Oxymorons & Hangovers

Good things

Something really cool about this intense and overwhelming happiness I've been flooded with in my almost-week of sobriety is that I seem to be attracting goodness. This cannot be said often and cannot be relished enough.

In the last five days:

-I got a free treadmill from Freecycle that was not only given to me by a very sweet man near my house but it has a manual crank for the speed and height adjustments. It's the most charming thing out of 1988 and I probably love it more than I ever would love a fancy one.

-I kept a treadmill out of a landfill! I have personally ensured we'll all live another day.

-I made friends with the most difficult, stubborn and downright abrasive personality at work.

-I'm rarely approached or spoken to by strangers because apparently I have a big stinkin' fuck-you-vibe (true story) but the other night I sat a table that was sort of kind of occupied by some others in the bar and the boy across from me demanded I arm wrestle him for my seat. And I think he expected a frilly little reaction but I told him, "Bring it." And then I won. Er, we won, being that I had a little help from my lady friend Kristine. Point being: big stinkin' fuck-you vibe may be less big and perhaps not as stinkin'.

-A sexy boy bought me a fantastic veggie burger the other day. I may or may not have made a baby with him one time.

-I have a bigger, stronger support network than I ever knew. Apparently you just gotta ask (or sometimes, not) and they mesh into this big, sparkly net and tell you they'll catch you if you fall.

-I have never felt or been so productive in my life. (See: my backyard, my cleaned out car, my organized bills, my appointment that should have been made months, if not years ago...)

-I went to my fourth Dodger game of the season this week!

-My boys have the best record in baseball and made an amaaaaazing comeback last night. (5-1 D'Backs in the 8th, 6-5 Dodgers in the end.)

-I have been working out regularly with my new-old treadmill or the perfect chilled evenings outdoors.

-I purged my entire wardrobe of the skinny pants that only depress me. If I were to lose the weight to get back in them, I'd have an excuse to shop. For now, another girl can rock all my awesome capris and jeans. I feel great about this.

-I live with these sexy cats:

 

-And I'm related to these ones:

The list goes on, but any more and I'm just bragging.

*glee*

-Pretty Lush

Happy Birthday to O&H

Yesterday marked two years here at Typepad for Oxymorons & Hangovers. Considering my layout has only changed once there’s hasn’t been much physical development but I think my writing has evolved considerably. I became familiar with my personal style in a way I wouldn’t have in writing shitty fiction. Not to mention there exists another written account of the day-to-day happenings that no one but me cares about and I’m less likely to forgot the time that Kiddo was my ‘little doctor’ or the time she used apprehensive in a sentence and I subsequently fainted.

I don’t know how much longer I’ll keep it up, but I hope to be here a while.

Three day weekend highlights:
-1 Dodger win
-2 days spent with my younger sister

-1 backyard party with...
-1 awesome cover band
-487 mimosas at champagne brunch
-1 beautiful, heavenly and rare nap

The Dodger/Angel series this weekend was exciting despite my boys losing two out of three. They were all really good games and lest we forget how much they ROCK, they scored 16 runs yesterday. Because showing mercy is for bitches.

I thought it would look super cool if I burned around a halter top and left the awesome ass-white shirt shape to glare off my red skin so Kiddo’s dad and I took Kiddo to Huntington Beach yesterday with every other human being in southern California. Christ, I forgot it was Memorial Day (“Mem-roll Day,” if you ask Kiddo) until I saw the $12 parking fee in the normally free lot. Vendors took advantage of the crowd and set up shop along the strip, right off the pier where I was tempted by exquisite art and handmade jewelry. Having been worn out from the sun (& bronzed a perfect gold, lil wench), Kiddo collapsed into bed and I watched movies, which is all I fucking do anymore. I am addicted to seeing something new as often as possible. Hedwig & the Angry Inch was a free On Demand feature and The Reader had arrived in the mail over the weekend.

Prop 8 is in supreme court right this minute and I’m told there should be results in one hour. I’m going to plant myself in front of the flat screen here at work and chew on my hands for a while.

-Pretty Lush

Let's sort this out

Good things:

• The other day, someone left a sucker on my desk. I don’t know who and it tastes better that way.
• Yesterday, a co-worker left me a Rancid promotional domino for their new album Let the Dominos Fall. I am overcome with the urge to throw bones.
• The jasmine in the parking lot at work is more fragrant that I’ve ever realized was possible. I am tempted to pull them up and hide them in my clothes.
• (I settle for jasmine oil in spray form, saturating my shirt as we speak.)
• A friend from over a year ago came back around after a tumultuous split and said essentially, ‘Hey. No more bullshit, k?’
• Freeway series (Angels vs Dodgers) starts tonight and my boys are playing from home.
• I hopped around three bars last night, having beers with a girlfriend, to celebrate my last day of speech and my A in the class. We saw one awesome band and one god awful one.
• I WIN AT SPEECH.
• It’s Friday & payday, all at once.
• My hands are soft and smell like purple. That may sound weird but take one sniff and you’re with me.
• I got an Ipod dock, finally, three or fours years after acquiring my lil black, inscribed Nano. (It says, ‘To my sexy, geeky lover.’)
• I am super tall today, in two inch creepers.

Bad things:

• There is not enough iced coffee in California to keep me from yawning.

-Pretty Lush

Pride: I haz some

Long Beach Pride and its 80,000ish friends took up most of the weekend, as did dancing, beer and exchanging rants about fresh facial piercings and their interference with everything. There was also incredible taquitos and the fuckin’ slumber party of the year. The Vagabond Inn staff can expect a thank you card/apology note for the mess.

Trying to sleep with five girls in two beds anytime before dawn has yet to happen, ever. This should not stop anyone from planning monthly slumber party shenanigans because I have not done that shit since never and I truly appreciate knowing such kickass girls and their contribution to my amazing time will not be forgotten.

Ree & I paid someone to stick needles through us during Pride shenans on Saturday because we're masochistic but now adorned with cute accessories. I poured blood everywhere as a result of the sun and beer intake. And I'm just sayin', when you're a professional skin poker, maybe don't show your customer how freaked out you are because her nose is spilling blood all over. Fake it, for fuck's sake.

I don’t know if it’s as simple as a celebration based entirely on sexuality or the fact that there are so many really cool, really friendly people all in the same place, bringing reunions or new friendships every time you look up, but I was drunk on 100 proof glee all weekend.

And then the Dodgers got twelve runs for the win on Sunday and Kershaw almost pitched his first no-hitter and let me tell you, I was so overwhelmingly happy that I burst, causing a 4.7 earthquake in southern California and consequently scaring the living shit out of my dogs.

On a serious note, I was at a very gory part in my Kill Bill DVD when the house rattled harder than would be caused by low flying jets and helicopters, which is pretty normal considering our proximity to an air force base. This truly enhanced the scene and then I wet myself* when I realized what was really going on.

*I mean ran uselessly out the front door.

-Pretty Lush

Celebrating, writing & complaining

  The texts & calls, champagne & egg sandwich breakfast, time with fam and cards in the mail added up to a super Mother's Day. It rocked and my frenz&fam rock for making me feel special.

Me Ma’s super secret surprise was awesome field level seats at the Dodger game on Sunday. We took my little sister and my Babycake McSugarbritches and saw thirteen innings that eventually led to a loss, but it was a damn good game. I yelled myself hoarse when in the extra innings, the Giants scored and Casey Blake came back with the sole homerun of the game to re-tie. ‘Twas very exciting, indeed.

The pic is me and my gorgeous baby sis.

I haven’t been expelling as much drivel at O & H lately because in my free time I started writing fiction again. I am not programmed to do this, as I cannot see a plot to its end unless of course, its end is a crappy, untimely death, and then I will definitely see it through and cry all the damn way. The one thing I did finish in recent years was such shit that had an overall after-school special vibe that I loathed. I still shared it with some folks, hoping for some encouragement or the kind of constructive criticism that doesn’t sting and the only thing that I honestly remember was when, by word of mouth, someone who got off on making me feel like a talent-less shrew told me that their friend said it made him sick. He’s an asshole anyway, but I still refrained from trying for a while.

Though I doubt I’ll finish, the fact that over two weeks has passed and I’m still working out characters and sub plots excitedly makes me really happy. Not like accomplished-happy. Just like, if I’m going to tell people my only passion is the written word, then maybe I should live up to it, even if it is in the privacy of my own PC and all that. Also, eighteen pages and 54,000 word count, BOOYAH.

Kiddo and I went to the beach for a bit on Saturday morning. We had a quick picnic on our towels and when Kiddo tried to narrate our doings, she said, “We’re having a bitch pic—“ and then looked at me like the earth was about to open and swallow her whole, a la Land Before Time, at my command. I said, “Beach picnic. Yep, we are.” Her relief could be felt in middle America.

I sent this little convo to her dad via text, and later, when she was hit by a wave and yelled at the ocean, “What is the meaning of this?!” I sent him that too. He said, “And then she told the Pacific to ‘stop being a picnic. I mean, a bitch.’”

At some point during our tide battling, my septum ring fell out and washed out to sea, I assume. I decided I’m okay with this and will leave it out since it seems my friends and family disagree with my choice in that specific facial piercing anyway, and all I ever hear is that I should get rid of it and re-pierce the side. Majority wins and I am defeated.

Saturday night saw Ree and I at a very small venue not far from our house, taking Captain Morgan shots and waiting for a group of friends to arrive. We met up and got our tickets to go inside. My friend Becky was friends with an opener that night, who was surprisingly good, but it was still totally awkward for me, as this was a rap/hip hop show and Method Man was headlining. I tried to compare the frenzy and excitement the two hundred people or so had to see him with how I would feel about a band/musician I loved but the vibe was lost entirely on me. I try not to be the one to write off a genre, having opened up a lot to underground hip hop and even some catchy, crappy pop (but if the words ‘poker face’ are uttered in my presence ONE MORE TIME I will use deadly force to apprehend the utterer) but I am just not much of a rap fan and never will be. This doesn’t change the fact that the night was a lot of fun but the crowd and overall feel of the place was not for me.

Plus I couldn’t catch a buzz to save my life. I probably would have become a persuaded woman under the influence but there was no such luck.

Oh my god, textsfromlastnight.com is fucking hilarious. (805): she lunged for my junk like it was the cure for swine flu.
Thank you, Jamie!

-Pretty Lush

PS. Art sale over at ShanaLogic. Cute overload, my god.

On motherhood

A certain baseball team from a certain major city in California might be going for a certain record tonight. Think with all your might about the number thirteen. It's a good thing I'm not superstitious, huh?

I think mothers are programmed differently than any other human being. Not just bio-moms, but women in sole care of helpless and fragile  humans they call their own. Which is not to say that fathers aren't but I've yet to hear a man describe a trait similiar to the 'mama bear' instinct.

I'm not saying anything new here, I was just thinking about how last night my dogs went motherfucking ballistic at three is the morning. They both launched from the foot of my bed, shot through the house and out the dog door and began a barking frenzy that surely woke the neighbors. Contrary to my annoyed neighbors' belief, they do not do this for fun or out of boredom. They heard or felt or maybe even smelled something that warranted more than just a curious head tilt. And whether it was an opposum or big scary stalker, I knew, even as my heart beat furiously while I crept through the kitchen to peek outside where they attacked the silence with their shrill barking, that I would positively kill anything or anyone that intended to inflict harm or even posed a possible threat to my child.

If childless, I would have simply ran screaming through my 'hood, despite the fact that I slept in my underwear, and thrown caution to the wind for my belongings. Certainly I would hope with the strength of all hopes that the dogs would follow, but would I stop to pick them up if they didn't? I don't think so. They're ninja-quick and would be left to fight the big scary stalker alone. 

Kiddo slept soundly as usual (she could no doubt snore right through the apocalypse) but had I thought anything was about to harm her, it would take no consideration or pause. I would fight to the death.

Luckily I didn't have to commit homocide and that Tuesday night remained bloodless.

My mom has devised a super secret mother's day plan for me. I think this is incredibly sweet as we tend to spoil our OWN mothers but she is celebrating the role that I play too, even as her daughter, and not even knowing what it is, I still feel so super special, I could burst. Part of the bursting is not knowing the surprise but mostly it's because being a mom is the toughest job you could ever have and that fact being recognized this Sunday is like a huge pay raise in that job.

-Pretty Lush

PS. Check out the lost Easter picture. My sister had it in her cell phone.

 

I could spread this kid on toast, she's so damn cute. Er, edible.

A few of my favorite things

Ultra-conservative (synonymous with: bigots, close-minded a-holes, discriminators, etc) are fighting for another Prop 8 situation in Iowa. The homosexual population has had six days of marriage equality and a lot of morons are up in fuckin’ arms about it and using prayer demonstrations as part of their plot to overturn the law. When your right is being heavily and powerfully fought against, you do not have equality. The real shit is a long time coming and there are no words to express my feelings toward that. Thinking about how this country can simultaneously be in a forward moving fast lane, and yet at a complete stop at the same time. I do not want my daughter growing up under that shit.

I lost my ass in a poker game over the weekend, but it was okay because I knocked a massive, full, freshly poured screwdriver into my own lap with my grand gestures, and it made me feel all better about it.

Yesterday I took a day off and went to Dodgers’ opening day with Ree and her parents. My die hard, long time Angel fan friend donned a blue and white jersey for me and I was so grateful. Don’t tell her friends. We got there early and sat on field level, which I’ve only been lucky enough to do once before. I all but cupped my squeals back, coming back to the stadium after so many months. The weather was perfect, the ceremony was fucking awesome (my first), and I cried my cold but sentimental little bitch heart out. And then the Dodgers took it by TEN runs, showing off for their hometown and promising a fucking incredible season.

I got many, many things from my old boyfriend who turned me on to baseball, but this is what I am most grateful for. I fuckin’ love this shit. Even if it leaves me sun burned.

Coachella is this weekend and the thought of it has been a whirlwind of emotions. I was lucky to attend 2003-04 and 2006-07 with the same person, three out of four trips in the same hotel, pretty much doing the same things every year. And the weekend has always, always been the zenith of my entire year. A lot of people talk about how three days in the desert is not for them, and oh god, it is not for me either. I am not a fun-in the-sun type. I don’t fancy blistering days and tanning and pool-lazing. There’s just something about Coachella that I can’t put into words, but I think the documentary captured what I’m going for here and that’s why it’s really overwhelming to watch. Last year would have been different than all of the previous years. I wasn’t in the same relationship and wasn’t going with the same person I’d always gone with. I could only wonder if I changed my own scenario, would it change my experience. (God, like Coachella is a tab I put on my tongue and then sit back in front of my lava lamp.) It didn’t pan out last year, financially and otherwise, and that was just about to be the case this year as well. It’s looking to be more expensive than I thought and I had to dispute the transaction with the person I bought some tickets from (*shakes fist at private sellers*) but somehow, as of this morning, it is carefully falling back into place, with much depending on my Coachella partner from all my previous trips, but it really looks like we’re going to be able to pull it off and at least attend Saturday and Sunday. Friday’s line up didn’t quite sell me anyway, so I will not complain about missing it.

Here’s hoping, with all my might…

-Pretty Lush

The lovely and the not so

“I just wanted her to know there are honest people left in this world.” I want to hug this woman. I also want to cry at the usage of ‘left in this world,’ as in, ‘slowly dwindling away under a selfish and greedy population.’

My emotional wanking as of late had my awesome, sparkly friend (yes, sparkly) Ashely texting me, ‘Sigh. A tangled web. But at least you rule.’ And yes, there is that. All of my friends that rank in the coveted* top spots on my awesome scale** are scattered throughout the United States. I will procure a giant net, scoop them all up, dump them in Orange County and sprinkle them with win-flavored glee, merriment and libations.

*Though I have not gathered the statistics on exactly how coveted, signs points to very.
**You too can rank high on this scale by simply wearing argyle socks, sharing your dark chocolate or pronouncing ‘supposedly’ with a D.

It wasn’t a wine blush, I was red in the face from yelling at my TV as my lovely, lovely Dodgers gained three runs toward the end of the game last night to take the win. And then I flipped to the Angels, and while a rival, I do like them and willingly go to their games because their mah ninja’s favorite and I love her face. I would have been happy to see them win too. But I just happened to flip the channel when Nomar Garciaparra of the A’s (formerly a Dodger/monster crush of mine) happened to go up to bat with two outs, and then two strikes, and then he RIPPED ONE and then other guys (I don’t know the A’s) RIPPED SOME and then they won and I screamed with joy because it all started with Nomar and I will make love to wear his Dodger jersey with that much more pride.

And then late last night/early this morning, the Angels’ opening pitcher from that game, Nick Adenhart, died in a car accident. He is twenty-two years old. And he fucking died because someone ran a red light. Amazing career or otherwise, too fucking young or otherwise, we are not invincible. And I hate remembering that.

-Pretty Lush

Successful six & super Sunday

Kiddo’s birthday involved multiple party store trips, where I accidentally picked up some items for the upcoming Superbowl party and Valentine’s poker party. By the morning of, all that was left to do was pick up the balloons, game prizes and food. In some twisted scheme, Kiddo’s dad and I pulled off a successful sixth birthday party. I had pulled all but seven hairs from my head and for nothing. Kiddo’s BFF from school came. We’d been dying to meet him and it turns out his mom is just as cool as he is, and they live about fourteen steps from our front door. I sense play dates in the immediate future.

Kiddo’s dad and I got her a Wii so she can enhance and (rightfully) brag about her mad tennis and bowling skillz. We’ll move it to living room sometime this week and Ree and I will inevitably have all-night tournaments. I cannot WAIT to buy Game Party.

Cupcakes consumed, wishes made, balloons released… Some friends and cousins came back to the abode after we’d cleaned our mess at the park. I ordered the pathetic Penn/GSP nightmare and refuse to speak of it.

Sunday began with the almost-usual champagne brunch, where the staff is getting familiar with us not quite by name, but as the girls who need dangerous quantities of champagne, or the girls who put cheese on everything. Which is fair considering one of the employees is known to us as Cheese Guy. They’re a lovely crew and their tortilla soup is unrivaled. Kiddo did math problems in a new activity book because she’s a wonder child.

I’ve never been a professional sports fan unless by association with my dad’s love of the LA Kings and the fact that I accompanied my parents to numerous hockey games as a lad back when they held season tickets. Last year I discovered the Dodgers and, well, I’ve written off saying professional sports are not for me seeing how I yearn for baseball season with feverish passion. However I don’t have a football team. Though almost always an underdog fan, for my safety, I joined Team Steelers and donned an appropriate borrowed jersey.

That game fucking rocked. Ree and I hosted, which involved her running the BBQ and me drinking beer in the house and taking credit for appropriate football decked plates and napkins. I almost spit beer for that Doritos commercial with the crystal ball.

Superbowl preceded L Word, when my phone vibrated with Alice’s mass text to all regarding Shane and Jenny. I signed up for some weird text updates and was giddy excited when that one came through. Then Tara, where I blew up again with Diablo’s clever updates.

I think I love Sundays.

-Pretty Lush

PS: Here we go again, aaaaaaah shiiiiiiiiit!

Going on break

The woes of the clock radio: Serj Tankian’s voice is hardly the one I want to wake up to, ever.

The playoffs were getting more and more exciting until the loss last night (and rife with masculine beef (ew) and politics, which makes for an interesting show, if anything). Kuroda needing a translator to hurl insults and Martin’s getting pegged every other fucking pitch and Manny running with more speed than he ever used on the bases to get in the commotion and inevitably get held back while the crowd waits with baited breath… I love the Dodgers. I will be devastated if I have to watch them fall out of the playoffs but I picked a good year to get sucked into baseball.

Work is consuming me (finally) and I get so many e-mails I develop an anxiety and have to talk myself down. I’ll take what I can get during THE AMERICAN CRISIS but sometimes it is so overwhelming. Today there was lunch with the whole department, supervisor, big boss and CFO. I'm not used to behaving and showing manners in my late afternoon break but I tried. There was a big meeting about the complete renovation of the office. All new furniture, technology, and some sweet unique installations to show the custom possibilities. I had an effin’ stellar review today.

Mama needs a new pair of shoes. Where can I get cheap Docs?

-Pretty Lush