So This Is The New Year...

And I don't feel any different... My Death Cab for Cutie friends will recognize the reference. But it's so true. What's so amazing about December 31st???? Why is it that we only celebrate the new YEAR? Why not the new month? 5...4...3...2...1... happy new week!!!! Or hell, every day? It's MONDAY!!!! Woooooohooooo not sunday anymore!!!! I guess the thing that makes us all stick to our ritualistic New Years habits is hope. Hope that the next 365 days will give us an opportunity to change. An opportunity to change our ways and make something better of ourselves. "My new years resolution is to lose weight" "To get in better shape" "Quit smoking" "Work harder, get a promotion" "be a better person" etc etc etc.... Does it ever really add up to anything? No. If you succeed, good for you, but why did it take a numerical year change to get you to this point? If you fail, who cares? No one really sticks to their new years resolutions. Right? I mean, what's the big deal? It's just a minor transition, and yet we celebrate like it's the start of a new millienium or something. We drink in excess, we set off fireworks, we throw parties...

The fact that New Years falls so close to Christmas probably makes a big difference. People are out of work, kids are out of school, People are looking for something else to celebrate--something that doesn't involve family and religion. I suppose people feel like they're allowed to go overboard because they know they're not hurting anyone else. For me, it means a party. A gathering of people determined to get drunk and go a little crazy without others judging them... Whatever. I'm still sitting on my couch all alone, drinking Champagne and writing to a crowd I will never meet. Part journal, part confessional. I don't even care if people read this, I just enjoy purging my soul and hoping that someone else will see it and feel a connection to me.

My cat is a better roommate than I am. He loves me enough that he watched the Peach Drop from my lap and even cuddled with Sully (who he is terrified of) to celebrate. Maybe if I can get in his head and see things as simply as my cat does, I'll be able to get back to the true meaning of life. Who cares if things go exactly as I planned.... as long as they're GOING, I win at life. I'm still living, I'm still experiencing new things and learning new things... THAT should be everyone's new years resolution. To start appreciating life as it is. No "what if" or "if only" or "one day." Just TODAY and THIS MOMENT. It's a powerful thing.

Who am I kidding? I'm almost done with my first of 2 bottles of champage.... this is all just drunken rambling. But life is beautiful, no matter what happens. As long as you're still existing... you're with me and every other living person on this earth. There is a connection between the living creatures on this planet... we're all here, sharing this space, and trying our hardest to be happy or to make others happy or both, and we have to embrace every second that we're here, because in the grand scheme of things, how much does it really matter what you wear, or who you're friends with, or what others think of you??? You're breathing, and you're existing and it's YOUR LIFE!!!! You choose everything... your choices determine everything. Yeah, it's kinda scary, but its awesome, too. You have more power than you know. Live it up.

Ok, that's it. I'm done. I'm too intoxicated to spout out anything of interest. But I'm here, and I'm alive, and I'm happy for that fact, if nothing else.

Be happy. To quote P!nk... "pretty pretty please, don't you ever ever feel like you're less than fucking perfect." If you're breathing, you're perfect. And I love you.

:)

I am a stunt driver.

Not really, but I felt like one today. I was heading downtown to drop Sully off at work and noticed an SUV towing a beat up truck going in the opposite direction. They were barreling along at approximately 3.7 mph. When I saw these two vehicles, the thought actually crossed my mind, "it sucks for whoever has to drive behind them... ha!" I must have forgotten that my route home would take me down one lane roads... including the one 3.7 mph person was on.

I dropped my boyfriend off and headed home to crawl back into bed, because it was MUCH too early for someone like me to be awake... it wasn't even 11am yet. (Seriously, who gets up that early??? Nothing starts until noon. Ever.) As I'm sure you can assume, I soon found myself stuck behind the stupid two-vehicle abomination on a one lane road... I was so not in the mood for this.

Now in order to understand how I escaped this annoying situation, first I must explain the route I took. The one lane road passes through two traffic lights about 1.5-2 miles apart from each other. A left turn at the first light is the main entrance of a shopping plaza, a left turn at the second light is a road that runs behind the shopping plaza.

I saw my chance for freedom at the first light. Green, yes! And no cars coming to hinder my left turn, yes! I shifted into 4th gear as I sped into the turn. The shopping plaza was on my right, and I thanked my lucky stars that there were no other cars at the 4-way stop into the parking lot. Racing down the lanes, I narrowly missed a shopping cart and an unruly toddler near the buildings. Then I was behind the grocery store and zooming around the half-width speed bumps to get to the road leading to the second traffic light. I could see my original route down the hill to my right, and I knew that if I missed the light at the bottom of the hill, the damn slowmobile would still be ahead of me. I only had seconds to spare as I kicked it up to 5th gear and broke the speed limit approaching the light. It was green... yellow... almost there.... and I made it!!!! The light turned red above my head as the slowmobile came to a stop mere yards behind me.

I pumped my fist in the air triumphantly. I conquered the annoying traffic jam. I won the race. And I had driven my boyfriend's stick shift (which I just learned barely a month ago) through a maze of parking lots, stop signs and red lights without stalling or bouncing too much. Today was a good day. No matter what else happens, I'll know that I am a certified bad ass behind the wheel of a Del Sol.

Death Boxer

The greatest fear of my five year old life was the giant boxer that lived in the house behind us. Our backyards were adjacent, and there was a spot in the corner where the dog had dug a hole and would occasionally escape to torment children in the neighborhood.

I remember one night, I let our shi-tzu mix out the screen door into our backyard. I heard her growling and went to investigate. The sinister Boxer was standing in the corner of our yard, staring at me with his beady eyes. I froze. I was so scared that I couldn't even call for my mother. The dog took a few steps towards me and I quickly found the motivation to squeak out "mom? mom. MOM! MOM I'M ABOUT TO GET EATEN!!!" She came to the door and I thought she could clearly see my forthcoming demise... but she managed to stay calm and reassuring. "Oh calm down, it's just Pickles from next door. I'd better call Frank and tell him to come get his dog." She didn't seem to understand how close I had come to death.

Pickles proved to be a wily creature. The combined efforts of my father, brother, and Frank were barely enough to corner death-boxer in our yard again after an hour of chasing him around the neighborhood. My mother found this amusing, so we stood on the screened-in patio and watched the antics of the men. I was still petrified, but it was dark and I could only see the bobbing lights from the flashlights the humans carried. My enemy was out of sight, and he was also out of mind. With my 5 year old brain and short attention span, it wasn't really that difficult to get distracted. And then the unthinkable happened. My mother (who also held a flashlight) tried to aid my father and pointed her beam of light directly at the dog. Death-boxer looked at me. He locked eyes with me completely, his prey now right before him. I could see the determination in his stance to destroy me, if not this night than another. I would never be safe from the vile Pickles, and we both knew it.

One day shortly after that fateful night, I was with my brother and some older kids playing in the big oak tree in our front yard. They were already up in the branches, and I stood beneath them, hopping up and down, trying and failing to reach the limb they used to climb the tree. I was getting annoyed that my older brother wouldn't help me up, and in fact he was laughing at me! I crossed my little arms in frustration and turned to "go and tell mom!" and witnessed the single most horrifying sight I could ever have dreamed... Pickles' muscular and evil body soaring over the fence between our yards. He landed gracefully and began to sprint full speed towards me. I screamed bloody murder and made a break for the tree, sobbing and screaming and begging my brother to "pick me up pick me up help help HELP!!!!" I'm not sure if he noticed Pickles at this point, but the naked fear on my face was enough to convince him to lend his aid. I'll always remember that moment. He reached for me, with pity and concern in his eyes, grabbed my wrist with both hands and pulled hard enough for my feet to leave the ground and find a sturdy branch to climb up to escape. Like a scene from a movie, the dog jumped at the trunk of the tree, barking and snapping his jaws mere seconds after my tiny legs were out of reach. I clung to my brother and waited for someone to rescue us. We felt like we were stranded on our tiny island, with an ever watchful predator waiting for one of us to make a mistake... The entire time as he barked at us, we felt more helpless and alone then we ever had before. Surely this creature would find a way to get us. We were doomed.

But then Pickles saw a squirrel and forgot all about us.

I have really bad luck with flying.

I love to fly, but I have really bad luck. Flights of mine always get delayed or the stewardess forgets to bring me my peanuts, or I'll be on the red eye and have to sit in the Las Vegas airport by myself all night... but I still love to fly for some reason.

One of the first times I ever flew alone was when I was about 8 and my brother and I flew to GA from MD to stay with my Aunt, Uncle and cousins for a week or two. When we got off the plane, we had to wait at the standby desk for my uncle, who had to return to the car to get his ID and then we had to call my mother to confirm that this was indeed my uncle and not some serial killer kidnapper. Not to mention I got sick as a dog after the flight and was miserable the whole visit.

I was on my way to the airport to fly to Chicago to visit my uncle, and as soon as my mother and I got on the interstate, we were pulled over and forced to wait while a state escort drove the VP to some meeting with Senators. So I missed my flight. And sat in the airport for 3 hours. Neat.

In high school, I flew to Colorado for a semester long school program with kids from all over the country, and during the four months we lived, studied and hiked the rockies together, we became a family. When I left to fly home, I was a sobbing ball of disaster. I was so sad to say goodbye to my dear friends, including a boy I had a crush on named Isaac. Naturally, in my distressed state, I was randomly chosen to be searched by the TSA. 16 year old Me, crying her face off, having her luggage picked through by a burly black man in the middle of the Denver Airport. I got the most pitying looks. And then on the plane I was sandwiched between two middle aged men in suits who tried their best to ignore me as I curled up in my seat and cried into my jacket the whole time.

A few months after I returned to Georgia, Isaac and his family invited me to NYC as his birthday present. I boarded the plane and found I was sitting next to an elderly Jamaican woman who had no understanding of personal space. Also, she prattled on about god knows what to me for an hour in an accent I couldn't decipher to save my life. During this hour, we sat on the runway waiting to take off... and waited.... and waited until the pilot came over the speaker and said "Well guys, I'll spare you the technical jargon and just say that this plane is broken. We're gonna head back to the terminal now and see if we can't find you guys another aircraft to get you to NY tonight." Tiny Jamaican woman (who had been force feeding me snacks from her bottomless purse as she prattled) demanded and interpretation and informed me that it was now my responsibility to get her and her baggage safely to our new plane. I didn't really understand this, so I nodded, grabbed my things and followed the pilot's instructions to get to the (hopefully) non-broken plane. When I settled into my seat 30 minutes later, I didn't see Tiny Jamaican woman and fervently hoped she had been directed to another seat. No such luck. She huffed in and plopped her tiny body down next to me and then proceeded to lecture me about leaving her behind. Oops? I feigned sleep during the flight and kindly helped her find the baggage claim and her daughter once we landed.

I have plans to fly to Las Vegas again soon, and I'm dreading it. I've warned Sully that we'll probably be arrested as terrorists or forced to sit next to four crying babies or something, but he's an eternal optimist. If he only knew...

Broken Tips and Bad Dishes

I've been waiting tables for about 5 years now, and I have never dropped or broken a dish in all that time. Until last night.

The evening started off badly. One of my first tables was a group of three middle aged women and a little boy. I literally had to stop three steps away from the table and take a deep breath to compose myself before dropping off their drinks. Here's what happened: they completely ignored me when I greeted them. They looked me dead in the eye as I cheerfully stated my name and my intentions to be their server tonight... and then they turned and continued to talk about "George's new dog." So I smiled and waited. And fumed. Two of the women ordered tea and then snapped at me two seconds after I delivered it because the tea was "disgusting" and not sweetened. So I tasted tea from both urns and confirmed that it was indeed infused with an unhealthy amount of sugar, and took them new teas. They sent those back, saying they still weren't sweetened. I told them we had checked and they were most certainly sweetened, but if they liked it sweeter, there was sugar on the table and I'd be happy to bring them a spoon. They got bitchy and said sugar won't dissolve in cold tea, and that our unsweetened tea was gritty from all of the undissolved sugar... yeah, I was confused at the logic as well... so I brought them cokes. And they stiffed me. I hate people sometimes...

Later, as I was trying to show off for my manager, I helped a coworker with the heap of dishes he carried by grabbing a large plate which had 3 smaller plates stacked on top. You can see where this is going, I'm sure. He enthusiastically thanked me for my help right in front of my manager!!!! So I looked good. Really good. I was the hard working helper! I had time to serve my own tables and help others with their work. What an employee, right? I should be given a raise! A free meal! Something to award my hard work and kindness...

Unfortunately for me, the coworker I was helping is not aware of basic principles like gravity... the plates were not balanced well, and as soon as I rounded the corner into the kitchen, all three plates teetered and fell from off of the larger dish. There was an instant when I noticed the smaller plates were gone, but had not yet hit the floor. I was utterly confused. Had someone grabbed them from me so quickly I didn't notice? Was I hallucinating and there had never been any plates? Just as the truth crept into my shocked mind, I heard the deafening crash that confirmed the dishes' location. All three plates shattered into a billion tiny pieces, and I stopped in my tracks. There were other people standing around me and for a moment, there was utter silence as they all stared at my mistake. I knew Manager was still standing outside the door and must have heard it too. Sure enough, he poked his head around the door while I was still dumbfounded and shook his head at me. He shook his head! I was a failure! I had broken a dish. I had broken three dishes. I was a liability to the team, not an asset! I could see all of these thoughts so clearly on Manager's face and my innards reeled in agony at the offense I had just committed. Why me? I don't deserve this!!

The spell broke and I walked the final 3 steps to the dishwasher and handed him my one remaining plate with a look of pitiful self loathing. The other servers had already grabbed broom and dustpan and hurried to destroy the evidence of my wrongdoing. All was forgiven and no one was hurt. Except for my delicate pride. Now every time I walk into work, they all look at me and I can see it in their eyes "She broke a plate. She broke three plates. She's a failure."

I don't know if I'll ever recover, but I do know that our tea has plenty of fucking sugar in it.

Life According to Oswald

I sometimes wonder what my cat must think of me. There are times when I’ll scoop him up and cuddle him to my face while saying nonsense things like “I wuv my widdle Ozzykins! My widdle kiddy cat! Yurrrrr soooo cuuuute!!!” And he’ll just stare at me like “Mom. Seriously?” And at other times, I’ll laugh out loud at the TV or an internet thing or a book and he’ll walk up to me as though saying “What the hell are you laughing at, woman?” like he’s all better than me and stuff. Which he’s not. I control the food! God forbid I go to smoke a cigarette. The whole time I’m out on the porch, I can see his reproachful little eyes judging me through the window. I have honestly put out well over half a cigarette and returned to my computer chair because I can’t stand the judgment. You could say that he only stares at me because he wants me to come back in so he can sit on my lap and be petted, but this is a lie. He hates that I smoke. I can tell. He is judging.

And what must he think of sex? Seeing Sully and I completely naked, making funny noises and wiggling around in bed together must make no sense to him at all. He likes to lie on my pillow and watch, which is an incredibly creepy thing to notice mid-sex. I feel all embarrassed and I am overwhelmed by a desire to cover up. How does he do that?!?! My cat makes me feel like a shameless hussy… my CAT makes me feel like I’m being indecent.

But I know the little fucker loves me. Anytime I am in an even slightly seated or reclined position, he’ll find a way to lay on me. He doesn’t curl up in my lap like a normal cat; he’ll sprawl over my limbs and joints like he’s the most comfortable cat in the world, even though he’s being slightly impaled by my elbow. He’ll purr for no other reason than being close to me. He can see into my soul with his big grey eyes, and somehow he knows when I need comforting and he’ll project all his love and adoration out of those eyes and it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. Maybe Oswald has the right idea, maybe I am insane…

Pillows

I have an amazing pillow. It has a super soft white pillowcase and it’s a down pillow and it is my favorite thing ever. There is nothing more perfect than sinking my tired head into my pillow at the end of the day. It is truly the perfect sleeping accessory. I’m seriously considering making a religion: worshiping the pillow of all pillows. Maybe I can make a holiday… Fluffy Awesome Pillow Day and we can all have pillow fights and take naps and eat marshmallows which look like tiny pillows… how great would that be? But I digress. I have a pillow. But I didn't always have this pillow. I had to steal it from Sully.

When Sully and I first started living together, we did the typical new couples thing where we wove our arms and legs together into an impossible pretzel shape and claimed to be comfortable while in this unnatural position… ha. As we relearned how to use our brains and stopped sleeping in the pretzel, we slowly staked our claims on the bed. After a few months of “no honey, you can have the blanket” and “no no no dear, I’ll just use the sheet, it’s ok I promise!” things started to turn into “um can you please scoot over? I’m pressed against the wall here...” And “you’re hogging the blankets.” Eventually, we made a compromise. 2 blankets so we didn’t have to share the covers, and as for divvying up the nocturnal real estate… I got a larger portion of the head-side of the bed because I typically sleep like a cannon ball, and Sully’s long legs won him a generous portion of the foot-side of the bed. So it kinda looked like this:

Now, as you can see, Sully gets a substantially larger portion of bed than I do. In my mind, this entitles me to the best pillow and blanket. This makes sense, right? Sully didn't agree with this at first. He was all like “it’s my stuff, you have two pillows of your own, how come you want mine?” and then I was all “but your pillow has fluffy feathers in it!!!” This resolved nothing, so for a while, my strategy was to just go to bed before him, because only a truly evil person would steal a sleeping girl’s pillow.

By the time we moved to our lovely Blue Apartment, I had a firm claim on my pillow. But the first time we washed our sheets in the new place, we had the debate all over again.

Me: No, the white pillowcase goes on my pillow. The black one goes on yours.

Sully: What difference does it make?

Me: Because the white pillowcase is softer, and it goes well with the squishy pillow.

Sully: Whatever *throws pillow on bed*

Me: No. That one goes on my side.

Sully: Why?

Me: Because its my pillow! It’s squishy and I love it. You get the big pillow.

Sully: What if I want the squishy one?

Me: *evil glare*

Sully: (he’s all whiny because he knows I’m going to win) But I bought it… that makes it mine.

Me: Not anymore. You get the big one. You said you liked it anyway. So there.

Sully: *pout*

It was a close call. Ever since then, I have guarded my amazing pillow with my life. I just know that if he ever gets the opportunity, he will steal it and drool on it and make it smell like icky boy and then I’ll cry for days and he’ll think I’m insane and he’ll run away and I’ll be all alone with my smelly pillow… so it’s just best that the pillow STAYS ON MY SIDE OF THE FUCKING BED, ok? :)

(insert interesting thing that will make you read this)

So. I'm writing a blog. I'm a blogger. How exciting... I feel like I just got the keys to a secret underground society filled with people with interesting and profound things to say. And a few morons who really really like Twilight and Justin Beiber. Not that there's anything wrong with either of those, there just seems to be an excess amount of internet space devoted to those two.

Now the big question. What should I write about? My boyfriend, Sully, thinks I'm funny and interesting so his advice was to "just be yourself in writing!" Very helpful, Mr middle school guidance counselor. I suppose I'll just ramble about my not so interesting life until something somewhat interesting emerges.

I put in my two weeks notice today at one of my two jobs. I work at a Restaurant and a Retail Store... and it's almost Christmas.... and I'm in charge of putting out new stock at Retail Store... and waiting tables sucks in general...so my life is pretty stressful at the moment. Stressful is the wrong word. More like "i always need a strong drink and a cigarette and I randomly burst into tears when Sully asks me what I'd like for dinner because I get up early every day and getting up early is the most horrible, awful, no good, terrible torture known to man so I don't like going to work." That pretty much covers it. I honestly haven't had a day off in months. No, seriously. I go to work every. single. day. And I'm not an old person with a real life and financial responsibilities and debt and stuff, no no. I'm just a 20 something chick in a cheap apartment with a boyfriend who makes good money. No kids, just two cats. So WHY am I working myself to death? Good question! Let's look back about 8 or 9 lines... "I put in my two weeks notice today at one of my two jobs." Yay!!! It would seem I've finally grown a brain and decided that this is all pointless. Well done, brain!

Honestly, I was hoping for more of a scene over my resignation from Retail Store. Desperate pleas for me to stay, confessions of admiration, promises for a raise and a promotion... nope. Boss Lady just shrugged and said "k." How disappointing. Not that I was a particularly good employee to begin with. I never stole merchandise or money or beat a customer to death or locked people out of the store near closing time or anything (although I definitely thought about all of the above...) but I wasn't incredibly concerned with the general wellbeing of my place of work. Or my coworkers. Or the customers.

There is nothing more annoying than customers. They always need something and the expect you to help them just because you work there. Here's a perfect example of why I hate customers. I had to change a lightbulb at Retail Store today, which required me to get up on a very tall, very old ladder. Now let me preface this by telling you that I'm one of the clumsiest people on the planet, and I hate heights. So there I am, teetering at the top of this stupid ladder, terrified out of my mind. I just focused intensely on the stupid lightbulb I had to change, which blinded me temporarily. Next thing I know, some idiotic woman taps me on the ankle. I clutch the ladder for dear life, quite positive that someone is about to pull me down to my most certain death. I very slowly turn to face the ankle toucher. I wish I could have seen my own face at that moment because the woman's expression turned from one of confusion and slight irritation to one of pity.

Ankle toucher: "Honey, do y'all have these shoes in a seven?"

Me (still at the top of a ladder): "Um."

Ankle toucher: "These shoes. Do they come in a seven?"

Me: "The sizes are printed on the outside of the boxes. Did you look for a seven?"

Ankle toucher: "No. I thought you kept them in the back."

Me (still at the top of this huge fucking ladder because ankle toucher is standing at the bottom of the rungs, preventing me from getting to safety): "No. Look for a seven, if it's not there then we don't have it."

I gave her a "what the hell is your problem, go ask someone else, I'm at the top of a huge fucking ladder right now, how much help do you think I can give you?!!?!?!" look, whatever that looks like. She found her shoes and I descended to safety, still mostly blinded.

Moral of the story? Customers are dumb and they try to kill me on a daily basis.