ground control to rachel...earth to rachel...come in...over.: 02.04

Monday, February 23, 2004

Slow Motion Movie Kisses & The FUKUOKU 9000

In the wake of said failed Valentine’s Day, I went down to LA to visit the boyfriend over the weekend. Having a few other prepubescent issues lurking in the womb of relationship doom, I was a little leery about the trip in general. I am comfortable communicating but when someone takes what I am saying the wrong way and cannot seem to “get it”, I really lose interest in dealing with the impending conflict. Not big on the whole conflict thing although I will try to take my shoe off and throw it at your head if I am drunk enough and you really piss me off… but that isn’t really considered conflict per se. I kind of wanted to cancel the trip altogether but I knew if I let things sit, he wouldn’t deal with it so I wouldn’t deal with it…Birth of Pissing Contest 2004…then I would do what I always do and shut down emotionally, write it off as “Not worth the energy” and then pine over what could have been drunk at 2:30 in the morning with the phone in one hand and a monster taco from Jack in the Crack in the other...so I went…and I’m so happy I did.

Have you ever spent a number of days with someone and it was as if everything was scripted? Like you both knew just what to say, you had no plans but things just fell into place without any decision making effort for either of you. We kept getting lost in time while *execute preparation of barf bags now* gazing into each others eyes and literally being snapped out of it by a car honking behind us or someone walking by making a comment like “Just kiss her already! You two look so romantical.” (Yes this did really happen in Ralph’s on Sunset in the bread section which is funny because I don’t eat bread and the guy who said it looked like the ghost of Joey Ramone.) I stayed an extra night and even got 3 consecutive nights of good sleep sans Sominex and despite his outlandish snoring problem.

For someone like me, someone who gets annoyed with pretty much everyone and everything at some point, to NOT get annoyed after 3 whole days with someone is incredible. Turns out, it’s the same for him. The fact that he didn’t get me anything for Valentine’s Day is now a non-issue. I don’t fucking care. He made up for it with a weekend of romantic dinners, endless laughter, romantic gazes and softly whispered sweet nothings…oh and let’s not forget hot sex.

For those of you who know me, you know I am very open-minded sexually and I am not embarrassed if people know it. In fact, I prefer to wear my heart on my sleeve and find it is a clever way of weeding out people I really would rather not waste my energy on such as a.) narrow-minded creeps, b.) judgmental assholes, c.) backstabbing jackasses, and finally but certainly not least, e.) Condescending fucktards. I have found that there is no better way to weed these people out than to just be my colorful, sexually open, obnoxious, gutter-mouthed, opinionated self. Works like a charm. So for those of you who might fit into one of the above categories: Please take this opportunity to stop reading this blog now because I am sure that if I don't offend your lame needing to get out more ass now, I am certain I will later so do us all a favor and piss off now.*ahem getting back on track* After 3 months of dating, you basically have a feel for someone sexually. I mean, you get an idea of what they like and dislike, their ways in which they “get it on” *cue Barry White track here – any will do, I mean, it’s fucking Barry White* and so on and so forth. Never being content with normalcy or routine, I decided to liven things up a little and wait for the perfect moment to bust out with *drum roll* The FUKUOKU 9000 . A little bit of weaponry carefully selected from my arsenal at home that would be perfect to use as a weapon in which to make his knees weak and mine tremble…perfect to sneak on a plane undetected….yeah right, what planet am I living on? This is MY luck we are talking about here. Pssshhhhhhhhhh.

I never ever check my bags so as I am going through security as I have a hundred times before, my bag is whisked away on the conveyer belt and under the watchful eye of Brother Airport Security who doesn’t speak a wick of engwish and isn’t keeping his eye on the x-ray thingy so he has to scan your bag like 5 times while I am asked to remove everything down to my goddamn dress and pantyhose. I even had to take out my fucking hair clip which REALLY sucked because I had this hot just been fucked Courtney love updo thing going on so you can imagine how fucking ridiculous I looked with the carefully individual teased pieces sprayed to kingdom come by hairspray that makes Aqua Net seem like seltzer water hanging out every which way. I looked like Medusa on crack.

And then comes the:

“Oh Miss? Is this bag wours?”

I nod.

“Pwease step ober der.”

Fuck.

I immediately started to panic. Did I pack anything illegal? Are there drugs in there? I might have some Xanex I bought in Tijuana but everyone was doing it…it was PEER PRESSURE!! Can I go to jail for unprescribed Xanex?? As my mind was racing, I had to acknowledge everything in my bag that she was showing me and then she pulls out the little black leather case.

Double fuck.

Mind you, it is about as busy as I have ever seen it in the airport, I am dressed like a hussy since I am on my way to Hollywood for unspecified evening activityand had a late flight because I had to work and had no time to change before hand so am already hookered out, barefoot, push up bra creating something more like a TV tray than actual cleavage, hair all jacked up like I stuck my toe in an electrical outlet, face bright red as she asks me to open the case and take out The FUKUOKU 9000.

Triple fuck.

Hands now shaking, it is as if I am being pulled under water. Everything starts to sound and feel like it is in slow motion. I see faces staring at me, mocking me as they walk by at a snail’s pace; seemingly laughing with clay faces like melting Jokers…I pull out the tiny plastic vibrator and hand it to her.

“What is it?”

“Uhhh iii..iiit…it’s a vibrator.”

"A what?"

*cough cough* In a whisper yet closer to her head "I said, it is a vi-bra-tor..a lil' one."

*blank stare*

“Turn it on please.”

“Huh?”

“Turn it on please.”

Quadruple fuck.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

“Thank you.”

Pushes my bag over towards me.

Stuck on stupid, with The FUKUOKU 9000 still securely fastened on my index finger and vibrating on like the little trooper it is, I stand slack-jawed and confused like a soldier suffering from post traumatic stress syndrome in the middle of a hot LZ…she pushes my bag to the end of the counter, thanks me again yet a little annoyed this time and I hurriedly stuff the The FUKUOKU 9000 back into its case and in my bag. Luckily my flight was delayed an hour so all the people in line behind me got to sit and chuckle at my expense at the gate.

All that and we never even used the fucking thing all weekend.

So despite the airport security vibrator humiliation episode, I am still dubbing this weekend the best weekend of 2004...so far. :?)

Thursday, February 19, 2004

And I'm Aching

I’ve got the PMS. I feel like something died in my uterus.

Have you ever seen American Werewolf in London? If so, you know the part where David turns into a werewolf and is running through the busy streets of London gnashing his teeth at everyone he passes? Yeah, that’s me but sans the hairy back (thank you Schick Quatro).

So by request, a public service announcement:

Kamikaze Recipe

1 part vodka (I only use Absolut or Grey Goose because I drink so much vodka, I am allowed to be a snob about it)

1 part Triple Sec

2 parts Sweet & Sour

Squeeze half a lime in there and toss the carcass (of the lime, not the carcass of the hitchhiker you murdered last summer and are keeping in your grandma's extra freezer in the garage) in the shaker thingy

Now the whole “part” thing is open to interpretation. One part to me was one plastic party cup but you could very well use a milk carton if you are really feeling like you could use a few.

Make sure you have the shaker thingy half filled with ice & then shake the ever loving shit out of it for about 15 seconds. Note: If you are using a metal shaker and your hands are kind of wet from the ice or booze, wrap the shaker thingy in a towel otherwise you’re hand will stick to the metal like the Christmas Story’s kid’s tongue on the pole. Fucking hurts and it is embarrassing when you are trying to be Joe Cool Bartender.

There are lots of fancier recipes but like my daddy always says K.I.S.S. – Keep It Simple Stupid. You know he said that so much that I was 13 before I realized my first name wasn’t Stupid. He also used to say “You’re so full of shit your eyes are brown.” Now I always wear colored contacts when I go out, go figure. Oh another one he loves is “I’ve done so much with so little for so long, I can do practically anything with nothing and still have something left over.” I like that one personally, just like the way it rolls off your tongue in a trailer park love your local redneck kind of way.

So happy Kamikaze’ing and don’t say I never did nothin’ for ya'.

Now I am going to go to Baskin Robbins for a sundae, order a pizza, get in bed, turn on my electric blankie, & watch Party Monster.

Nighty nite kiddies & remember, mama loves ya'.

Tuesday, February 17, 2004

House fires, Kamikazes & John Holmes

The new man came up from LA to visit me over the long holiday weekend and as with any long distance relationship, you build expectations of how your time together is going to be. Having met him online and getting to know him over AIM, email and phone calls for three months before meeting in person, one gets a sense of what a person is all about and after the last five months, he has exceeded my expectations in every way. Of course there are a few red flags, which is good because that tells me that I am not idealizing him and putting him on some bullshit unrealistic pedestal, I am seeing him for his attributes and faults and I am accepting him in his totality…until Saturday morning. This is a very romantic person and his romance and passion has ensnared me completely, so naturally I was expecting something awesome for Valentine’s Day…the day lovers celebrate one another…the day of not even a fucking Hallmark card. I was so disappointed. But I knew he was broke so eh, fuck it. I still got some joy from giving him his gift and sweet card chock full of eloquently penned sentiments so no big deal…I guess…I GUESS? Fuck that! It was a big deal! A fucking card costs TWO DOLLARS, he could have wrote something on a napkin and wrapped it in tin foil and I would have swooned. I am not hard to please. Jesus. *phew I’m better now* But I know he felt badly and I am sure he will make it up to me but he still blew it nonetheless. I could really care less about getting a gift but some gesture of what I mean to him on Valentine’s Day would have been nice. I suppose I shouldn’t complain too much, what most women only get on V-Day, I get almost everyday so maybe that is a fair trade off…we know I am blowing smoke up my own ass here…if this happens next year, he gets a cattle prod to the nuts. And I ate the goddamn chocolate I got for him and he didn't get any. So there. Men! Can't live with em, can't live with em...heh.

Being that he was broke and I am single mother/student (i.e. BrokeAssMammaJamma), we did the laying low thing all weekend. I got groceries and played house...Betty Crocker/Valentine/Drinking Buddy/Personal Loveslave all rolled in one for the long holiday weekend, Mr. Man…ok maybe more like Betty’s danger prone cousin. I somehow managed to overfill the casserole dish so the cheese from the lasagna spilled out and onto the bottom of the oven, thereby catching on fire and filling my house with smoke. The Man and The Kid had to watch TV in the front room shivering under blankets with the heater blasted on 90 degrees to offset the 35 degree draft that was coming in from all the windows being open while I ran through the house frantically waving dishtowels around over my head in an effort to air the fucking place out before the smoke alarm went off. THEN as if I didn’t demonstrate my housewife dysfunction enough Saturday night, on Sunday, I decided to barbeque a tri tip, I mean how can I fuck up BBQ??! Oh the reality never ceases to prove my logic wrong. It was all looking good until I went to turn it after 15 minutes and when I opened the lid of the bbq, the whole fucking slab of meat was on fire. Not just burnt but up in goddamn unrelenting flames. In a panic, I start hopping up and down (no clue why because it really didn’t help put out the fire) and beating it with the big ass bbq fork thingy, stab it through it’s center, yank it off the grill, sending it off the fork, into the air, over my shoulder and onto the pavement of my patio with a sloppy thud. Well, the fire went out. Looking over my shoulder to ensure the coast was clear, giving myself clearance, I then hosed it off, slathered it with bbq sauce and stuck it back on the grill. Hey, the ten second rule always applies in times of desperation and no one was harmed in the production of this meal. Overall, the food tasted really good with my side dish of humiliation.

By Sunday night, to offset my V-day Let Down and the double showing of Cooking with House Fires, I decided the best plan of action was vodka. I love me some kamikaze shots. To me, they are no big deal; in fact, I find it very amusing when I encounter people who cringe when asked if they wanted to do one. As if it’s Jagermeister or something, I mean how can something limey and light be remotely as bad as some nasty thick black cough syrupy shot? Psssshhhhh…rookies. Being the productive fucker I am, I looked up a recipe on the internet, went to the store for the ingredients and made some of the best goddamn kamikaze shots I have ever had in my life. All I can tell you is after the 2nd shaker thingy of them, I ended up in pantyhose, stripper shoes and a gold lamay mini-dress…fun was had, my friends, oh yes, fun was had.

So the weekend closed off with a lazy Monday that was spent in bed eating mac n cheese, watching the American Chopper marathon (I fucking love those guys - was the Comanche bike not the dopest ever?) and then the Wonderland DVD. If you haven’t seen it, SEE IT. It’s about the porn star John Holmes and the Wonderland murders. I am a huge Val Kilmer fan and he portrays John Holmes so well, it’s unbelievable. The special features are intense because they use real crime scene footage and interviews with people close to John Holmes. So they were saying that he had a 13 ½ inch dick. THIRTEEN AND A HALF INCH DICK. Geeeeezus! OK so just the IDEA of something that big entering my body freaks me out. Now, I am not a size queen but I appreciate the wave to be at least slightly above average to really get the motion of the ocean rockin’, ya know? BUT I don’t need a fucking Tsunami. So I put a ruler against my abdomen to see how far 12 inches was from the holiest of holies and man, it goes past the belly button. Whoa! Call me crazy but I would prefer to keep my kidneys intact, thank you very much...yet in some sick and twisted way, I want to collect all his movies now.

So kiddos, the morals to this story are:

1.) If you have a tendency of causing house fires while cooking, just eat out.
2.) Kamikaze shots are the solution to every problem.
3.) Conquer your fears by buying porn.
4.) If you attempt to do the John Holmes ruler experiment at work, make sure the receptionist doesn’t walk by your cubicle because she will look at you real funny when you nonchalantly wave at her with your free hand while using the other to hold the ruler vertically against your lower abdomen.

Friday, February 13, 2004

Happy Valentine's Day Fuckers

...and let's hope that the use of the term "Fuckers" is literal for you all this weekend.

I, for one, am going to induldge in copious amounts of food, sex, alcoholic beverages and sweet nothings.

Therefore, I hereby reserve the right to not blog until Tuesday. May my legs become bowlegged by that time, have fun all and remember, sex is like a chinese dinner...it ain't over til you BOTH get a fortune cookie.

XOX

Thursday, February 12, 2004

So Fuck Off

I am not a morning person. Vehemently NOT a morning person. This is not my fault, I would love to be one of those chipper fuckers who springs out of bed in the morning, draws the curtains, takes in a deep breath of fresh crisp air and bounds through the morning with a gleaming smile. I am the Anti-Morning Person. I practically wake up on a broomstick. When I wake up in the morning, it takes about 3 snooze button hits to actually get out of bed, my legs have been transformed to lead overnight so it takes great effort to swing them over the side of the bed and then I heavily step to the bathroom like the goddamn Iron Giant. My hair always looks like I got fucked by a football team all night (step off Tina Turner, here comes somethin' meatier). My eyes are puffy and half glued shut, the standard pillow seam/crease imprint in my face that doesn't go away til at least 10 or so and I have the basic look of a person tortured. Night owls should be allowed to have our own schedule and not be forced to conform to society's early bird schedules. Night owls offspring should be allowed to start school at noon so we can all stay up til 2:00 a.m. and sleep til 10:00 a.m. I wonder if I should write my congressman.

Until my new Night Owl law is passed, I am thinking about posting a disclaimer on my forehead:

FUCK OFF UNTIL AFTER LUNCH

Furthermore:

a.) Do not approach me before at least 11:00. Up to that time, you will get only brief eye contact or a Wassup head nod. I am not wired to offer anything more in the way of pleasantries as I am supressing Fuck off's in my head, sometimes literally biting my tongue to refrain from doing so as I inch away from "that" coworker who has to tell me everything her stupid fucking shitzu did the night before. I don't fucking care Lady. You should have drop-kicked the dumb fucking dog mkay now fuck off.

b.) Do not corner me in the break room to engage in idle chit chat. News flash: I don't give a fuck so fuck off.

c.) There is no need to greet me and ask how I am doing everytime I walk by your goddamn office. In any given morning, as I make my way to and from the break room, fax machine, copier, or bathroom, I go through this with everyone at least 5 times because my office is at the far end of the goddamn building. I am still Fine thank you like I was 5 fucking minutes ago so fuck off.

d.) Don't expect me to do actual work before lunch. I mean, my brain is not awake and I am in a goddamn bad mood so fuck off. I am blogging here so again fuck off.

e.) Basically just Fuck Off in general.

In other news, aside from my new fucked up hair, I have Neil Sedaka playing in my head...Breakin' up is hard to doooooooooo... No shit Sherlock. I should write a song about how kicking him to the curb is the easy part but getting your name off all the goddamn joint accounts is a fucking bitch. The boat, the hot tub, the goddamn mortgage, when the fuck did I become an adult and acquire all this fucking responsibility IE BAGGAGE??? I long for the days of irresponsibilty...the days when I lived by the seat of my pants, table dancing my way through life to support musician boyfriends who were going to take care of me when they made it big...just need that new Les Paul baby...yeah I'll pay you back...um...ok I don't quite miss that but at least when they left, all they left behind was their rancid memory. Not all this loose end bullshit. But alas, I must ask myself, what would Barberella do?

So I adust my breasts in my silver vinyl rabbit fur trimmed spacesuit, toss my hair over my shoulder, and get in my bubblecraft to find that hunky blind angelman for a heavenly sexual experience...ah yes, heavenly sexual experiences are always the answer...even if you have to do it yourself...so fuck off.

Wednesday, February 11, 2004

An Omen

This morning I chose a lyric line from my favorite David Bowie (Ashes to Ashes) song as my blog header and this afternoon I had my hair appt and she fucked up my color so now, I really do have a screwed down hairdo...screwed up...screwed to the right..anyway you look at it, it's screwed. Ugh. Think it's an omen? I am making the bitch fix it on Tuesday and if she fucks it up again, I am ripping out her $2,000 hair extensions.

Well good thing I didn't put a lyric from Sir Mix A Lot or something, might have come home tonight with a 50 lb ass.

Popping my Blogging Cherry

So this is my first entry. My devirginization...great and I'm popping my cherry alone for the second time. Twice in one lifetime, who woulda' thunk it. Hey, it's not my fault, my mom didn't understand that tampons and hymens didn't get along.

I feel like there should be a christening party or something. Hey any excuse for the overconsumption of alkihawl and the blackouts that go hand in hand with it is a good excuse in my book any day of the week. Speaking of alkihawl, I found my new favorite drink: Schmirnoff Ice with a shot of Midori in it. Yeah it's green, yeah it's a malt beverage, yeah it is in the category with wine coolers and Zima but I don't care dammit. I'm still hardcore so fuck you.

I was going to take the day off to do cool things like go back to bed after dropping MiniMe off at school, get up at a ridiculus early afternoon hour, fart around the house, get a pedicure, pick up my new laptop *joy joy i think i'm wet joy*, go to my hair appointment and see how many colors she can weave through it this time...but no, I get a call at 8:20 informing me that a body was found in one of the apartments I manage. Great. So i have to come in to learn that not only was this body a tenant but that he has been there decomposing for 3 weeks...guess I don't need to serve that 3-day notice to pay rent or quit now, eh? Wonder what I am supposed to do with his security deposit? Think my boss would notice if I made the refund check out to myself? I mean, the guy is dead, he doesn't need it...my boss has enough money...I'm the one who's broke. Sound plan in my eyes. Damn skippy.

So, another few hours and I will be able to get the above done minus the sleep in part but hey, I'm a single parent, like gratuitous amounts of sleep are really part of my life anymore. Pssshhhhhh nigga please. One good thing about this is I read in the LA Weekly (why is that there are like 8 pages of cosmetic surgery ads in the LA Weekly? Breast implants for $2,300?? Do they use peanut oil or something? Does the guy perform the surgery in the back of his SUV? I mean how can they afford to do offer these surgeries so cheap? Fucking scary I tell ya.) that they have laser treatments for dark circles now. Whoa! No more looking like I live on 5 hours of sleep a night? Sweet? How much? Twenty billion dollars? Sweet, I'll take the implants.

Oh great the detective called again...what more can I tell this dude?

"Yes he is still dead."

More news at 11....have a nice fucking day.

ground control to rachel...earth to rachel...come in...over.