Christmas Eve

So I woke up today hoping that there would be jalapeno cheese sausage waiting for me on the table. Instead there was a dirty floor and a beautiful Christmas tree. I was going to say something else that would actually be funny, but I can’t remember what I was going to say.

Anyway, so everyone woke up and got coffee, and  I did some yoga. Then I walked around and talked on the phone for awhile, and then I took a shower.

When I got out of the shower I realized that my Mom’s boyfriend Rick brought over a gallon of vodka, and a delicious plate of holiday cookies that his Mom had made.

All of us decided to get shitfaced on Christmas Eve. We had a delicious salad and watched a movie while everyone played on their computer and/or cuddled. I have to say, I really hate that Rick always sits by me while he’s eating since he sounds like a cow regurgitating its cud when he’s chewing. I guess it’s because I’m so awesome.

Anyway, so we were all sitting around poking fun at each other and Rick said he had some weed. So Molly and I sauntered out and smoked some. It’s pretty funny because Molly and I always have the same footwear even though she’s basically a fucking giant. I guess they make all sorts of things in gigantic sizes.

Long story short, Rick gave us some weed and I took like 5 hits and Molly took like 3. That was about 10 minutes ago, so I guess now Mom and Rick went to bed and we’re eating pretzels. Molly keeps throwing them at Emily and she’s getting pissed.
MERRRRRY CHRISTMASSSS!

Gotsta keep writing

I’ve noticed the longer I wait in between posts the less hilarious they are. I want to find a way to calculate the loss of hilarity X days I haven’t written and get famous for having a functional equation people can use, but if I’m too fucking lazy to even write on this blog how the hell am I going to get motivated to do that?! Short answer: I’m not. Unless I’m threatened with being covered in raw bacon and set out to range in the coyote infested desert during high noon that is.

That’s all I got.

Someone sent me this song the other day, and that also made me giggle. But in a different way. Thanks Boo, you’re a motherfucking class act

Why People Hate Us 3: Christmas

A family discussion over facebook about who will sleep where during college break, and who has problems with substances (me). Luckily I ended the conversation by mentioning the rodent problem at the house. As per usual, total win for this gal *pumps fist aggressively.

ohiol, a moment of lol

So my friend Emily and I went out in the city a couple weekends ago to visit some of our old friends. First we hung out with my old roommates/co-workers and had a good time chatting it up and hearing the gossip about the god-awful work environment that I left when I got knocked up.

Part of the gossip was about another co-worker/roommate I had in the first few months of my employment at that job. I moved in with her because I’d broken up with my boyfriend and didn’t care that he said I could stay in our apartment. I’m really all about the grand entrances/exits so I really HAD to go to save face. Even if that meant living with a crazy person…I also just realized that I have to write an entirely new post about the girl I lived with at this time, so I’ll write about/link to it later. Good stuff.

"Mo." A short story coming soon.

After our couple of beers, we left to meet up with our friend Akin. I know Akin because he’s best friends with one of my ex-boyfriends and his best friend who I also sort of dated. Long story short, between the three of us (Emily, Akin and I), no one’s hot dog had been in anyone’s bun so we could just kick it as friends. Which we did, and it was great.

Never happened. And I mean it this time.

We drank a little bit at an old haunt that consists mostly of attractive people in their early 20’s because even though I’m 25, Akin is 36, and Emily is 24 and has no interest in anyone but her boyfriend, we still like to be surrounded by attractive human beings who don’t have the tired hatred in their eyes that we do.

Chatting about life with old friends over stiff drinks is always an honest time, so Akin decided to share a story about his roommate. Akin and his roommate are both Turkish, which for Akin doesn’t really mean anything anymore since he’s been in the U.S. for a better part of 10 years and although his accent gets worse when he’s drunk, in general he has a great grasp of English and it’s ridiculously complicated nuances and only whips out Turkish when he’s trying to get laid.

So he’s telling us this story about his roommate who works at a shop that does custom car parts and detailing. The way he tells it, his roommate (we’ll call him E.D.) repeatedly confused and ran off customers, and no one could figure out why until one of his superiors went along on a sales run.

The customer wanted E.D. to tell him what would be involved with detailing his car. E.D. said in imperfect English, “Well, we do give the best custom handjobs. Any part that you want, the handjobs. They are the best. We give the best custom handjobs.”

Of course what he was trying to say was that giving special, personal attention to the customers car is something that only his company could provide. What he actually said was that if you wanted to be sexually relieved in a manner that only a 16 year old girl can provide, he will do it. And do it well.

Moving forward, that night of rekindled friendships went on, we had fun, blablabla. I forgot about hearing this roommate story from Akin until tonight when I was texting Emily.

"I'm going to make bad decisions, lol!"

We were going back and forth about some random bullshit when I mentioned that Akin wants me to come back up so we can all go out again. This is the EXACT text I got that led to this post:

“(blablabla not relevant)…I’m down to go out again, i think his rommate asked to friend me on facebook but I haven’t done anything yet cuz all I ohiol about is handjob.”

Not remembering that there was any connection between her, I, Akin, or handjobs. I responded:

“WHAT?!”

followed by,

“I’m assuming your T9 just went crazy?”

A common t9 mistake happens because my-love-for-you:handjob, and because know:ohiol

At which point she explained to me what she meant about the handjob reference…although she never explained what “ohiol” was really about. I’m still laughing. And also still assuming that ohiol means some dirty, creepy thing between her and her boyfriend, because t9 is storing it for her you see.

Chubbers, a retrospective.

7 months postpartum I can say with great confidence that the craziest thing a person can do is grow a child inside of them. There is really nothing about that experience from start to finish that feels even the least bit logical. FIRST of all, how in the hell are you supposed to believe that mixing a little bit of this over here and a little bit of that over there creates an entirely new human being? Especially if you only have the word of an overpriced, asshole pregnancy test?

Secondly, the first time you feel the baby kick you is so surreal you’re pretty sure you dreamt the whole things and might have just been on acid for a few months (or hours, with acid you can never tell). As the baby gets bigger and tries to straight-up murder you by manipulating your internal organs to its own benefit you again say to yourself: WHY did I do this? This is insane! How is the human body “built for this.” If it were, it just seems like it wouldn’t be so entirely unpleasant.

Then of course labor. If you haven’t been through it, there is no way to describe the pain, horror, and intense loneliness of contractions. Unless you and a friend are going through them at the same time there’s pretty much no way you can garner enough sympathy from ANYONE, ANYWHERE to feel better. Also, you’re convinced that you’re dying. You are the small percentage of women who will literally go into shock and die from the pain of this monster trying to free itself of your flesh prison…(yes I just said went there.)

All things considered, it’s insane that anyone would go through the whole thing more than once, but people do. Today I found myself longing to get married and have multiple babies (one at a time) immediately. Yet there was something nagging at the back of my mind, a brief memory of how I felt waddling around like a cow vowing to never ever have sex again. So I went into my pictures folder.

A week before my due date, I was so fucking pissed off and upset I decided to take full nude pictures of myself pregnant to document the horror that befalls a woman when she’s sperminated, as a reminder to myself to stay celibate…and not abuse cake privileges. Don’t get me wrong here, my son is the best thing I’ve ever done in my entire life, and if someone told me now I’d have to repeat that year like it was groundhog’s day for the next 100 years I’d do it…but since I’m not in a stupid 90’s movie I wanted something to veer me away from that particular fate.

So I opened the hidden folder of my bad-self and almost threw up. Not gonna lie here, I gained an extraordinary amount of weight when I was pregnant. Having dealt with food issues since I was about 16, the thrill of eating my fucking face off 24 hours a day for nine months really appealed to me and I took full advantage of guilt-free carb ransackery. I think I gained like 65 lbs and checked into the hospital at a cranky, leaky 182. Which is what the pictures accurately documented. A GODDAMN BALLOON OF CRANKY, LEAKY FLESH PRISON.

I can hardly remember any of that now, a mere 6-7 months later. Except for a couple of small marks near where I got my bellybutton pierced I look exactly the same. No stretch marks, no saggy skin, no hip displacement, no inside out cooter like all the message boards told me would happen. It’s like I’m brand new, except more awesome because my kid is fucking adorable.

I don’t really know where this is going, but if I get pregnant again I’ll need a full time sponsor to call whenever I think Betty Crocker wants to just “hang out and talk.” Don’t you lie to me again, skank. You KNOW I can’t just have one!

Got sick from Yoga, hilarity ensues

Like most completely normal and well adjusted people, when I’m going through a tough time in life I choose to work out like I’m training to be a character in the movie adaptation of Soul Caliber III. Or as I like to call it, SOOR CARIBAH, SREE!

I'm sewing the outfit myself, and also directing it and shooting it with my cell phone.

I’ve been doing “fusion yoga” which basically means all of the deep stretching and strength poses of yoga with the added benefit of intense cardio. I did this for about 6 days until my body decided that it had had just about enough of that crap. Then I vomited my entire soul for close to 12 hours.

I guess it COULD have been the stomach flu, but when I looked in the toilet my vomit literally aligned like a bowl of alphabet soup to spell: You are an asshole.

I was supposed to have art class with my grandma on Thursday, but because I’d been up getting my ass kicked by my own diaphragm the previous evening I couldn’t go. I tried to call G-pa and G-ma’s house all morning, but as per usual they were busy doing things like talking on the phone, gardening, going for walks, eating well, and having meaningful conversations. Pissed off, I drove over to their house in all my green gilled glory to let her know I wouldn’t be making it today. Big mistake.

Thank you for ruining my day, sweetheart!

Grandma has become increasingly neurotic as she gets on in years, and something as minor as a grandchild throwing up will send her into a tizzy for days. So after I stopped in to let her know that I was most likely dying and couldn’t even get a hold of them, but I’m a grown-ass woman and don’t-need-any-help-even-though-I’m-alone-at-my-house-for-a-week, she responded by almost crying and then calling me 5 or 6 times that day. Passive aggressive: something our family does well.

This morning, she sent my Grandpa over at 9 in the morning to take my coffee order and demand that I eat food. He’s a really good guy and also does what he’s told, but he’s quite awkward. Instead of ringing the doorbell or knocking softly, he banged on the front door yelling to be let in even though it was early by non-elderly standards and I’ve been sick. The logical assumption would be that I’m asleep, and hearing a man screaming and banging at the door that early really isn’t good for my nerves. He persevered until I woke up.

After taking my coffee order he goes shuffling on down the hallway hemming and hawing like he usually does. On the way out he says “Saree. Your doorknob isn’t looking right. All I need is a phillips screwdriver and I can fix it.” He wandered around the house for awhile looking for one, then told me he’d be back in the afternoon to tighten it up. As he was exiting, he proceeded to slam the door 15 times, jiggling the doorknob in between each slam. I now have to use the deadlock to get the door shut.

Moral of this story: Don’t work out until your body starts to fail, and don’t tell Gramps and Grams if you do because they will fuck your front door up BAD.

xo

S

I date my Mom

This has been a funny couple of weeks. I’ve had a few conversations about relationships and for some reason I’ve been enlightening myself and realizing a lot of the mistakes I’ve made, much to my chagrin. I’m someone who likes to live in a perpetual state of self congratulation and complete denial of my failures as a human being, so it’s been quite difficult.

I'm assuming by "narcissist" you mean "awesome-sis-nest." I thank you!

The first conversation was with my little sister, Molly. We were discussing the nuances of our inevitably dysfunctional relationships when out of nowhere I go, “You know, Mol, we really only ever date people that have absolutely no chance of ever REALLY hurting our feelings.” Basically, we date functional retards with no self respect and/or people who live across the country. To give you an idea of just how many of these people we’ve dated, here is an open letter she wrote on facebook to current and future exes.

As hilarious as this is, it made me start wondering about exactly what’s going wrong when out of nowhere my Mom says, “Sarah, what exactly do you think it is in your childhood that you’re trying to reconcile with these boyfriends?”

First of all, it was pretty insane that my Mom communicated anything other than semi-intelligent mumbling and pointing at a wine bottle and I was caught off guard. So again, I had an unwanted clarity spasm and said, “Well Mom, I think it’s probably that I can’t stand to be the one in a vulnerable position. I mean, I’ve never even been dumped because I never pursue people who will dump me.”

I elaborated on her relationship with my Dad, and how even though I don’t hate her I pretty much wanted to punch her in the fucking face for the majority of my life for being married to him and I date people like her so that I can do JUST that, and here’s why:

My Dad is a violent, abusive serial cheater who treated all of us like shit. As a child and young adult, I never understood why Mom never went Lorena Bobbit on his ass or at least slapped him around a couple of times. Instead she acted like goddamn Eeyore and moped around the house, basically silent for 20 years having more babies. Presumably so that she could created an army of insanely angry young women, the only endeavor she’s truly succeeded at (see open letter above).

Well I guess the only thing to do is have another baby

Here are some things I haven’t been dumped for:

Sleeping with my boyfriend’s friends

Hitting, punching, screaming and all other manner of violent lack of impulse control

Lying and basic girl-type manipulations

Character assassination on a daily basis for no good reason

Destruction of property

Drinking 99.9% of the time for an entire relationship

Belittling someone in front of friends and family

Hacking into email, phone and whatever else.

Me: aka lucifer, the antichrist, biggest bitch in the world, visitor from the 7th circle of hell, etc.

Let me repeat: I have NEVER been dumped. Not even close. I have only ever dated people that I can do literally whatever I want to and they will NEVER leave me, and are usually keen to be best friends as soon as we do finally part ways. Part of this is that on top of being pussies and having poor taste in girlfriends apparently, they are usually creepy liars which makes it a perfect storm for these men of guilt, self loathing, need for acceptance/forgiveness, and all without the benefit of a spine. Attractive, I know! I don’t know how I do it *shines fingernails on jacket

This isn’t to say that in general I’m not a pretty nice, normal girlfriend. But any one of those thing above should be a complete dealbreaker for a normal guy, and when I go nuts it’s usually more than one of those things at a time. I may fail at a lot of things, but multitasking isn’t one of them!

So that’s what I mean by “dating my Mom.” I basically find people who should stand up for themselves and from time to time kick them to see if they will. The equivalent to getting a puppy and poking it until it either gives up wanting to live or bites you. Boys usually just give up wanting to live…for anything but you.

I don't CARE about the car, and you choking me, and alienating my Mom! You are perfect for me!

So I’m left with 3 options:

1) Become a celibate dog lady who lives out in the country and doesn’t attempt interpersonal relationships with anyone except my friends on 4 chan for all of eternity.

2) Become a hooker. This is really the ultimate conclusion to a life of false power and no emotional connection, and plus I’d be RICH! RICH I TELL YOU!

3) Date men with high self esteem and goals and most likely get my ass dumped for acting like a bipolar 15 year old.

Obviously the only positive option is 3. I figure it will probably take me a good 5 more years of trying to date normal guys, and I will get dumped 5 or 6 times before I have the correct relationship tools to put me on the level of an 18 year old guy.

I will then exclusively date 18 year old guys.

FOOLPROOF!

Monday

Monday: You’re a total pain in the ass. Mostly I hate you. But I guess you and I are sort of alike in terms of how people feel about us…want to be friends on facebook?

Here’s a song about what I hope to find in the future. Specifically, someone who will write songs like this with me after we’re in love and married and making babies. Nothing wrong with shooting for the stars!

When you find me by sdoodle

Sunday’s Song!

Here is a fact: “Accidentally sending text messages to the wrong person” doesn’t happen 99.9% of the time. It’s true.

Cobra starship – hot mess by sdoodle

Tough Love

So I was watching this stupid show on VH1 the other day, Tough Love and even though I’m pretty sure the host is either gay or a hypocritical liar he makes some good points. There were all sorts of women on this season, from a crazy stage-mom/hooker to a really nice and respectful business woman. All of who could not get a decent boyfriend to save their lives.

As I watched in sick fascination I started to realize that a lot of the things the squirrely little host was screaming at these girls were really true. He said to one girl “TOO MUCH INFORMATION TOO SOON IS BAD.” I know that’s true, but I’m also someone who believe in honesty upfront. Very next scene, this same girl is crying and explaining how she brought up her drinking problems and other relationships in an effort to let the guy she’d known for 30 minutes understand who she is. It sounds like a crazy thing to do, but sometimes that just happens. For some of us more often than others.

It made me think. I like to go from extreme to extreme: overly masculine douche to fairy, skinny to fat, tall to short. Sometimes even brown to blond if I think it will make a difference, but it usually all ends up the same and at this point I’m not really sure I can blame everyone but myself for this trend. I mean, all I’ve ever really wanted is someone who will hang out/work out with me, take pictures with me (no one I’ve ever seriously dated has ever wanted pictures of or with me…which for some reason REALLY bothers me to a crazy extent. I guess in retrospect its understandable since none of them ever saw it lasting, but still. It’s nice to know someone might be burning pictures of you, or at least looking at them wistfully. NO SUCH LUCK.) and someone who will talk to me when things are bad instead of cheating or hopping on the internet to get into some nasty shit. I think this sounds quite fair, and if I’m wrong you can slap me hard and call me Sally.

The last guy I dated told me as we were doing the breakup B.S. that even though he sent pictures of his dick to random girls on the internet that I usually share WAY too much information about where I’ve been and what I’ve seen and that was the real problem. The thing that really pissed me off was that he and I started talking because he loved the blog, which is kind of crazy because if TMI bothered him he never would have wanted to date me. Right? I felt like I should have read this thing:

I never did.

I guess in the end you just have to try and be yourself…and try and keep your sexual resume out of the relationship for the first 3 or 4 months. Thank you, host Steve Ward, for this knowledge even if you are a dirty creepy liar.

xo

S