Tuesday, January 30, 2007

Spam Emails Need an Emotional Duress Lawsuit Posed Against Them

I don't have long to post, I have an elliptical appointment beginning in 15 minutes coinciding with the Orange County Housewives (because I have a reality tv addiction that requires intervention).

Do you take a look at the spam in your bulk mail folder? If I were in a depressed state, those emails could sure make me take a turn for the worse. It's like the man out there somewhere is visibly reading into my subconscious, taking every single worry and fear out of my head and making me offers to rid myself of said evils.

For example, here are a few of the messages in my bulk folder today:


Debt Consolidation
Debt consolidation made easy

Global Warming - VOTE for $250
Is Global Warming a SCAM?? Vote YES or NO and earn $250!!!

Scholarship Awards
Time is running out to apply for a $10,000 scholarship

Clear Debt
Don't consolidate debt--Eliminate It!

Online Degrees
Top Online schools you want

24Hour Loan
Enjoy a new car no matter what your credit status is

Find Love
Find your soul mate today.

Pay for College
Apply today for a $10,000 scholarship giveaway

24Hour Car
Get financing for a new car in 60 second

Rewards Request Center
Get a $250 JC Penney Gift Card on us - see details inside

Online Schooling
Start your higher education today

Hoodia Weight Loss
As seen on CBS 60 Minutes - Hoodia Gordonii

Beauty Samples
Sample NEW Body Wash with Body Butter & more!

Military.com
Military Education Benefits

Pay for Education
Apply today for a $10,000 scholarship giveaway

Tax Brain
You could file taxes online at TaxBrain and get cash in as little as 24hrs. Free...

Chewing Gum Samples
Get Your 12 Packs of Dentyne Ice!

I know that gave you a headache reading those crappy email examples. But my point is this: How do these people know that I am currently:

- Overweight and desperately trying to fix it
- Completely broke and fixing to start picking up aluminum cans off the side of the road
- Politically distraught, because George Bush hurts my "Mr.Smith" mentality
- Freaking out about school, because I can't get another student loan ( I only have 10 months
left, people. This really sucks.)

Do they psychically sense my issues over the internet? I know my web surfing doesn't do it, because I'm a pretty savvy web-surfer. It's not like I click on any popups or anything.

But these motherfuc&ers want to cure my money problems, my love needs, my higher education desires, and my political angst. THEY KNOW. The man is out there, lighting up a Camel Light, drinking a nice chilled glass of smirnoff, wearing a chinchilla coat and absentee voting republican while trying to suck me in to his vapid pool of human despair.

Thanks for letting me vent. I got a little worked up. I promise not to pay attention to my bulk folder any longer.

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Good Earth

A long, long time ago, I lived in a greater state of consciousness and plasticity called California. I've noticed that many popular ideas start in that crazy state and then slowly trickle down to the other 48 (Hawaii is on its own always). I think it's mostly because Californians are crazy in a zany hyper way. Always coming up with an idea of what is supposed to be -which explains why we aren't happy- which also explains what we need to get rid of- oh my god aerosol cans are bad for the environment and my hair just won't stay with that stupid pumpie thing - i reach a state of enlightenment when i go to that spin class let's make an appt for forever with steve- do i seem fake?

In California is a chain of restaurants called "The Good Earth". From browsing the web I see it's become a little passe', which is typical for California's 2 year attention span. When I remember it, I specifically remember the location in Westwood (near UCLA, so we could bop over there after visiting the Doctor) and in Palo Alto (same idea, when visiting Doctors at Stanford).

Good Earth was a chain hippie restaurant with vegan/vegetarian food that was actually pretty good. If I had a chef making me their food every day I would totally go vegan. But that is besides the point. And my love for the decor incepted my passion for color...kind of antiquity mexican but closer to laid-back key west bahamian. Color makes us feel good. Without it, in those sparing drab modernist crap enviroscapes promoted by bad people, we are not passionate. We are zombies like Ed Norton's character in "Fight Club" contemplating the new item in the IKEA catalog.

Back to the Good Earth.

There was a distinct smell in there. Like spices only recently discovered in India or the tropics that we absolutely can't do without. It was intoxicating and calming and settled your anxious pathetic little worries. I remember my Dad, workaholic Type A, visibly chilling out and letting us just sit and marinate in a booth there. For over an hour. I've never known the man to appreciate a restaurant that way.

My point is this: I ran out of coffee, and I'm too lazy to go buy any. I actually just realized that I haven't left the house in 2 days. Whatever.

I have a box of Good Earth tea, which they sell at Ingles Publix Kroger whatever. It's just in the stinking tea aisle. Get the original blend, and smell the box. It's decaffeinated but I guess I don't care I'm pretending I'm on an ashram and am de-toxifying so it's okay I'm totally craving a cigarette and a triple espresso.

Oh, and if you're interested, read about Good Earth and the inception of Macintosh.
http://folklore.org/StoryView.py?project=Macintosh&story=Good_Earth.txt
and then you can truly understand the Good Earth's impact on pop california-hippie culture.

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Monday, January 29, 2007

Monday Mind Muddling with a Desperate Egoist

I'm craving intimacy. Awareness. Someone who understands how I tick and wants to hold my hand. I'm not usually needy, but I know when I do need.

I'm supposed to focus on my five strengths when I'm unhappy or afraid. Taking one of these strengths, I should analyze how I have used it in the recent past to better my life.

Yesterday I went through this very unsettling state of self-loathing, brought about by a pivotal event of awareness. Reality. The state of affairs in my life and in others. I have a hard time understanding who I am as a culmination of the past ten years. My preference is to self-actualize my life in 1996. All events since then I recall in a negative light. This faulty self-actualization actually poses a lot of problems for me. I am stunned when I glimpse myself in the mirror - who is that person? In the early morning, before I wake my daughter, I watch her breathe deeply with that goldfishy open/shut mouth thing going on. I can't believe I'm a mother. A mother who doesn't particularly like children. In 1996 kids amazed me inspired me set me feeling alive.

So in trying to understand the relationships I've created - whether based in reality or not - I just came to an eye-opening conclusion. You see, my #2 strength, according to the 5 signature strengths test http://www.authentichappiness.sas.upenn.edu/ is:

Appreciation for Excellence and Beauty

And in this moment of clarity that sure does mean a lot to me.

You see, I was trying to figure out this relationship from the past. It was confused and nebulous and meant a lot while only meaning very little. Like a lot of relationships, I suppose. Sometimes when you are with someone you have these lucid glimpses of them...their "soul" I guess you'd call it. When you see this organic focused vision of a person's true identity, it usually lends itself to either absolutely hating that person or absolutely craving more of them. The latter is the kind of relationship I describe. Little words, not much depth or time spent, but enough quick little glimpses of soul to render me in a dumbfounded state. Unable to do anything else but hope to see more glimpses.

I think people make the mistake of calling these glimpses a "connection". Because they aren't. Not really. I'm sure if you take enough of these glimpses added together, and they are two-sided, then that means a connection. Like a cat staring in the mirror absolutely enamored of that other beautiful kitty staring back.

It has been my misfortune that I get these visions of people pretty regularly. Sometimes they are awful - a true testament of the ugliness that can reside within. In those cases I usually avoid that person or shut myself off somewhat.

When they are amazing visions I'm screwed. I'm usually so incredibly amazed at what I'm witnessing that I crave more immediately. I can hold out, knowing that accumulating more of these identifying experiences takes time. And people usually freak when you dig your heels in and demand time.

It's my discovery that I fall in love too easily and much for the wrong reasons. It seems that my #2 strength,

Appreciation for Excellence and Beauty

doesn't exactly make me a genius. I get a glimpse of someone's innate character strengths, abilities, or potential for the above. When this experience truly reveals someone's amazing talents or beautiful nature....I'm screwed. Enamored. Realize that my own talents are normal and meaningless in comparison. And somehow I've seen this person at their best, usually before a lot of other people have caught on, too. Mine. I can collect them like art, these individuals with their potential, and be a paparazzi-like eyewitness: there to see the entire creative process from beginning to end.

Digging even deeper into this weird semi-psychic aura-reading appreciation for unnatural talent, I realize that most of the people I have established deep bonds with fall under this in some way shape or form.

My Best Friend: Not only can she sing, and send shivers down my spine, but she can play piano, which I figured out a long time ago I'll never be able to do. But I don't think these human-crafted talents were what drew me to her. I saw this generous, warm person willing to hug me, kiss my forehead, and shower affection and adoration on me. It isn't often you meet someone like that who can give you that kind of love when you need it. Because at one time or another, we're all scared little puppies in the rain (or at an away-football game 10 miles from home).

My Man Z: There is only one other time in my life that I've met a man as sensitive as I am, wearing their heart on their sleeve. The other guy allowed this sensitivity to permeate so deep within he's effeminate, and is now self-actualizing being gay because he was always told he was. Z is different. The effeminate parts are hidden. In fact, quite often he comes off growly. Grizzled old man. But there is something there so touching and sweet and little-boy like...vulnerable. Willing to understand my ever-increasing list of character faults and vulnerabilities because he's fully aware of his own. The fact that Z can share that sensitivity with so many people - close friends and family - renders him excellent in my eyes. Most would be too afraid to show that tender fragile side that gets hurt quite easily. I was always intrigued what it would be like to have my sensitive empathic part combine with his equally sensitive empathic part. And now I know. We do maximize these traits to the fullest together, which could be considered a vulnerable liability on its own. Somehow I think others are inspired by it, though. The fact that we didn't run from finding our doppelganger counter.

And so on. The seemingly effortless scholar, who realized my intense fascination and made me his booty call for almost two years. The alterna-athlete, who at one time ranked among the world's best in BMX-style biking, wearing his baggy droopy shorts and all. The artist, who could sing like James Brown while sketching an album cover of Seal in chalks and pencils while rolling a fancy, "french-style" joint.

You see, maybe there is some worth to this whole

Appreciation for Excellence and Beauty

crap. I discover these unique people, almost like a talent scout. I just have to learn how to say no. How to tell when I'm being abused. How to take a step back when I do what I do: vacillate and hedge and refuse to make decisions.

I'll put together another scrapbook soon, a la Janice Dickenson's Modeling Agency cover shot book. And I'll let you know about the new members, and their incredibly unique talents.

Just wish me luck. I don't want to be hurt so easily because I'm weak.

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Sunday, January 28, 2007

Cliff Williams & The Georgia Innocence Project

Ok, so I'm a little squeamish about releasing details of my life that are incredibly private - safe in a little lockbox in the pit of my mind. But some of you may know how meaningful this was to me - finding this article on the front page (Metro section) of the Atlanta-Journal Constitution's Sunday edition. In fact, an entire cup (16 oz., mind you) of Starbuck's Sumatra was forever lost on the front of my shirt, thoroughly soaking through my bra and burning my breasts.

http://law.gsu.edu/news/view.php?id=215

In A.A. we call this a "God-Shot". I've been doing a lot of talking lately about the amends I have to make, and how I'm constantly looking for ways to contact those deserving of those amends.

God will let us see when we are ready. We will have answers when we deserve to have them.

And somehow, when our lives are rolly-polly confusing twisty rollercoasters already, God decides to throw a couple more switchbacks into the ride.

I'm feeling really insecure and lost about who I am. I'm optimistic when I see others performing at their peak - the talent we always saw and foresaw for the future.

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Tuesday, January 23, 2007

Life is difficult when you are unemployed

Mostly because considering employment stinks of corporate sell-outedness.
Why can't I get paid to do what i want, namely:

- read a couple of novels a day. Right now I'm reading David McCullough's 1776, Isabel Allende's Zorro, and some cheesy book called "Sweet Cherry Hollow".
- Cook like a Top Chef. My newest is "Chili Apple Tarts with Ginger Cream Frost". And damn if it isn't amazingly good.
- Practice for Project Runway, because my Mother, an accomplished seamstress herself, claims that my construction skills rival John Galliano's. I just need to learn how to use the sewing machine properly, because my hand-stitching skills rock. I don't know anyone in the normal Snewo planet who can hand-ruche.
- Go all OCD and collage frames for artwork I've always meant to hang. My current project is all the cool CD inserts I've saved over the years, which I mean to hang in some humongous 8x10 mural.
- Have wicked fun manic episodes, where I begin 16 projects all at once leaving the messiest house known to man
- Spend the next 4 days cleaning up my messy house from my manic creative state.
- Have sex with my man, which is proving to be a lot of fun. Who knew you could still like sex after being with someone for 4 years and 5 months? What the hell? Is this some freaky long honeymoon period or what?
- Walk 3 hours per day, and jump up and down when I lose 3 lbs. per week (despite my absolutely crappy Top Chef eating habits).
- Emboss wedding invitations
- Sew patchwork quilts
- Organize my monstrous wardrobe, which I've discovered encompasses something like 6 CLOSETS FULL. I need to donate to the poor nude children in Africa.


And so on and so forth. I used to be so determined to run my own little cocaine cartel so I could fund my creative endeavors, a la Andy Warhol or Jackson Pollack. I need to set up a freaking paypal account for you people to support me.

Because I'm freakingly broke. Like $380 in my checking account (they closed the savings since it was so empty), and a credit score that has dropped 100 POINTS due to my past due accounts. Like the outrageous $1100 in prescriptions I've spent in the past 6 months.

Trust me, the manic states are well worth it. I just need help paying for the mood stabilizers. Which are supposedly working.

Excuse me while I go find another valium. I located about 5 yesterday while cleaning out one of my 14 purses I had stuffed in a plastic bag in the basement.

Haha.




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Wednesday, January 17, 2007

More thoughts on open-door honesty

Be who you are and say what you feel,
because those who mind don't matter
and those who matter don't mind.

Dr. Suess

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Tuesday, January 16, 2007

Open Door Honesty - Especially When Stupid People Act Stupid

No, I don't know what happened to the f&cking formatting on this thing.
If it continues to piss me off, I'll just avoid posting for awhile.
Beware.

How do you feel when someone punctures your balloon with a pin?
You know the kind of sting I'm talking about...you're riding
high on the clouds, in a great state of mind. Someone makes a
comment that just shatters you. Brings you back to earth with a
thud.

This didn't happen to me. A friend brought it up yesterday, and
wanted to know what to do about it. Upon receiving advice from
several different people, polar opposite opinions began to surface.
Tempers flared a bit, and I just wanted to know what others felt.

Here is my take:

When my balloon is popped, I am usually pretty stunned. In the past
I have stuck this hurt deep inside myself and obsessed about it from
then on in an obsessive-compulsive fashion. If that balloon-poking
comment made me aware of a character defect previously unknown, I
fell even further into this solitary quiet place where nothing comes
out. And then I usually cry.

HOWEVER. I've discovered the most powerful arguments/responses are
usually formulated after the fact. - WHAT SHOULD I HAVE SAID? -
And that is pure rubbish.

I'm trying to make an active pursuit of thinking faster on my feet, and
letting people know their opinions suck in a more-quick-like fashion. No
need to create long-festering resentments, no?

Even better is when you give it no less than an hour, and come up with
a constructively critical means of confronting the balloon-poker. No
need to expel a barrage of drunken-sailor talk (which I've been known to
do). No need to attack other people's character. Just logically explain
in a quiet like way why their statement was horseshit.

It's been my experience that people are usually afraid of me, and it has
more to do with the things I don't say than what I do. It's not like my
body language or facial expressions indicate any anger, or even that look
of an absolute psycho who is fixing to chop you up in little pieces.

I would hazard to guess it's just an aura thing. People can tell there is a
lot going on in that head of mine and some of it isn't peachy.

My point is that responding to someone in a lucid manner, and logically
explaining your argument is a true testament of composure. And that usually
freaks emotionally unstable people out. If anything, they will respond to your
criticism and open up a dialogue about what is going on. If I had said something
or done something in the past that was worth critique, let's hear it. Tell
me, baby. Let me know and we'll work it out. Don't act like a petulant child
who had their feelings hurt. I wanna get through this with you.

THE OTHER OPINION:

The other person felt that when their balloon is popped, the best way to
handle it is to not say anything at all. Forgive that person. Pray for them.


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGG
GGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

That's all I think I have about that. I understand that my
philosophy of open door honesty doesn't exactly follow my
spiritual leanings of composed, solitary enlightenment.
But in some cases, screw that.

The simple fact is that there are a handful of people
I keep on retainer right now. And I actually spend very little time
communicating with any of them, since I've been trying to
fix my mental instabilities.

But my reasons for keeping my social position simple are good ones.
I have a lot I'm not comfortable with, and I still hazard on the
side of caution. I don't really make small talk well. And I'm not
particularly interested in items of little importance to me that
generally arise in normal conversation. I also don't feel the need
to defend my opinions, and I've discovered that most of the opinions
I do have run quite contrarian to everyone else's.
THEY DON'T REALLY LIKE WHAT I THINK AND OFTEN FEEL THE NEED TO FIX IT.
I'm not interested in being fixed.
So I don't bother to open up a debate.

I don't talk on the phone a lot because the pauses and silences
seem that much more pronounced on the dead air over the telephone line.
It's way easier and more comfortable when the silence is face to face.

Anyway, I'm getting to a really comfortable place where my
balloon isn't really popped. Granted, I do have a shitty way of
cutting people out of Snewo-ness with a sharp paring knife. And
I've received a lot of flack for my disappearing act.

But it sure does protect one. If you constantly hurt me,
or create a more conflict-filled mood, you're outta here.
If I genuinely need you - I hope I do a good job
of letting you know. I'm not trying to be a total bitch
here but I am an elitist. If you are necessary and wanted
I will talk.

So my balloon gets popped very rarely now, and I think that's
pretty great. Having insecure, emotionally vapid friends
and relatives sucks balls. Cut em off and move on, so I say.

Let me know if I'm an utter idiot. I'd be thrilled to
discuss it further. And I won't argue. I do a pretty good
job of listening and considering other opinions, no matter
how far out they are.

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Monday, January 15, 2007

How To Print and Send PS Form 3575 "Change of Address Order" FOR FREE

Because I'm tired of processing fees. If you know me, you know I hate Georgia Power, Bellsouth, and various other companies because they have or do attempt to screw me at all times with their "processing fees". I'm not paying any goshdarned fees again, except for my auto insurance because they rock.

Anyway, here is the link to get you a free change of address form, which you have to either stick in your mailbox for the postal carrier or you need to mail. Either way, you save at least $0.61 cents because you didn't pay the stupid $1.00 processing fee to do it over the phone or via internet.

https://hdusps.esecurecare.net/cgi-bin/hdusps.cfg/php/enduser/std_adp.php?p_faqid=6578&p_created=1106267674&p_sid=gZX-zLri&p_accessibility=0&p_lva=&p_sp=cF9zcmNoPSZwX3NvcnRfYnk9JnBfZ3JpZHNvcnQ9JnBfcm93X2NudD00NSZwX3Byb2RzPTQ5LDAmcF9jYXRzPSZwX3B2PTEuNDkmcF9jdj0mcF9zZWFyY2hfdHlwZT1hbnN3ZXJzLnNlYXJjaF9ubCZwX3BhZ2U9MQ**&p_li=&p_topview=1









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Wednesday, January 03, 2007

Ambien and Behavior Modification Promote Weird Dreams

So here I am, sitting here with my first cup of coffee at 7:26 AM. I'm in the usual spot - Z's sweet computer with his way yucky uncomfortable blue fake-suede wingback. I just rolled out of bed a little while ago after tossing and turning since 5:45, after waking up from an awful dream.

I can't really figure out what is going on in my subconscious. I know this is kind of a weird period right now - Jobless and fixing to be completely $$less; Just quit smoking but on the patch which I don't really understand how that is like quitting - I just have more time to ponder how I could be outside smoking; Going to a job interview and contemplating giving up my new-found sense of family values to again go work a gazillion miles from home and never see my kid or Z.

Whatever. Oh, and I took an ambien last night. I'm not sure what the deelio is there, but lately if I take one I am staggering like a drunk after about 45 minutes. Nice, because it knocks me out. However, this stinking Henry VIII tome I've been reading to sleep sure hurts in the morning when I find it on top of my nose.

So here is our dream for the third day of 2007:

I walk into my kitchen and start freaking out. All over the countertops lie paper bags from several fast food restaurants - Krystal, McDonald's, Burger King. Inside they are jammed packed full of cheeseburgers and french fries. They are uneaten but the paper surrounding the burgers is cold, and you can tell they've been sitting there a couple of hours. They don't quite have that greasy stale smell yet, but you know it's coming. The fries look shrunken and hard.

Surrounding the paper bags are 4 or 5 used ketchup packets, twisted and mishappen in that weird way old-time aluminum packets get. Little dribbles of hardened ketchup line the surface of the packet opening. There isn't any ketchup on my countertop, thank god, but the sad shape of those nasty little used sauce packets is giving me a hernia.

I start yelling as I try to wrap up the food and put it in the fridge. I'm not sure why - neither Z or I will eat leftovers from restaurants. But it's the principle. There are at least 15 burgers here and some starving kid in Africa would die for one, I know it.

The microwave is looming. I just know it's dirty because I did something bad to it the other night when I was making spanakopita. Let's just say that butter explodes. So in my deep-seeded need for cleanliness I'm prepared to attack it with my greased lightning bottle and a thing of Parson's ammonia, if necessary. I don't care if Z is allergic to the stuff. Damn it...this is a crisis. I open the super-duper microwave door (this thing is big enough to stick a 20 lb. turkey inside) and discover a nasty old uneaten large sausage pizza. The surface of "Dead Pizza", as we like to call it around here, resembles a flattened pancake of lipids after it's pulled out of your ass through a liposuction tube. The little sausage pieces look like itty bitty puppy poodle droppings hidden under the layer of cream colored fat. I grab the pizza by the hard, thin rim of crust and throw it onto the floor face-down. More screaming ensues.

I run into the office to yell at Z while he's on the computer playing that stupid game. Inside, I discover a whole new set of furniture lining the walls - a few tall bookcases and two 11 ft. stacks of drawers, boxed haphazardly up to the ceiling. I start yelling at Z about the food and the mess and then the office and he stares at me blankly. I yell some more, and he tells me to calm down there isn't anything wrong or different about our living space.

Running back into the kitchen, I want to prove to him that my own eyes see a very different story how dare he challenge my perception, damn it. I notice that there are now burger crust crumbs and lettuce slivers and McDonald's special Big Mac sauce on my countertops. I just cleaned those f&ckers yesterday. I also see a bag containing an assortment of other odd items, like Scope, Gillette razor blades, and an Amy Lee CD. I grab the CD and run back into the office. Chucking the CD on the bed, I start yelling and moaning about how I can't believe he just bought a CD because I gifted him new CDs for Xmas and I know he hasn't listened to them all yet. I start hearing the sound of Amy Lee's singing and I know my face is turning purple and blotchy I'm so angry.

Awake.

-----
So tell me I'm just going through some cigarrette behavior modification issues. Or that I'm under stress. I made Z come hold me when I woke up, and I described the dream to him. He told me he felt like I'm angry with him about something. So I admitted the trash can issue I had in the dream the prior night (he changed the bag when it wasn't full).

I know that all of the little subthemes of this dream represent things I absolutely hate. I won't eat fast food when it isn't hot, and the sight of fast food trash makes me vomit a little in my mouth. Something about greasy food makes me think about the unclean greasy people who must have prepared it and eaten it.

Having a dirty kitchen drives me apeshit. I know I'm the only one who cleans it, and I don't do a very good job, but I can't stand to see anything on the counters. That's my prep space, dammit, and it better be ready for chopping food. Which I'm thinking about doing right now since I have this authentic tofu waiting in the fridge.

The items in the bag on the counter are all things I can't stand either. I grew up on listerine - the yellow kind. My great-grandmother annually gifted my Dad with a bottle wrapped in tissue paper with those ugly ribbon strings on each end. As a result, this was the only mouthwash I was exposed to. Besides, I have this deep belief that mouthwash is for people who don't properly brush or clean their mouths. Eww.

Anyway, Z swears by Scope which is outrageously expensive and smells bad. He won't use the generic kind he swears it's different. I'm not sure if he's aware of the true mechanics of generics - THEY ARE THE EXACT F&CKING SAME THING THEY JUST DON'T HAVE A NAME BRAND ON THEM. I'm not kidding. I saw it on Reading Rainbow when I was little.

Gillette razor blades. I'm not sure if their animal testing policies are the same, but they were the biggest offender for a long time. If you know me, I'm one of these subversive tree-huggers who refuses to purchase products that piss me off. Animal tested cosmetics are one of them - that's just vain and stupid. Besides, I'm not sure if you caught the Bloom County segment where the penguin finds his mother in a Mary Kay facility (?) They're shaving the little bunnies' butt hair off with razors, and applying some kind of Sea Breeze like astringent to see if it burns.

So there you have it. Welcome to some fun-loving Wednesday insanity. Welcome to your regularly scheduled programming.









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Tuesday, January 02, 2007

Eh. Social diplomacy needed here.

I am totally enamored of Craigslist. I enjoy the natural(?)ness of it - it just doesn't seem manufactured like everything else on the web.

But I have a rant and a concern.

Why do you people post nekkid photos of yourself online? Is there something wrong with you? And men - it's usually you. Why? Just why?

Forgive me - I'm a bit photoshy. And no, it's not a current self loathing that has made me that way - I hated photos of myself when I was a supermodel. I just didn't like or know the person in that picture. It's so....flat. Lack of feeling/thinking going on in a photo. Sorry, must be the Cherokee/Sioux/Seminole speaking.

Okay, and here is my other concern. What do you do when you find an old boyfriend who posted a photo of himself online? I'm not interested or anything...it it kosher to send an email saying "Oh hey, I saw you online and was just wondering how you were doing?" or "I just knew it was you based on your tatoo...and I was remarkably surprised how I recognized your body since you're really just one of several (ok, many). But hey, I'm not interested in your nekkidness or anything I just have thought about you and wondered if you were dead?".

How about "Hey I think you and I were in compromising position(s) for 9 mo. or so and I just knew that was you when I was surfing craigslist. Not that you were showing your private parts or anything. I'm in a nice thing right now and not looking for outside interference. But while I'm at it, why do you want to hook up with someone when your wife is out of town that is so incredibly gross and ill-mannered. Not that I'm surprised. And why are you seeking a black female, saying you prefer it? I don't remember that. Did something happen? Black women are pretty independent...I'm not sure they would put up with you very well. Just a comment. And that wallpaper...that is truly hideous. Aaargh. Did one of your girlfriends decide to try and play a joke on you so they posted yucky nekkid pics of you online and are going to assault you with some random encounter? So let me know how you are doing."

Is that an invitation? Especially considering I was looking at his nekkid pic? I'm just interested in how he is. Not in his goofy self-portrait in a mirror.

Oh, and this is a guy who went through a stalker phase for a while...

Any proper protocol from my advisors would be appreciated. I'm not so socially adept at all the games - I don't know what is appropriate or not.

And for Ms. Python: I'll send you the link.

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My first dream for 2007

I don't know about you people, but I only remember the dreams that happen right before I wake up. I'm not saying I don't dream all night long - I just think I'm more able to recall the last dreams of the morning because my consciousness is already arising out of sleep. I only have a layman's knowledge of REM cycles, so you sleep experts need to help me out.

Dream #1, 2007:

I arrive at the parent's McMansion to walk their horse of a dog. As I pull down the street, I see a familiar face working with the paving crew who is lining their driveway with these idiotic pavers. If you're going to pave the driveway, why do you people stop five feet from the street and call it a day? Looks stupid. Anyway, the new paver-crew-person was an old friend/coworker of mine, back when I worked in Calhoun (restaurant mgt). I hadn't seen him in forever, since he left his bitchy wife and kids for my assistant manager and her two toddlers. But I digress.

I didn't want to get him fired from his uber-nazi Paver Foreman Person, so I gave him a quick hug. Paver foreman person yelled at Asst. Paver Foreman Person, who, as usual, was kissing my ass, asking if I needed help (up the driveway?). I said goodbye to old coworker friend and went inside.

Because I had to pee. I go in my parent's super weird bathroom (nice, looks like white Pottery Barn, but has a big crystal chandelier that you wouldn't notice unless you looked up at the 20 ft. ceiling. Weird house, I'm telling you.) I look at their big pretty sink(s) and notice they've replaced them with one of those glazed shebangs. It's very pretty - it has a really deep-dark blue stripe running the sloped rim. However...it has butterflies. EGAD. Two enormous 1986 butterflies - one in each corner. Painted in pastel pinks, purples, and green. AAARGGH.

I'm reflecting on the stupidity of this new glazed sink when I notice an old glazed sink (perfectly fine and more my speed, with a nice auburn/terra cotta trim)sitting next to me. The sink is just sitting there, looking dusty. I ponder swiping it and installing it in my own bathroom at home.

And then POOF. I am home. I'm just waking up, and have to pee again. I go in my own bathroom and as I sit down, I notice that the trashbasket has a new bag in it. That's odd. Z must have changed it...but it wasn't full oh what the hell. OCD moment. Charky meets me in there. She's about 4, when her hair was bobbed and way cute. She asks me if she can wear her Pre-K graduation dress today - a red and white polka-dotted job sitting on the floor in a Kroger bag. I tell her yes, and then ask her if she's peeing because I'm beginning to see little rivulets hit my bathroom floor. She tells me she is. I ask her to go use her own bathroom. Like the sweet little kid she is, she first wants to fix the puddle on my floor, so she grabs my wool coat from the knob in the bathroom (?) and tries to mop up the puddle. I go nuts and yell out...she scampers away to her own bathroom.

Awake.

So here are the themes for analysis.

Life events circa 2003: Why am I dreaming about my daughter during this time (the time around my divorce)? My coworker was also around during this year. What's the story? I rarely think about this period because it was kind of awful in a lot of ways.

My daughter was still a "little girl"...she's not so much now. Seeing her that way was pretty bittersweet. Ouch. I wish I hadn't missed so much of that.

Trashcan OCD: I think I have that one...I'm tired of changing the trash. I understand that Z is kind of going through a hard time, but I absolutely detest cleaning house, and taking out the trash is a man's job. Sorry. It is. If I have to do your freaking laundry you have to dispose of my trash. And I'm actually a pretty good woman in the bathroom. My man is much messier in there than I am. Are there any men out there who actually completely wipe the rim of the sink of the stray shaved hairs that have fallen? Why do I have to look at these little red orange blond creatures when I'm brushing my teeth? Whatever.

Peeing: That's easy to figure out. Am I the only person who wishes they didn't wake up in the morning because they have to pee? What a pain in the ass. Back in the days of Methadone, I could sleep 14-16 hours...it was almost as if my bladder was frozen in space. If I remember correctly, it was a hard time in the morning trying to pee, too.

So there you go, people. Happy 2nd Day of 2007.

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