Oxymorons & Hangovers

Much of the same

From DOL:

Even The Specials got back together. Call me if you’re feeling washed up.

I fear we’re in a for a karmic doozy when I think about what we put hotel maids through.

I knew we wouldn’t last because you used the wrong version of “you’re” in almost every one of your emails.

As it turns out, every song ever written is about you. I had no idea you were so popular.

I hid when I saw you at the store because the truth felt too callous: “I’m sorry, I just can’t date a guy who has lived in LA for years and doesn’t know to take Fountain when Sunset Boulevard is backed up.”

I left because you threw the frying pan at my head, and the thing I miss most is your cheesy eggs.

Turns out you can handle not being the cute one in a relationship.

For loves lost, er something

A friend from elsewhere (the oft-referenced private site) shared a link to Dear Old Love and I. cannot. stop.

"You're still the only one I want in my zombie shelter."

"You are a gigantic ass. And not the good kind of gigantic ass, like my ass."

They are all my best friends.

That's all I got.

-Pretty Lush

Approaching quarter century

At the dawn of my twenty-fourth birthday, before the sun even came up, I was greeted by a trash strewn house, courtesy of mine truly, Lucy. Not only the bathroom trash, but the bedroom trash as well. Because she goes above and beyond that which is required of an ASSHOLE. I decided no amount of dirty tissues and disgust would deter me from having a fabulous Friday, so Kiddo and I readied and left the house (early, even!) to realize I’d locked us out. The windows were most certainly resistant to my break-in attempts and the back slider was locked, because I was responsible with only the back half of my house. Responsibility and preparedness – I haz no lack. Roomie came to the rescue while Kiddo and I killed time taking pictures and cuddling on the hood of my car.

 

Work sucked. Really, horribly hard. But my desk was a mess with decorations and cards, which was sweet as hell. And fancy Japanese bar was more than pleasant afterward, what with the one dollar hot sake bottles (!) and my fabulous co-workers. I loved them so hard that night. This may or may not have had any relation to the sake haze I was seeing through.

On Saturday, I was appropriately hungover and yet required to prepare for more shenans at my birthday party, hosted by a gaggle of beautiful women, making and buying delicious food and decorating with black and purple streamers, which I attempted to help with but they did not cooperate. Streamer fail is a running theme in every party, me thinks. They are evil. There are many pictures documenting the night though I have none to prove it happened. Which is probably for the best.

Much of the early half of the night is a fog, but through friends, I hear there was a lap dance and I came home with about a half dozen bottles of rum because I am a notorious fiend. Some amount of these will accompany Ree and I on our Vegas trip in FOUR! days. She is currently home in some malicious amount of pain and I’m under a six thousand pound, three-day headache and possibly some horrible heartburn (I don’t know how to identify this) and I sincerely hoping we’re without pain and sickness for the weekend in Sin City.

Stripping down a birthday celebration to its core – getting together to celebrate someone’s existence – is pretty fucking cool when you think about it. I’m silly grateful for all the crazy fuckers that came by and had a good time with me.

Sunday was greasy breakfast and nap time and an embarrassing amount of laziness on my part until I went to a bar with some hot ladies and watched them line dance. I couldn't join though. I had plastic cups of beer to watch over and a shocking lack of coordination.

-Pretty Lush

Instead of skanking...

From the Mouth of a Six-Year-Old:

“Mom, when Rheanna killed that spider last night, I was feeling apprehensive.”

This has been From the Mouth of a Six-Year-Old.

 

Kiddo would sustain on whup cream alone if I let her.

I forgot to mention the fact that for about fifteen minutes, I was in front of my speech class with my group trying to re-orchestrate our parts around the fact that one girl didn’t show up. One of the guys turned and whispered furiously, “She’d better be having a baby.” It was strangely calm – I remember my stomach turning when I had to present anything in school. I had to do a ten minute speech on an entrepreneur of my choice (Richard Branson) during sophomore year in high school and it was the first speech I ever gave that I didn’t completely fucking panic about. Figure that was about nine years ago (oh my gah) and it’s only gotten easier. I was shocked.

Next up: demonstrative speech. Followed by: Persuasive speech. I’m getting all gay marriage rights on those cats for the latter.

Kiddo and Ree and I played Wii last night. There is a dancing challenge on the Raving Rabbids game where you use the remote and the Nunchuck to follow the dance moves on screen. My neighbor took video of us waving our hands in the air and thrusting around. I nearly nail Kiddo in the head with my remote. It’s quite the hilarious work out.

I’ve been watching Trust Me. I’ve been nostalgic for Love Monkey for too long, so when I saw the trailer for a show with Tom Cavanagh in the work place, I figured, close enough. And it’s actually quite good.

While on a quick break from the Vonnegut stack I got in the mail from my friend Kevin, I picked up Odd Thomas, by Dean Koontz, because it's been on my shelf for over a year. Koontz is great for story telling and convincing the reader of the impossible  through very intelligent prose. There was a period of time that I couldn't get enough of him - then I see sentences like, "The bumps on my skin indicated that I should have feathers and a beak..." instead of, I HAZ GOOSEBUMPS, and I remember why I can only do one or two of his novels a year. (Believe it or not, I went through this insatiable stage with Danielle Steel too.) Which isn't to say I have a leg to stand on but for some reason that sentence really pissed me off.

Yeah, I think it's hilarious too, that I of all people, just criticized a well known, very talented writer. BA HA. HA.

The Specials are playing on my work computer and I’m yawning. There should be no yawning in ska.

-Pretty Lush

Very possible that this made my week

Seriously.

Reiterate

Example # 2,491 why I adore Joe Rogan:

"…the importance of being positive. Being friendly to people and spreading positive energy is what I believe to be the most important ingredients in having a happy life. And it’s one of the least understood as well. Being nice to people is not just as simple as extending a courtesy, I think there’s something else going on with it. It energizes you. It removes stress for both people. We can make each other feel better.
It doesn’t just make them feel better; it makes you feel better too for doing it.
I think we are connected in ways we don’t really understand.
Ever think about someone and they call you? What the fuck is that about?
It’s almost like we have this incredible thing in human consciousness, but we don’t have a manual for it, so there’s all sorts of features that we’re not aware of, and we’re not really sure how to operate it correctly, but one of the most important things about this incredible consciousness is that it feeds off of positive energy."

And # 2,492: a brilliant letter to Kellogg's that cracked my shit up.

Valentine’s weekend was wonderful. For the first time in a long time, I lost in poker. After about six hours of playing, I could no longer see straight and the wine and vodka had worn off completely.

I was feeling a little spunky (I can’t even say that word without hearing it repeated in my favorite wallaby, Rocko’s, voice) on Saturday and actually curled my hairz.



It’s unlike me to wear any makeup beyond a layer of cover up (which is probably overused because mentally, I’m still an acne-ridden eighth grader), and a flick of black eyeliner. I don’t do skirts, dresses or heels on a regular basis and save the dressing up for the once or twice a year I attend something worthy, like a wedding or funeral. I’m not wholly opposed to being uber-femme. It’s just not me. I’m not comfortable being anything other than a tomboy. On days like Saturday, when I’m in a very girly top and flats with a fucking bow on them and curled hairs, I feel very much like I’m acting. I thought by now I’d have a tighter grasp on my comfort levels and Who I Am and all that shit. I still don’t quite have it. Or maybe I do and I just don’t own it yet. Someone recently described themselves as bi-everything. I feel that, wholeheartedly. A little bit of this but also a little bit of that, somewhere in the middle, I can find myself.

What a wanker.

Kiddo had herself a real play date yesterday with her BFF. She’s always been the only child, even when her and I lived in a house full of people. Obviously, I don’t follow her around at school so I don’t often see the personality that comes out when she interacts with a peer. She’s quite the introvert as is, preferring solo activities that ask for very little interaction with anyone else. She strikes me as surprisingly intelligent and mature for a six-year-old, but when in the company of someone her own age, she really shows another side. There’s more competition and she’s expectedly a lot more energetic. What shocked me most was when they rode side by side on their scooters around the block, taking the occasional tumble, how she’d get right back up. Like a fluid motion, she’d fall sideways, roll back to standing, and pedal off. But I KNOW if it were just her and I, there’d be tears and cold washcloths (the panacea to everything from a headache to being tired, according to her) and she’d swear off the scooter for life. Though the brave Kiddo may require a stock of Band-Aids in the abode, I quite like this rarely unveiled adventurer.

-Pretty Lush

PS. updated About section.

That dog

From the Mouth of a Six-Year-Old:

Attempting to pull on her high top Chucks, she complained, “This is hard. I just need to show some perseverance.”

This has been, From the Mouth of a Six-Year-Old.

I could get really ranty on Valentine’s Day exclusions and expectations and over-crowded restaurants and gender roles, and really, why wouldn’t I? I am nothing if not cynical and coldhearted. But in the words of someone I adore, ‘I love love.’ It makes me happy, with or without a sig-o. So I brought Happy Bunny valentines to my co-workers and sent Kiddo off with her cartoon ones to hand out in class.
Last year I got drunk with awesome kids at the bar and this year I’m playing poker. I vow to avoid the dinner crowd foreva.

The abode is in need of repair. Just some minor adjustments to make life easier and a little better to look at, like, window coverings and a washing machine, for starters. I’m not head-over-heels for aesthetics despite working in some form of interior design for the past four years, but hand-me-down chic is only passable for so long. Today we bought a dog door that installs on to the back slider so the pups, er, Lucy, can stop ruining the carpet. Lucy has been impossible to potty train and has resulted in the replacement of the dining room floor. We didn’t much want carpet there anyhow, and it looks immensely better with the vinyl my dad installed. During the day, she has to stay outside both for this reason and the fact that she EATS EVERYTHING. Not just women’s underwear, although those do disappear at an alarming rate. She has chewed a hole or two in the couch and splintered the wood piece we lodge into the sliding door to double lock it. She has destroyed two pairs of prescription glasses, one five hundred dollar mouth guard (I’m a grinder), two remote controls, half my wardrobe, and one sex toy.
I know what you’re thinking – why do I still have this dog?
I DON’T KNOW.
Lucy is charming and sweet and such a lover. She’s very hard to be upset with but sometimes when I survey her damage, it takes every ounce of control not to demonstrate just how batshit insane I can go. Rheanna has been the wonder-friend in aiding my dog loving persona. She only attempted murder one time, guys! (I kid.)
During the rainy days, Lucy is an inside dog. We close off the bedrooms and bathrooms, and move anything she might chew out of her reach. And still… last week when I came home, there were no couch cushions on the couch, but scattered across the living room, and a handful of pens she had found, ground up to pieces. So long as we practice very careful damage control, she’s a minimal risk, and she’s gotten immensely better with her bladder since she started realizing we always come home. I wish she would just take a lesson from Rylie and SIT FUCKING STILL.

Lucy is a (dim) light in my life, but she will absolutely be the death of me.

-Pretty Lush

FUMING

It’s very likely that if you have access to the radio, you’ve heard commercials for a certain dating website that caters to married folks. Not a swingin’ site – a cheatin’ site. I refuse to advertise so if you don’t know what I’m talking about, you need only to know that it exists for the sole purpose of hooking people up for ‘discreet affairs.’ Because, ‘life’s short,’ so we should, ‘have an affair.’

I’m no stellar example of what one half of a relationship should be, nor would I particularly excel in marriage any time soon. I think if you’re the type of person that is going to have an affair, this website does not make you any more likely to do so, maybe just lessens the struggle of meeting someone available and with discretion. An escalator to that floor, in place of a flight of stairs, if you will.

My concern lies in the recent, very public argument on Proposition 8, which requested and received the ban on gay marriage. (Black list of funders here, though I promise no accuracy.) Weren’t the close-minded, cave-dwelling bigots chanting ‘Protect Marriage’ from behind their picket fences and within the stained-glass walls of their church? Wasn’t that slogan printed boldly on the signs blanketing my entire fucking neighborhood, and all surrounding cities, that found their way straight into the nearest Dumpster? Wasn’t that the cry for help, beat into California voters’ heads? Because ‘marriage is sacred’ and if you enjoy genitals like your own, you must have no concept of that or love?

WHERE’S THE MULTI-MILLION DOLLAR CAMPAIGN AGAINST THE FUCKING AFFAIR ADVOCATES?

WHERE ARE THOSE SIGNS? WHERE IS THAT PROPAGANDA? WHERE ARE THOSE LIES?

I’m just sayin’.

I called the local radio station this morning when they opened the lines to how people felt about these ads being played on their station. The screener turned me away because it wasn’t about the concept of the site; but about the feelings regarding the ads on that particularly station.

So I took it out on my blog, instead.

-Pretty Lush

Another example of my protege

Everyone knows it's the Funniest Thing Ever when someone eats shit.

I have this particularly baggy pair of black pajama pants that I bought for an especially long and worrisome flight, worn when cozing around the house always. Twice in the past week, they have betrayed me. In their bagginess, they have all but absorbed my foot when I step forward and taken me down, once landing hard on my shin for an audience and once into the bathroom door that not-so-softly caught me mid-fall. Graceful, I am not.

Ha ha ha. You're welcome.

Last night I sat Kiddo down with a stack of blank cards and a list of people to address them to. I gave her the basic concept of, ‘tell them something nice to thank them for coming to your party.’ One of the notes said, “Are you glad that I love you? Love, Kiddo.” Another said, “Are you happy my party was fun? Love, Kiddo.” Of the six, there was a different message in every one, every word spelled correctly except the one to my brother, addressed: dear unckle. I am blown away by this kid’s ability to read and write every single day. Not to mention THRILLED.

Laura Silverman is flippin’ hot, I realized.

The weather left me in a state of shock yesterday. I haven’t seen such heavy rain in a long time. Multiple times the sun peaked out, only to disappear and leave us in a downpour. Luckily there was no rain during either of my freeway commutes because PEOPLE BE STUPID. A little rain makes for a lot of idiots.

Vegas countdown: eighteen days.

-Pretty Lush

Timebomb

My chestal region down to my knees is in pain right now. It hurts more than usual to breathe. This started last night when I had drifted into almost-sleep and decided I was okay with shallow breathing all night if it meant I could avoid getting up. Moving even an inch is enough to wake a sleeping Lucy and life is hell from there.

My weekends switch between debauch, late nights and domestic mommy & me nights. This weekend involved an overcrowded hipster bar (vomit) with me Ma and co., Club Broadway (much more hunch-over-your-drink-at-the-bar than disco-ball-club), a beer and appetizer dinner at Chili’s, Hamburger Mary’s for dancing, drinking and losing my ass in pool, endless mimosas and brunch as per usual, and finally, finally: a night on the couch with mah programs (L Word & Tara). You can guess what kinda weekend it was. It’s also very safe to say that liver needs rejuvenating via electric shock.

I thought about and discussed marriage this weekend. There was a time that I was ready and would have done it on a whim. Being that I am barely twenty-four (in eleven days), that is one frightening thought to have. I am grateful for many things, but more than most, grateful I did not. I don’t think I’m cut out for it. I have no desire for marriage. Commitment, maybe. But being someone’s wife is just not a role I want to play. While some corner of my mind fancies paper lantern decorations and the perfect red dress, I can say with confidence that I Don’t Wanna. I’m told I’ll change my mind. To which I respond: you don’t know the extent of my stubbornness.

(Maybe it boils down to too much Tom Leykis in the afternoon? I know... BAD feminist! BAD!)

I also think of babies. Whether we acknowledge it or not, I think all women have that biological clock that years and years of tradition and gender roles have made natural in us. But I’m part of a generation full of people that are deciding never to have kids – or hitting the permanent snooze on that clock. A lot of us reject stereotypical gender roles altogether. Lord knows I’m a raging bitch when someone calls me Mrs. Kiddo’s-Last-Name. Because I gave birth, I must be married? And I took his name? My generation doesn’t have to have one to have the other – no fucking thank you.
I do adore the idea of having a little man – a boy to spoil and Mohawk and rough house with. But my resistance to marriage is about as adamant as my resistance to pregnancy. I don’t ever want to do that again. I was always fairly thin (before my pregnancy with Kiddo) – I mean, I’ve had the hips and ass forever, but the rest was slim. Then I got pregnant and I was all but squealing with delight to be big and round. Aside from that, my body was fucking tortured. I developed excruciating sciatica and varicose veins that my doctors said rivaled even her worst cases. I was working at the grocery store and it was pretty routine to find me hunched over – because of the pain in my lower half or the fact that I always wanted to vomit. If I’m going to ever do the mom thing again, it’ll be by adoption or having my spice (that's spouse in Lush speak) carry. Guess that part all depends on where I end up and I’m perfectly okay with not ‘ending up’ anywhere quite yet.

So why is it in my head right now?

-Pretty Lush