out for some Advil. I’m thinking I’m being pretty darn obvious, without actually shouting to the world “I JUST GOT MY FUCKING PERIOD.” I don’t know when I became such a delicate flower, since we all know I’m about as subtle as an alcoholic on truth serum…I guess I'll just chalk it up to PMS and move on…
Cut to 12 hours later, during a rather amorous moment. Making out like teenagers on the living room couch, my Beehive takes my hand and leads me back to the bedroom, where more sucking face ensues. It's pretty apparent that he is gonna go for it, and I’m pretty impressed that he is not letting Aunt Flo get in his way—and this makes for a VERY pleasant Sunday night indeed.
I feel a hand make its way into my pants. I feel a hand roaming around, then yank itself OUT of my pants, and I hear a yelp.
“What? What’s wrong?” I panicked.
“I didn’t know what I was touching. It didn't feel right," he had a confused, yet concerned look on his face.
“Whatsa matter? You never touched a tampon string before?” I laughed.
"I just wasn't expecting it, is all," he replied.
Nothing like ruining perfectly good sex with a secret tampon string.
But I'm happy to report that, the story had a happy ending after all.
*giggle*
Not wanting to announce to my boyfriend that I am riding the crimson wave, but wanting to allude to the fact that I’m not exactly in top form, I discreetly say to him, “I’ve got cramps.” Shortly thereafter, I let on that I need to pop out for some Advil. I’m thinking I’m being pretty darn obvious, without actually shouting to the world “I JUST GOT MY FUCKING PERIOD.” I don’t know when I became such a delicate flower, since we all know I’m about as subtle as an alcoholic on truth serum…I guess I'll just chalk it up to PMS and move on…
Cut to 12 hours later, during a rather amorous moment. Making out like teenagers on the living room couch, my Beehive takes my hand and leads me back to the bedroom, where more sucking face ensues. It's pretty apparent that he is gonna go for it, and I’m pretty impressed that he is not letting Aunt Flo get in his way—and this makes for a VERY pleasant Sunday night indeed.
I feel a hand make its way into my pants. I feel a hand roaming around, then yank itself OUT of my pants, and I hear a yelp.
“What? What’s wrong?” I panicked.
“I didn’t know what I was touching. It didn't feel right," he had a confused, yet concerned look on his face.
“Whatsa matter? You never touched a tampon string before?” I laughed.
"I just wasn't expecting it, is all," he replied.
Nothing like ruining perfectly good sex with a secret tampon string.
But I'm happy to report that, the story had a happy ending after all.
*giggle*
Monday, January 22, 2007
Schwing!
A couple weeks ago, the boyfriend and I were trolling the internet for weird and random things. Somehow, I ended up signing up for one of those “adult finders” websites, in the quest for pictures of scary swingers looking for love.
I myself am not a scary swinger looking for love...but I guess out of sheer boredom I thought it would be a good idea to check out others who were in the market for a little menage a trois action and laugh at the freaky deaky photos that they post of themselves.
I gave a fake name and set up a fake profile—in fact, my profile doesn’t really have much on it, nor do I even have a picture…yet I get email notifications all the time telling me I have mail in my adultfinder inbox. Which says a lot about the people who are on this website to begin with--nice to know that they are so selective that they will email a nameless, faceless Brooklyn gal not knowing a thing about me--I could weigh 500 pounds and have a mule's face for a head, for all they know.
Just the other day I got a notification that I had received mail from "CocoFreak 27", who was nice enough to attach a photo of her large cleavage, clad in a leather bra.
But I digress.
Today my IT guy was sitting at my computer, fixing whatever was wrong with it, and my gmail was nice enough to send me an alert, that pops up right in the corner of my screen, showing me when I get new emails. “ADULTFINDERS—tittyfucker has sent you an email.” Yea. There was no hiding that.
Well. I guess there are worse things than your coworkers thinking that you’re a swinger…right? Maybe it'll earn me some clout in the office.
I myself am not a scary swinger looking for love...but I guess out of sheer boredom I thought it would be a good idea to check out others who were in the market for a little menage a trois action and laugh at the freaky deaky photos that they post of themselves.
I gave a fake name and set up a fake profile—in fact, my profile doesn’t really have much on it, nor do I even have a picture…yet I get email notifications all the time telling me I have mail in my adultfinder inbox. Which says a lot about the people who are on this website to begin with--nice to know that they are so selective that they will email a nameless, faceless Brooklyn gal not knowing a thing about me--I could weigh 500 pounds and have a mule's face for a head, for all they know.
Just the other day I got a notification that I had received mail from "CocoFreak 27", who was nice enough to attach a photo of her large cleavage, clad in a leather bra.
But I digress.
Today my IT guy was sitting at my computer, fixing whatever was wrong with it, and my gmail was nice enough to send me an alert, that pops up right in the corner of my screen, showing me when I get new emails. “ADULTFINDERS—tittyfucker has sent you an email.” Yea. There was no hiding that.
Well. I guess there are worse things than your coworkers thinking that you’re a swinger…right? Maybe it'll earn me some clout in the office.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Dear Inconsiderate Assholes That Live Across the Way
For the love of all things holy, dear neighbors of mine, please get yourselves some blinds. Or a shade for your lamp. Or at the very least, stop shining your God forsaken lightbulb right into my freaking apartment.
I’m not sure why, exactly, you feel the need to blind me with your 500 megawatt bulb. Is it so that you can see into my apartment better? Dear Neighbors, I think we have already established that I am an exhibitionist, and I don’t care what you see.
If you do need to get a better look at my fabulous tits, ass, and get a closeup of the minutae of my boring everyday life, would it be too much to ask to turn the fucking light OFF when you go to bed at night?
Is it really necexsary to have it blaring at 3am when I can clearly see into your apartment and know that you are not even up anymore? Is it really necessary that I am going to have to start wearing sunglasses to bed in order to stave off your stupid incessant glaring lamp?
Perhaps when I post up a giant poster-sized note to you in the window tonight, you will get the hint.
Sincerely,
A Sleep Deprived Cheese
I’m not sure why, exactly, you feel the need to blind me with your 500 megawatt bulb. Is it so that you can see into my apartment better? Dear Neighbors, I think we have already established that I am an exhibitionist, and I don’t care what you see.
If you do need to get a better look at my fabulous tits, ass, and get a closeup of the minutae of my boring everyday life, would it be too much to ask to turn the fucking light OFF when you go to bed at night?
Is it really necexsary to have it blaring at 3am when I can clearly see into your apartment and know that you are not even up anymore? Is it really necessary that I am going to have to start wearing sunglasses to bed in order to stave off your stupid incessant glaring lamp?
Perhaps when I post up a giant poster-sized note to you in the window tonight, you will get the hint.
Sincerely,
A Sleep Deprived Cheese
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Funny Little People
Something that most people I know find really bizarre is that my boyfriend and my parents live three blocks away from each other, and, until yesterday, had never met. In fact, they have never been within 100 feet of each other, as far as I am aware.
This was due to a number of things, mainly, that, according to one of my friends, I am a "funny little person". In addition to this, my parents and I are not the closest of families, and we are not ones to just "get together" in a casual way. Thus making any meeting between them and the boyfriend the most awkward of situations, as any meeting between the two parties would most clearly be a big to-do, almost like a Beehive Coming Out party. And I really didn't want that kind of pressure.
In all the times that I have stayed at the boyfriend's place, I have never bumped into my parents. In the entire year and change that we have been dating, I have seen my parents once, from afar. And I hid, if I recall, behind a tree.
Now, I'm not a TOTAL psycho. They know I'm dating a boy named Beehive. They know he lives nearby, and that I spend a lot of time there.
Lately, they have been asking a LOT of questions. And these are not question-asking people.
OK. So I know the time is coming that I have to marry the two camps of Beehive and Mr and Mrs Cheese.
I've been racking my brain, trying to figure out how to go about it without making a big huge deal. Do I invite them all over to my house for wine and cheese? Do we all just meet for brunch in the neighborhood? Do I bring him to a family function to deflect all attention from him?
Yesterday, I was coming back to the Beehive Nest from the gym, and stopped at my usual Starbucks for a post-workout Mocha.
I heard someone call my name, looked up, and there before me was my dad. This, as I have mentioned, has never, ever happened. How is this possible? My luck had been so good up until now!
It turned out he was waiting for my mother to show up-oh joy!- and they were going to grab some lunch.
Both seemed to be in good spirits, excited to see me, going as far as seeing a friend of theirs on the street and pulling him into the Starbucks--my mother practically getting run down in the street while flagging the guy down--so he could see their daughter. Look, she exists! Look, she does tricks!
So I took the bull by the horns, and invited Beehive to meet us for lunch.
I know I know, what a cruel thing to do, catching him off guard like that. Fuck it. It was now or never! The parents were in rare form, and I was going to take advantage of it!
My freshly shaved, contact-lens wearing boyfriend showed up, and the questions began.
“So, how do you like the neighborhood?”
Translation: How many times have you banged my daughter today?
“Where do you work?”
Translation: Do you fuck her in the bedroom, or do you sometimes spice it up a bit?
“Have you ever eaten here before?”
Tramslation: “Are you planning on impregnating my daughter and giving us grandchildren anytime soon?”
Ok, I’m exaggerating just a tad.
The non-question asking people stayed true to form and didn't bombard him with annoying queries, instead they politely continued their conversation and snuck peeks at him when he thought they weren't looking. Probably trying to figure out if he was indeed as young as he looked, and had their daughter been trolling the local high schools again?
I will say that my father was as giddy as a schoolgirl during cheerleading tryouts...and was quite friendly and open. The only time I ever see him behave in this fashion is when he is around extremely cute people.
So I guess my father thinks my boyfriend is a hottie. Go me!
This was due to a number of things, mainly, that, according to one of my friends, I am a "funny little person". In addition to this, my parents and I are not the closest of families, and we are not ones to just "get together" in a casual way. Thus making any meeting between them and the boyfriend the most awkward of situations, as any meeting between the two parties would most clearly be a big to-do, almost like a Beehive Coming Out party. And I really didn't want that kind of pressure.
In all the times that I have stayed at the boyfriend's place, I have never bumped into my parents. In the entire year and change that we have been dating, I have seen my parents once, from afar. And I hid, if I recall, behind a tree.
Now, I'm not a TOTAL psycho. They know I'm dating a boy named Beehive. They know he lives nearby, and that I spend a lot of time there.
Lately, they have been asking a LOT of questions. And these are not question-asking people.
OK. So I know the time is coming that I have to marry the two camps of Beehive and Mr and Mrs Cheese.
I've been racking my brain, trying to figure out how to go about it without making a big huge deal. Do I invite them all over to my house for wine and cheese? Do we all just meet for brunch in the neighborhood? Do I bring him to a family function to deflect all attention from him?
Yesterday, I was coming back to the Beehive Nest from the gym, and stopped at my usual Starbucks for a post-workout Mocha.
I heard someone call my name, looked up, and there before me was my dad. This, as I have mentioned, has never, ever happened. How is this possible? My luck had been so good up until now!
It turned out he was waiting for my mother to show up-oh joy!- and they were going to grab some lunch.
Both seemed to be in good spirits, excited to see me, going as far as seeing a friend of theirs on the street and pulling him into the Starbucks--my mother practically getting run down in the street while flagging the guy down--so he could see their daughter. Look, she exists! Look, she does tricks!
So I took the bull by the horns, and invited Beehive to meet us for lunch.
I know I know, what a cruel thing to do, catching him off guard like that. Fuck it. It was now or never! The parents were in rare form, and I was going to take advantage of it!
My freshly shaved, contact-lens wearing boyfriend showed up, and the questions began.
“So, how do you like the neighborhood?”
Translation: How many times have you banged my daughter today?
“Where do you work?”
Translation: Do you fuck her in the bedroom, or do you sometimes spice it up a bit?
“Have you ever eaten here before?”
Tramslation: “Are you planning on impregnating my daughter and giving us grandchildren anytime soon?”
Ok, I’m exaggerating just a tad.
The non-question asking people stayed true to form and didn't bombard him with annoying queries, instead they politely continued their conversation and snuck peeks at him when he thought they weren't looking. Probably trying to figure out if he was indeed as young as he looked, and had their daughter been trolling the local high schools again?
I will say that my father was as giddy as a schoolgirl during cheerleading tryouts...and was quite friendly and open. The only time I ever see him behave in this fashion is when he is around extremely cute people.
So I guess my father thinks my boyfriend is a hottie. Go me!
Friday, January 12, 2007
A Visit To My Therapist
This morning, while sitting in the rapist's office, I regaled her with tales of my youth. Somehow we got onto the subject of losing my virginity.
"I wasn't having sex in high school," I insisted.
"But you were doing SOMETHING with your high school boyfriend?" she prodded. "Making out at least?"
"Oh sure," I thought back to innocent me, 20 years ago. "I mean, by the end of senior year I was definitely touching his weiner."
The rapist doubled over in such a way I thought I was going to have to perform CPR on her. I realized, after a moment, that the woman was laughing uncontrollably.
"Weiner? Is that what you call it?"
I nodded.
"I guess you have bigger problems than referring to male genitals as weiners." She surmised.
Worth every penny of the $150 an hour I pay her, I tell ya.
"I wasn't having sex in high school," I insisted.
"But you were doing SOMETHING with your high school boyfriend?" she prodded. "Making out at least?"
"Oh sure," I thought back to innocent me, 20 years ago. "I mean, by the end of senior year I was definitely touching his weiner."
The rapist doubled over in such a way I thought I was going to have to perform CPR on her. I realized, after a moment, that the woman was laughing uncontrollably.
"Weiner? Is that what you call it?"
I nodded.
"I guess you have bigger problems than referring to male genitals as weiners." She surmised.
Worth every penny of the $150 an hour I pay her, I tell ya.
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