Make my way back home and learn to fly

Nothing makes a day like pure sunshine, the absence of traffic, Dave Grohl on your radio, a four-day weekend, and a 64-ounce diet coke.

Nothing, not even the narcissism of one Mr. Tom Cruise, could ruin a day like today.

Biting the hand that feeds me

In my tiny slice of pie that is the world, today has been proclaimed "Shit I can't stand about Blogger" day. That's right. Bring out the kids from the lollipop guild and let's get this party started.

All I did was use the "Next Blog" function to try to add to the 3.5 blogs that I regularly visit. Oh hell no. Mama should have stayed in Kansas.

A number 1 of what I'm hating on right now) Why must Blogger allow people to post blogs that try to get you to download some microsoft .exe file, or bring up an anime page with accompanying creepy music? I like best that these pages also grab you in their clutches, render your curser useless, and somehow neutralize the power of your Esc, Ctrl-Alt-Del, and drop-kick-the-monitor functions.

B number 2) and no fault of Blogger's, but I can't stand this new trend: do u NO me? mY cuzn n h1s frndz saidd 2 call mee ez grrRrl. What the f*$&? Can't kids go do whippits or something less annoying?

C number 3) Because I don't speak Greek, Klingon, or teen (see aforementioned A number 1) I therefore can read approximately .013 percent of postings on Blogger. I love diversity in my universe but I can't learn all of these new languages just to navigate my blog site.

D number 4) the promotional blog must go. Low-cost flood insurance for beavers living in Ecuadorian dams. And it says that repeatedly. On every day. On every entry.

Bandick had the right idea. It's all about the .com.

Mrs. Jones and me

This keeping up with the Joneses thing is really starting to make my calves ache.

I'm not sure what happened when I stepped over the threshold of 30, but I do know that it resulted in me starting to look like never before at what those around me had. What they are driving, what they're living in and where, and what they carry their change in to work.

Just a few years ago I was a graduate student pulling in 150 dollars a paycheck. I was conscious of the amount of student loans others around me were accumulating. But we were all in the same dingey. BMWs did not exist in our world, we drank wine before going out because we couldn't afford to drink more than a glass while we actually ate our food in a restaurant, and no one owned a house without the co-signing assistance of someone over 60.

Things are different now. A friend at work's 26-year-old brother and his wife just bought a $750,000 home in the burbs. Even the newest college grads at work have laptops and Palms (and they weren't bought on Ebay). No one, except for my beau, has a car as old as mine. I don't have a piece of jewelry that I bought for myself anywhere other than the mall. And God forgive me, I even cut my own bangs last week.

I guess my struggle comes down to a basic question, just as it had in the days of junior high: is this - am I - ok? Is it acceptable to buy the vast majority of your clothes on sale or at Target? Will I ever order an entree priced at more than $20 - and the salad too? Will I ever live in an apartment that is larger than 400 square feet?

And why does it matter so much to me now?

Or you can get with that

If you had to lose your sense of humor or your entire head of hair, which would you choose?

(Baldies and those who patronize Hair Cuttery cannot answer this. I can see you.)

(P.S.S. Those sans humor also cannot answer this fairly. Remember, I read your blogs.)

Someone just got to my site after Googling "drunk girl wet."

I'm pretty sure this is the exact life my parents dreamed of for me.

Although I didn't like Uptown Girl

He's not a popular choice. I feel the mockery of anyone who grew up outside the tri-state area when I say this. But more than any other artist, Billy Joel has provided the soundtrack to my life thus far. A posting on another blog made me take inventory of this, and it was actually quite surprising.

Matter of Trust - God, how I lusted after you in the 7th grade, Rob Haggerty. I remember this song playing while we sat on the sticky plastic seats in the back of the school bus on the way home from Memorial. I ran in the house and put the song on my pink tape player with the rainbow strap and dreamed about us getting married. I'm still glad we never dated.

Sometimes A Fantasy - What dirty thoughts for such a pristine girl.

Goodnight Saigon - I recall listening to this at a party in the 9th grade. I was there with my closest friends, a bunch of uber-geeks like myself who would sing along with unabashed vigor to these songs without caring. Later I would almost cry at the sounds of the helicopter when Brilly and I saw Billy play in DC.

Vienna - My first love put this on a mix tape he made for me almost fifteen years ago. I can still remember him playing it for me the first time, driving through town in August in his convertible LeBaron. I loved him so much back then that it almost hurt. The lyrics always remind me of my friend Jen, always pressured to do well and move ahead. Where's the fire what's the hurry about, You better cool it off before you burn it out. You've got so much to do and only so many hours in a day.

Innocent Man - He always said I never could sing the melody correctly. I still can't.

Summer, Highland Falls - It's either sadness or euphoria. Isn't it true?

We Didn't Start the Fire - We listened to this one on the way home from a football game in a 1990 White Ford Taurus. We nearly got in an accident when we got too caught up in the lyrics (or convincing each other that we were the only ones who knew all the words). I never did get around to looking up all the words I could sing, but didn't know more about.

She's Always A Woman - Although I've never told him, this makes me think of my present with the beau. In a good way.

Not the brightest bulb

I stood in the lobby of my office building yesterday, frantically trying both to put a cell call through to my voice mail and to avoid co-workers who might stop to talk on the way to lunch. Call one. The call would not go through. It looked like it did, after all, I could see the seconds ticking away on the screen, but no voicemail. Call two, same thing. I pressed the phone to my ear even harder and turned up the volume. Nothing. Calls three, four, and five didn't go through either. I couldn't hear anything on the other end. Quite a quandry. And then it dawned on me.

MAYBE YOU SHOULD TAKE THE HEADSET OUT OF THE PHONE BEFORE YOU TRY TO MAKE THE CALL, JACKASS.

Damn newfangled technology.

Neurotic (adj.)

Since most of the recent comments on this blog have been from women, I need to ask for your help. It has come to my attention that I may be the only woman who has quite the number of confessed idiosynchrasies, and I wanted to check in with you. I wholeheartedly admit to the following:

I will fake talking on my cell phone any time I have to encounter a group of people with whom I don't want to interact. Said groups may include, but are not limited to, drunk frat boys partying on their front lawn, professors in my former grad program's mail room, and any more than one construction worker on break. I am careful to put my cell on silent, and then carry on a full conversation with absolutely no one.

I seriously sing to Madonna, Britney and even Shania in my rearview mirror. At times I play like I'm in a video.

I love the smell of cat treats and at times have been tempted to taste them. Not the hard treats. Only the soft ones.

I am generally avoidant of placing food delivery orders on the phone, and will almost always have my beau or a friend call for me.

I always sit on public toilet seats, but will not drink from a straw that my best friend or even my mother has used. More than once I have thrown away a lipstick that a friend used without permission.

I cannot hold my nose underwater, so I suck my upper lip up to my nostrils, creating an airtight seal between my lip and nose. Try it. Not attractive.

Ok, so there are six of them. I will try to add more as I remember other things that are wrong with me. Now to you. Confessions?

If the menses frighten you, maybe you should read another of my entries.

Das cramps. Enough said.

I grew up dependent on an Advil/Tylenol cocktail and it worked its magic for many years. I then built up a tolerance for such simple meds and was forced to hit up peers for Nuprin, Motrin and even the hard prescription stuff that only moms seem to take. Throw in a hot water pad (which would have done more good if I had just poured the scalding water on my stomach - you know, to distract myself) and the myth that is "exercise will help to relieve the pain." Thanks to the guy that thought that last one up.

At this ripe age, with many moons still left, I have reached the point where there is nothing that will stifle the work of the trolls. For the love, why?

I have come to the conclusion that I am undoubtedly being punished. Cramps are clearly payback for:

1) the bonus of having breasts.
2) the time I (unintentionally) clotheslined that old lady at the mall.
3) the hatred I feel when one of the perfect women brags that she never gets cramps. Ok, well maybe it's also that I wish that she would have them, not all the time, but just enough that maybe she'd miss her jazzercise class in the synagogue basement. And maybe she'd not fit into her cute size 2 pants because her bloating had made her a pretty good size 4.
4) the sins of my mother.
5) my decision not to have children. The power above sends the trolls and their axes to my innards because I have done wrong; I am failing to procreate and instead try to count my cat as offspring.

Oh well, screw it. Quit looking at me that way and give me my chocolate back.

Bug me tender

My cat is the devil.

Well, not all the time. Just when I'm attempting to sleep, and usually when I pass out on the couch, overdosing on too much Justice Files.

Bug likes to sleep on the back of said couch, watching down over me while I slumber. When I'm awake, he is docile and sweet, his furry body stretched out, head often turned upside down to expose his very white chin. Sometimes he moves while dreaming, and his tiny ears flutter. Precious.

Right around 3 am, when I am probably my deepest in REM, Bug's alter ego (the one who would be wearing a black patch over his eye if this were a soap) comes alive. It began with Bug just patting on my eyes and nose until I woke up. Somebody loves me, I used to think. But then something much more sinister took hold. Literally.

Bug now hooks me in the nostril until I awaken or bleed, whichever comes first. Half asleep, I've seen him do it. He comes at me from his perch, paw outstretched as if he just wants to tap me sweetly. A mere two inches from my face, he flips his paw over, extends his nails, and inserts one into my right nostril. And then he pulls as hard as he can. Somebody is trying to kill me, I now think.

The pain is indescribable. I picture it being similar to having your nose pierced by the 14-year-old assistant manager at Claire's Boutique on her first day using the piercing gun.

Bug has no formal training, does not use alcohol wipes prior to piercing, and regularly walks around in a box containing his feces.

This has got to stop.

As if "I'm Bolton like Michael" wasn't bad enough

Someone just used "Stick a fork in me, I'm done."

My role in this scenario = similar to that of Old Yeller.

The lights are on

Someone just asked me what the hell Selma Blair was doing running for office in Great Britain.

When I'm 64

I spent most of the day and evening yesterday at the hospital with the Best Friend.
I will share with you the top five most disturbing moments of the day.

[cue drumroll]

#5) Aimee still looked better than I did, even though I had actually showered this week.

#4) She shushed me during the E! True Hollywood Story: Mary Kay Letourneau. Indication number one that her meds are affecting her brain.

#3) I made two trips to the penny candy bins at the gift shop, and the pink lady cashier with the lipstick outside of her lips asked me, "How long do you think these are gonna last you this time?"

#2) As a result of her recent experience, Aimee has decided that her rap name shall heretofore be "Sir Clots-A-Lot." Indication number two that her meds are affecting her brain. We all know it should be "Mama Clots-A-Lot."

#1) I caught a glimpse of Tuck's Medicated Pads in her clear overnight bag. Read: I caught a glimpse of our lives when we're both 70.

I don't remember this happening to Carrie.

I don't have much to say today.

My best friend was admitted to the hospital last night because of pain and swelling in her calf. A 6 am ultrasound revealed it to be a blood clot.

So she sat and waited until the CAT scan at lunchtime. A Noah Wyle look-a-like resident came in this afternoon to tell her she also had several small clots on not one, but both of her lungs.

Murr.

I love this woman, and hope she gets out of the hospital very soon.

Not only will this mean she is on the mend, but this will surely clear me to begin making fun of her again.

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In other news, if you Yahoo search for "how to make a drunk girl wet her pants", my blog is result #70.

Aimee, that one was for you.