Could be worse...could be a spider

I read somewhere that forcing yourself to smile can actually lift your mood, so I find myself smiling at random times – like right now sitting at my desk, for example, or when I’m sitting at a red light on Euclid Ave that has decided it won’t ever change to green – and the forced smile feels a lot like the one Sheldon Cooper wears when he’s been told it’s necessary for him to fulfill a social obligation that he completely disdains: false and creepy.

I’m not an incredibly social person to begin with. I have a few friends in Minnesota that I text every so often, hang out with even less frequently, and - when the situation is absolutely unavoidable – whom I call on the phone. Back home, I was used to talking to co-workers, living with Daylow, my animals and some tenants. Sometimes I’d chat with the neighbors, and by “sometimes,” I mean when I accidentally made eye contact on my way from the car to the back door. That was the extent of my wild social calendar.

So it’s amazing that out here in SoCal, living in a house with 5 other people, working with the same number of friendly co-workers, and seeing my MN friends with roughly the same frequency (which is and was almost never), I feel so much more alone. 

Down the road from my former office building in Minnesota, there was a small sheep farm. Every day during the spring and early summer, the lambs and sheep would rotate from one quadrant of the farm to another, presumably for grazing purposes, and they all looked just the same. Just a giant family of sheep, except there was this one llama amongst them. One lone, super tall llama, just grazing and looking around at the sheep thinking, “Where the hell am I?” 

Right now, I am that llama. 

And suddenly, I want to run back to that field in Minnesota and grab that llama by its giant neck and hug him and tell him that he’s a super tall sheep. Or maybe I’d tell him that his llama friends back home send their love, but really he should be happy here with the sheep because they get to graze in a very geometric pattern every day and isn’t that wonderful? I’ll tell him that there is a reason he’s there with the sheep, and eventually he’ll learn to love the sheep and he’ll feel like he belongs with them. 

But it might take a while and it won’t be easy. And I’ll tell him to smile even if it feels fake.

I swear to god the only thing I'm on at the moment is coffee. Cold coffee.

Thursday night, when my car was snatched (very politely and by a guy who looked a little like Santa, and with minimal tears on my part), I found myself in a bit of a tailspin.

Friday was a tough day for my ego, and then I realized that I needed help. Help was offered. And I, the endlessly prideful dumb ass that I am, turned down the help. For real.

I've always liked the idea of not needing monetary help from anyone, and went most of my adult life without asking for much of it, but I did get a loan from a loved one to help buy my house. This house is the best place I've found so far, and I don't mean house-wise exactly, because it needs a lot of work, but this is where I belong for some reason. I don't ever want to leave this property, and I'm going to do my damnedest to make that reality.

Unless I change my mind, but you know...I'm impulsive like that.

After my tough day on Friday, Daylow and I made our semi-regular trek to out little dive bar in town, and we talked quite a bit, as we are wont to do, and I noticed a very interesting pattern unravelling.

The situations when I've desperately needed help from other people, thus far, were difficult to swallow, but when I finally prostrated my ego enough to accept offered help, those debts resulted in some of the best things that have ever happened to me.

The loan for my house started a huge snowball of life-changing events that brought me here.

Where's here?

Home. Finally home.
In the place where I broke my skull and knocked every spec of responsibility out of my fibers.
This is the place I love most in the state despite all of the painful things that have happened here.
Finally accepting help from someone gave me a home.

The snowball blew through 2011 and knocked everyone aside, including Gray, and along the way, that snowball brought people into my life that made other changes explode like really grizzly fireworks. Half was a good show, half was like a slap in the face with a stray limb.

I've never been more alone than I am right now. I've never been more financially desperate than I am right now. I have never been more scared than I am. Right now.

But that fucking snowball, despite all the carnage it scattered through my world, also brought me Daylow. He's the best, most unexpected present I've ever received*.

Along with Daylow came months of unemployment, and not the "I deserve a tiny violin" kind of unemployment, but the "holy fuck, that chick is retarded" kind of unemployment.

Unemployment brought be the most fun, least profitable job I've ever had, and it also made an odd network connection (courtesy of meeting one of those limb-in-the-face people from the snowball) that resulted in me finding my new job. The job that I love. With a company I can dig. And a paycheck that will allow me to pay for my home. And my vodka.

All of the mistakes that I've made recently, all of the ways that I've fallen into a very deep hole, the fact that I'm pretty much scraping rock bottom in every way right now...these things brought me the happiest Minnesota winter I've ever survived.

Well, those mistakes and the fact that it's been warm and snowless all year.

Now I'm seeing the pattern repeat, because I desperately need help to crawl out of my self-fashioned hole, and also because someone has again offered to help.

I realized that I had to change my RSVP from "thank you for the offer, but I'm too proud to accept your help" to "FUCK YEAH, thank you very much."

It might just bring another good thing my way.


*Thanks Dale. And Pat. And the futon.

FOR SALE: Toro snowblower, pretty much brand new, expensive, fancy, and sprays magic (instead of snow) out of its blade thingys

$8.15

No joke, this snow blower propels itself, shoots really high in the air, and the snow it disburses is like a sparkly rainbow of unicorn farts and angel kisses falling from heaven.

I'm asking the price of a quarter tank of gas for this beauty, basically because I'm that desperate at the moment, and in exchange, this Fancy Toro *Expensive Model* can be yours.

I haven't checked the forecast yet, but I'm assuming it might snow again this year, maybe once or twice, definitely in March and DEFINITELY after we've washed our cars, so it's probably a matter of life or death, whether or not you own my magical unicorn snow cone maker.

Call me. Buy this. I NEED GAS MONEY.

Except that...wait, NO I DON'T.

Why don't I need gasoline after all, you ask?

That's right, I almost forgot.

I thought I was acting out my perfectly normal routine of riding to work in Daylow's car and, once there, being stranded even though I didn't need to go anywhere,  going to Arby's for lunch with a co-worker because I think he felt bad that he couldn't drive me around like a princess so, instead, he drove me to Arby's (which I didn't used to like, but now that I can't taste...I guess I actually do, and then working almost two hours later than I've recently been accustomed to working, but it seeming longer because it was dark when I left, the building was empty, and I'd gotten there at my regular time this morning, so it was a longer day in general, and then riding home (again, a passenger) by another  very  compassionate co-worker, and unlocking my front door to go inside, and having to explain to my very confused dog why I was entering from the wrong end of the house, did that mean she needed to get up and greet me, or was I planning to go around back and come in the correct way?

Except, as you can imagine, THAT IS NOT A NORMAL DAY FOR ME.

My car. It has been...returned to it's maker, shall we say, and is going to auction if I don't come up with a lotta cash soon.

So PLEASE call me. And buy my magical unicorn fan, and I'll only charge you the cost of a repo.

IF YOU DON'T PUT THE WORD "crustacean" in the subject line, I'll now your spam.

Fetishes have come up again, but in a very unexpected way.

Maybe you can help settle this for me.

Daylow and I cook. We cook a lot. It's wasteful, really. We need to open a soup kitchen or something, because even though we eat like pigs and feed our roommate sometimes, there are a lot of leftovers. I need to start taking them all to the neighbors.

Food waste doesn't seem to bother us as much as it should, though, because Daylow and I love to shop. At the grocery store. Basically, the grocery store IS my Bloomingdale's. If you ask me what kind of gift card I'd like, the answer is ALWAYS to the grocery store. Or the gas station, I guess. Or the liquor store.

We basically always shop for food together because it's more fun and also because our menu is very rarely pre-planned. We just kind of browse around and get an idea, trying to use whatever meat or produce looks best. And cheapest.

Anyway, here's the only difference between Daylow and I on the matter of grocery shopping:

• When I put fruit and veggies into a produce bag, I just kind of "twirl" the bag and plop the weight down on the loose bag end. It's quick, it's easy, and it leaves the produce bags in perfect condition to be re-used as dog poop bags. Sometimes, for stuff like garlic and limes, I don't use bags at all. I just throw produce in the cart and onto the checkout belt. Twist ties multiply like rabbits. I have a quart sized bag full of different sizes and types of twist ties, and I have another bag in my camping gear. I don't need more twist ties. I don't use them that often because, of course, I never re-seal the food once it's in my fridge. Bread doesn't need that stupid white contraption to keep it fresh. Just twirl the damn bag and lay the end of it underneath the bread. VOILA!

• Daylow...well, he not only ALWAYS uses a produce bag, but he also always uses twist ties to close the bags. No joke, there was a time when I ended up with an entire pocket full of  twist ties because he was worried I would keep forgetting to use them and, say, we'd be in the dairy aisle when Daylow would realize I didn't use a twist tie (even just one!), and of course we'd have to go back to the produce department to get a twist tie, and so my pocket being full of twist ties makes perfect sense. He's practically preventing my stupidity. PROACTIVELY. Amazing.

I was shopping for food by myself the other day and when I arrived at the check out, I realized I'd subconsciously tied ALL of the produce bags shut. No twist ties, no, but I'd done a loop knot to seal them.

First of all, WHAT THE FUCK HAS HAPPENED TO ME? I'm all of a sudden...tying produce bags for someone? He must be really good in bed or something. I don't like to compromise on my morals like that.

Secondly, I found an ideal compromise to our twist tie debate completely by accident. The loop knot is perfect because you just kind of...pull the knot out, and the bag stays poop-ready, but the produce stays properly...piled? Contained? What the hell is the purpose of using a twist tie? Maybe it's about vegetable safety or something.

Or perhaps Daylow has a twist tie fetish. I googled it, it's a real thing. Explains why he's got a twist tie cock ring.

I honestly have no idea why I'm compromising in this situation, but since I didn't realize I was doing it, I guess I'll let it pass.

This is why compromise is necessary.

Because the idea of being "left out" makes my skin crawl almost as much as Percocet

Speaking of which, anyone have any Percocet?

Because apparently brain injury + concussion = migraines which arrive out of nowhere and are vomit-in-the-shower-crippling, and are also virtually unaffected by anything known to man (except an illegal substance of which I certainly have never partaken, I'm just assuming since weed is used medicinally for migraines, it must actually work. Which reminds me, I need to move to California, because I could get an Rx for weed for any number of my ridonk ailments, from migraines to anxiety to depression to boredom. What, boredom is TOTALLY a medical condition.)

What was I saying?

Ah yes, it's time for me to hop on the band wagon and write a year-end wrap-up post because we're about to begin The Year the Mayans Got Bored with Making Calendars.

I'm pretty sure they just ran out of weed, but when they called their dealer, his voice mail said he wasn't available to sell  because he was busy getting sacrificed on an alter or some shit.

There's something else we can thank weed for: Postponing the end of the world until 2012.

Anyway, I'm sitting here in my bedroom, surfing the interwebnet because I don't want to watch the UFC fight that's on my TV because EEW, blood is grody, and I'm thinking about how crazy this year has been in almost every way.

2011 was supposed to be my first full year of marriage to my best friend, and while *technically* that's true because no court papers have been filed, I'm pretty sure everyone would have an opinion on just exactly how "married" I am. Not only are we not really married, not really living together, and certainly not best friends any longer, I'm hard pressed to get Gray to speak to me these days.

It's completely understandable, of course, but sucks just the same.

So I lost our beloved Bampa, as well as my husband and friend, not to mention all the brutal alienation such a split inevitably causes. So many of our friends are mutual, and most of those have no interest in my life at this time (I assume) out of loyalty to my husband, which again is understandable, and again, sucks.

The few friends I called my own, mostly from work, I lost touch with when I quit my job, but I think really they were relieved because I was proving to be more exhausting than awesome to them. Also understandable, when our lunch chats morphed from my wedding plans to my dating plans.

I'm an acquired taste at my very best, so throw in a few impulsive mistakes, a few irrational behaviors, and more than a few drunk texts...folks seem to appreciate some space.

So, New Years.

I'm not so naive to believe that January 1st is some kind of magical date. It's not a re-set button. It's nothing but the end of a calendar year, a calendar which was determined thousands of years ago by people WHO SLAUGHTERED OTHER PEOPLE IN THE NAME OF GOD.

So, really, they were a lot like we are now.

But this is what we do, we Americans. We talk about our kids and our ailments and our jobs and our wardrobes, and then we speculate on how those things may change in the next 52 weeks. We make predictions, we make grand statements about our intentions, we set unattainable goals, we thank everyone for believing in our ability to attain those goals, and then we get hammered and watch an electric comet plummet into Times Square, half-way hoping something will go horribly wrong and the ball will go rolling down the sidewalk, taking out every single one of those paper hat-wearing revelers, half-way relieved when it doesn't happen.

And so, I'll jump on that train because it's what I do.

In 2012, I intend to Get My Shit Together, Financially Speaking. I'm starting a really wicked new job on the 9th, and it should more than be enough for me to catch up with my medical bills, et al. I hope to find a second roommate to rent out the other bedroom upstairs, which will help financially as well. I plan to keep my part-time job and work nights and weekends, depositing that chump change into a separate account that I will use for "fun money," leaving the rest of my accounts untouched except for necessities. I plan to start over with a 401K because retirement sounds better every moment I'm alive.

I'd like to grow a tail, but that one is up in the air.

I plan to quit smoking, preferably forEVER this time.

I also intend to train Ramsey and Lucky to bring me beer in bed, and possibly to clean the toilet.

As far as relationships go, I plan to get back in touch with many of my friends. I'd like to make new ones. And I want to be sure that my partnership with Daylow doesn't grow stagnant, predictable, or co-dependent. I have a history of all of those things, and they don't bode well for Happily Ever After.

I'd like to drink less.

I want to camp more.

Daylow and I are going to plant a big garden this year, hopefully saving a small fortune on vegetables and herbs.

I want to see my family more than I got to this year.

Finally, I plan to win the lottery. Sadly, this may be the most likely of all of my goals, although if I do win the lottery, I'll be able to buy toilet-cleaning rats and pay people to be my friends, so it would kill several birds all at once.

Erm.

So it's kind of late for dinner, but Daylow* is outside grilling the most bizarre, delicious looking chicken I've ever seen.

It's chicken breasts stuffed full of crushed pistachios wrapped in an entire package of bacon. The sides are just about every vegetable known to man, slathered in butter and grilled in tin foil.

He's a culinary pot head. This is either going to be completely devoured in less than five minutes, or it's going to be an epic, totally inedible FAIL.

Based on prior experiments of his, my money's on YUM YUM GIMME SOME.

And because we roll like this, our rats are hanging out on the kitchen counter while we prep the food. Super duper sanitary, I'm sure, but they fucking LOVE the pistachios and got dirty on them like it was their last meal.

We're kind of celebrating Daylow's decision to leave a super abusive job behind, an we're also stoked about my highly successful job interview this morning, which (PLEASE DEAR GOD) may land me the best job I've ever had with a company I am really digging so far working with people who were cool enough that I'd hang with them voluntarily, and hopefully will.

I quit my job with Canterbury Park in October, partly out of laziness, mostly out of frustration. Ever had a job where you get paid to do nothing? It sounds fucking sweet, right? And it totally was...for the first two years. After that, I decided I was being treated like a wasted commodity, and with no hope of change, I gave my dad (and most of my friends) a stroke when I quit with no alternate position lined up.

There are only so many videos of baby monkeys riding on tiny pigs, you know?

Why would anyone think I'm nuts for ending my marriage, getting three new tattoos (one of which is a GIANT profanity, stamped across my upper back), quitting my job, ripping out my bathroom floor, adopting (then un-adopting) a third dog, and falling in love right away?

It all seems perfectly rational to me.

Which is why I'm not allowed in 23 of the United States without supervision.

And now I'm off to eat some really bizarre food with my new love and probably practice some clicker training with the rats (we found a new home for Rachel Ray) and then maybe watch the first installment of Bag of Bones on demand.

I'll probably also drink a liter of Jag and remove a few of my ribs with my jumbo toenail clipper.

You know...for self-sufficiency reasons.

If you don't hear from me soon, I'm either dead from eating weird food, or I'm unable to type because I accidentally removed my hand instead of my ribs.

*In case you're wondering the extent to which my life has changed in he last four months, Daylow is the man I am engaged to marry, but not until after Gray and I are no longer married, which (in my [sadly] extensive experience) will take quite a while.

Now with 100% more rodent incest

Well, I'm back and I can honestly tell you that I don't have a fucking clue where to start.

I've wrestled back and forth for months now about how to approach the future of this blog, in light of the face that when I began writing here in 2008, I was blissfully pregnant and madly in love with Gray; but now, about three years later, I'm not pregnant (nor am I a mother), Gray and I are in the process of ending our marriage, I have two completely new men living in my house, I quit my job, I lost many, many friends, and I worried the hell out of almost everyone who knows me.

So what to do?

Speak the balls-deep truth about my failed marriage and risk hurting Gray even more than I already have?

Pussy-foot around the truth and kind of...phase my new life into the blog and just hope nobody notices?

Start over with a completely new blog?

Seriously complex first-world problem, right? Boo to the hoo and suck a toe, right? More specifically, CAT, suck on the infected toe of reality and find something more important than this stupid online journal to worry about, like keeping your house and not being psychotic?

Here's the thing though: This stupid online journal is part of what keeps me from going psychotic. It's like therapy. Really, really unethically based therapy. And I'm starting to need this therapy again. It's mid-December in Minnesota, and snow or no snow (currently, it's looking like a shit-stain Christmas), I have my annual SAD flaring up, otherwise known as My Perilous Grasp on Sanity, or My Single-handed Funding of Kleenex Factories World-wide.

I need this blog to survive another life or death battle with my personal Interloper.

But using this blog as an anti-depressant isn't going to do a damn thing, I've decided, if I don't continue writing my real story. The things nobody wants to hear me say. The truth.

Plus, when I look back into my archives, I realize I don't remember 99% of the stories I tell you, which means that in the last few months I've spent on hiatus, I've forgotten at LEAST fourteen separate instances of drinking myself stupid, seven of my Epic Shits, and many other small, ridiculous fluffery that I consider far too closely and then write about here.

Like the tampon vs. the chapstick. WHAT THE FUCK IS UP WITH THAT?

Thank christ I wrote it down.

So here I am, Lolita Razzle Dazzle, resuming my life's work of offending and humiliating other people.

And it feels so good to be home.

PS: I now have two fancy hooded rats named Lucky and Rachel Ray, and they're going to fuck each other soon if I don't separate them. We thought Lucky was a girl, and so we bought a female from Lucky's litter to be a companion, but then giant testicles appeared on Lucky, and Rachel Ray is most definitely rocking a vagina, and they're almost old enough to mate. But I can't justify two separate cages because WHAT WOULD THAT SAY ABOUT ME, plus the ball python Raven is already irritated that she didn't get a chance to eat Lucky and Rachel Ray, and I don't like pissing off snakes if I can help it.

So either one of the rats becomes snake food (which I cannot do, no fucking way, they're my bayyyybeeeeees), we split them up and get two completely different companion rats that they cannot fuck (unless they swing that way), or we allow these little bastards to have incestuous rat sex and produce up to fourteen separate baby rats, which would then need to be hand fed because Rachel Ray is too young to nurse her babies properly, and then I'll end up living in a house full of rodents because all the babies are my grandchildren and I am insane.

So here: Have some cute rats

Please hold

I got rid of Internet at home, and I quit my job which, let's face it, is where I did all my blogging, so here I am, trying to type on an iPhone, and my friends? IT IS NOT GOING WELL.

I'm escaping reality for a few days, going camping up north with Daylow, the man I blame for my new obsession with snakes.

I will return to blogging soon, but I cannot guarantee I will be funny. Something about my shortage of vodka and my abundance of dogs seems to have sucked the hilarity right out of me.

Although... I DO have a few new epic poop stories.

Some are even about the dogs.