Two Years Later, I'm Still Explaining to My Friends and Family Why My Best Friend is a Stranger From the Interweb.
I can say with absolute certainty that although you can't tell by my shitty and infrequent writing here, this blog is one of the best things that could have ever happened to me. I've learned so much, I've laughed even more, and I've met some incredibly fantastic friends along the way. It's you guys that make blogging worthwhile. I love you all like family and I can't imagine my life without you. As incredibly mushy and unlike myself as I sound right now, I'm being completely fucking honest when I say that I've met some of my greatest friends through blogging. And I'm finally at a point in my life that I'm not afraid to admit it, regardless of the jokes and explanations and incessant, irritating questions. Oh yeah, and did I mention the constant accusations of my little sister calling me a dyke? There's that, too.
But as my big California move approaches, I've come to realize that I like spending REAL time with my friends and family just a little bit more than I like laying in my bed, staring at the screen of my iBook. Not only am I neglectful when it comes to my own blog, but I've neglected reading others' blogs as well, and frankly I feel like I've fallen out of the loop. I can't imagine ever NOT being a blogger, but for now this thing just isn't something that I can fit in on my top ten priority list, especially because binge drinking takes up slots 1 through 9.
This blog has never been a place where I just log on and start typing away about my day, or the events going on in my life. It started out as a place for me to share my funny stories and crazy sense of humor with other like-minded internet freaks, and for awhile that's exactly what it was. And although there is definitely no shortage of hilarious stories and crazy happenings in my life, I've found myself too consumed with LIVING those moments to be bothered with documenting them. Maybe one day I'll regret it, but for now, I have to say goodbye to this dirty, dirty jew diary (I love you, Jeri Blank). I will keep this spot around, just to make the ocassional updates and keep in touch with those of you whom I've come to know and love as family, and also those of you who like living vicariously through a single, twenty-something, sexually adventurous social miscreant such as myself. Know that you always have a place to find me if you need me, and vice versa.
There are many times that I miss this place and all the fun times I've had related to blogging, dating back to late 2003 when I found my very first blog and started a comment war with many of the same folks whom I now consider colleagues and friends. I remember sitting down to write my first post on this blog. I remember reading my first comment. These are things I'll never forget, but unlike the cast of Friends, I'd prefer to step down before my 7th season; before I become universally loathed and disrespected. Maybe one day I'll be back. But chances are, I'll be too drunk to remember my own url.
See you bitches on the flip side! Happy 2007!
PS, for those of you who are in the know, you can still hit Snaps and I up at the co-blog, or COB as we fondly refer to it.
On the Holidays
I've got friends and ex-boyfriends alike in town for the holidays, not to mention party invites and photography gigs and blind dates to tend to. Many times I've been forced to change plans or blow off loved ones because of my insane schedule, and for those of you "loved ones" who have been officially blown off (you know who you are), I sincerely apologize. I can honestly say I don't remember the holidays ever being this crazy for me before.
In addition to spending time with my favorite people, I've been frantically making my plans for the big move to California. I can't WAIT to get out there, but the process is seriously KILLING me. My anxiety is at an all-time high.
My roommate has recently vacated the premesis, leaving me with the undue stress of additional bills and rent and all that financial liability. I've been putting in overtime like a madwoman to try to stabilize myself, but it seems like a neverending battle; and I have to admit that I think I'm losing this war.
So, with all of these sad excuses for my lack of social or blogging ettiquite aside, I want to wish everyone a Merry Christmas. It's raining cats and dogs here in Houston, and I haven't felt the Christmas spirit move me even ONCE yet this season. I'm tired of Christmas carols and am ready to strangle the next stranger to wish me Happy Holidays. I've considered packing a taser gun in my purse when shopping at major department store chains and weilding it against all of the cranky, crying, whining, ugly children throwing chocolate ice cream-covered tantrums in each and every fucking isle I need to walk down. I'm sick of red, I'm sick of green, I'm tired of parties and presents and food and drinks and buying and wrapping and giving and hugging. I wish I could Scrooge it out in my apartment alone this Christmas, but alas, that's just not possible. Instead I'll grin and bear it all. In actuality, I'm somewhat looking forward to my niece's first Christmas. Introducing her to presents and trees and ornaments and Jesus and my parents' drinking problem should be exciting and fun. She's been a complete joy to be around lately, always wanting to be held and tickled and cuddled and kissed, and although her favorite words are "stop!" and "help!", I know she doesn't really mean them. She loves her cheek-pinching Auntie. So, SHE'S the reason for MY season, and I'll be snuggling with her adorable baby fat in a few short hours. I can't deny that I'm actually looking forward to it. Just a little.
The German Grandma
The first person I would like to discuss is the one that had me in stitches the entire week- Snaps' German Grandma. First of all, the way this little lady speaks is in and of itself totally hilarious. I suppose I've never heard a real German accent, and especially not on such a cute little white haired lady in floral knit sweaters. The German Grandma is literally the cutest thing you've ever seen; she is El Capitan of the Pirate Ship Cute, and her swashbuckling first mate is a kitten playing with a ball of yarn. Their flag is adorned with flop-eared rabbits their crew is a bunch of men who cry at sensitive moments, because really, is there anything cuter than THAT?
The Grandma was constantly trying to give us food; she literally would ask us if we were hungry mere minutes after we had eaten. She tried force-feeding us candy bars, turkey, bread, pickles, olives, cookies, eggs and worst of all, PICKLED WATERMELON. I tried the stuff at 'Leen's urging and OH. MY. GOD. If I ever swallowed an entire bottle of cayenne pepper and then ate my own regurgitated vomit, IT WOULD TASTE LIKE PICKLED WATERMELON. AFTER witnessing my violent reaction to tasting the stuff, the Grandma then felt the need to belatedly warn me that she had fermented it in scalding hot spices scraped from the asshole of Satan. So what does she do next? She goes down to the basement to get ANOTHER jar of pickled death and tells me to try THAT. As if she were offering me something COMPLETELY DIFFERENT than what had mere seconds ago given my esophagus third degree burns and left my tongue charred and numb. I hate to say it, but even the supreme cuteness of Brad Pitt crying as his blind brother becomes ensnared in a barbed wire trap in Legends of the Fall could not compell me to eat another slice of pickled watermelon.
In many respects, the Grandma was like any other grandma you'll meet. She's doting and chatty and sometimes confused and loves to feed people. But the best part about the Grandma is the little slips and mistakes she'd make, always with the most oblivious sincerity.
First of all- and Snaps had prewarned me about this- Grandma has a tendency to confuse the names of Snaps' little brother and their much older, much retardeder cousin. Their names are nothing alike, they look nothing alike, and there is, of course, the obvious difference of one being mentally handicapped and the other just being... stoned. (Okay so maybe there's not much of a difference there). I have to admit that I was super psyched to witness this event, because apparently it enrages poor SnapBro each and every time. Sure enough, the mistake was made within 24 hours of our arrival to the house, and Snap and I exploded into laughter, to the bewilderment of Grandma. Once she realized her mistake, she corrected herself and then stated, "Ach, I don't know why I always do that!" I'm pretty sure I continued the trend by calling SnapBro by the wrong name on many drunken occasions over the next few days. Snaps exacerbated it on Thanksgiving by calling her brother by their cousin's name and then asking, "Do you know where the pop is?" And when SnapBro got up to find some pop for his darling big sister, she called after him, "No, not POT. POP. I need some POP."
On the first day we arrived at the Grandma's house, one of the first things she mentioned was Snaps' new beau. She asked if I had met him, and I responded yes, that I found him quite acceptable. The Grandma expressed her pleasure at the budding romance with the following statement: "Yah, in the past every time she had a new boyfriend, we would have to ask, 'Is he a black one, or a white one?' and I was soooo happy when she finally said, 'white'. I think it's so good she finally came back to the white. That's the way it should be." The funniest part about this is that the Grandma said this with the utmost sincerity. She literally had NO IDEA that what she had just said was so completely offensive that a less tolerant person than myself would have totally body slammed her cracker ass into a brick wall.
One of the most comedic traits of the Grandma was her refusal to acknowledge Snaps' dog as a female. No matter what we said, or how many times we mentioned that Jessa is in fact a GIRL DOG with a GIRL'S NAME, Grandma insisted on referring to the dog as merely "him".
(Upon Snaps and I preparing to leave for the evening): "Me and him are gonna stay home and I'm gonna feed him some bread and we are gonna watch that show about the hospital on the T.V."
(Upon presenting Jessa with a hand-knit PINK AND PURPLE afghan): "Look, I made this for him!"
(Upon realizing Jessa's doggy butthole was directly in her face): "Ach, he's taking my picture!"
(Upon stepping on Jessa's foot while washing dishes): "Did I make him a boo-boo?"
The hilarity of most of the Grandma's statements came from their complete and utter randomness. Oftentimes, the things she said were in no way related to the discussion at hand, which simply made them that much more comical. When Snaps, 'Leen and I were discussing our impending trip to the Hutterite colony, Grandma pondered aloud, "I sometimes think those women don't wear panties under those long skirts. No one would ever know if they didn't! There used to be one that lived across the street and I'd peep out the window while she was working in the yard and I would wait for the wind to blow her skirt up so I could see if she was wearing any panties!"
When the Grandma and 'Leen were discussing recent divorces in the community, the Grandma noted, "Well, she used to go to these meetings during the week, and at these meetings she met that man, and she and him were having their own meetings, and she snuggled up to him and that's why the husband divorced her."
And when we were discussing couples that maintain separate beds and separate bedrooms, the Grandma enlightened us with her eternal wisdom, "I knew a couple that did that once. They had separate beds but sometimes they would still visit eachother in the middle of the night."
Upon viewing Snaps' raunchy Christmas card photo she gasped, lamenting, "You're not wearing any panties!"
Snaps replied, "Yes I am, grandma!"
"Ach, well, you must be wearing those little stringy ones. I saw some of them in the laundry and I tried to fold them for you, but there wasn't any material to fold! Only string!"
When it was all said and done, I realized that I LOVE this Grandma. She had us laughing hysterically for hours on end, and she didn't even know it. Not to mention, she gave me some kick ass hand knitted doilies that I fully intend on using to wrap and store my pickled watermelon.
"Your fucking faggot father is my faggot brother, you mother fucker! And that makes YOU my faggot niece!"
More quotes to come, and more stories and photos and jokes and videos to boot. Most of it is X-rated (hell, who am I kidding? ALL OF IT IS), so hide your children. Except for the SnapChildren, especially the male ones, all of them over the age of 21. Because, you know, you guys are fucking HOT.
I'm the Anti-Blogger
As many of you know, I will be headed to North Dakota in a few short days to visit my dear friend and fellow blogger, Snap. Despite the fact that there will be no snow, I am still hella excited about the visit- and not only because there's a slim to infinitesimal chance that I might get laid.
About a month ago I decided to break the dreadful news to Mama Spoon about my plans to spend the Thanksgiving holiday in an altogether different hemisphere. Papa Spoon had already been told during our weekly gossip sesh, and he informed me at that time that my mom would be none too pleased about my departure. Whatever, I thought. She'll hardly care!
So last month during one of the usual Spoonfam Sunday dinners, I just blurted it out. "I'm going to North Dakota for Thanksgiving." Without waiting for an explanation or asking for any additional details, my mother simply burst into tears. I quickly tried explaining to her that this is the only time that works for both Snap and I to get simultaneous time off from our jobs, that her Iraqi lover just returned and I was hard pressed to meet him, that this would be a better opportunity to meet her friends and family as they would all be gathered together for the holiday. She merely sobbed harder.
Finally she asked, "Who are you going to spend Thanksgiving with?"
"Snap and her family," I replied.
Mom began to bawl, shouting, "YOU'D RATHER SPEND THANKSGIVING WITH STRANGERS THAN YOUR OWN GOD DAMN FAMILY?"
"They're not strangers, I talk to her mom on the phone all the time."
"You wish she was YOUR mom, don't you?" My mom asked, in her typical passive aggressive, woe-is-me, victimized way.
"Yes, actually, I kind of do," was my honest answer.
After our brief conversation, we all excused ourselves from the dinner table except for mom, who sat there morosely, shedding silent tears into her mashed potatoes for a good 40 minutes after the rest of us had left. This is how she copes. We're used to ignoring it.
Fast forward to last week. I was leaving the house after another Sunday dinner event, and as I'm about to walk out mom asks, "Honey, are you working on Thanksgiving? Are you gonna come over?"
We all stare in disbelief. Spoon Bro shouts, "OH MY GOD, ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?"
My mom looks around, totally clueless.
I looked her dead in the eye and spoke slowly. "MOM. I will not BE here for Thanksgiving. I will be in NORTH DAKOTA. How many times do I have to tell you?!"
Then the water works started up- AGAIN.
"Oh no, HELL NO, you are NOT allowed to cry about this. You've cried about this once already, you don't get to cry about it again just because you forgot. Stop it. STOP. IT."
"She never remembers anything. Write it on a piece of paper and stick it to the fridge," my sister offered.
"Why, so she can burst into tears every time she goes to pour herself a glass of milk? I think NOT," I replied.
Fast forward to yesterday. Mom calls to ask if I will be coming to this Sunday's dinner, at which point I was forced to shatter her heart into a thousand tiny pieces and stomp on them repeatedly with my size 8 clog because I am a fucking evil and ungrateful daughter who God forbid actually has to WORK for a living, which sometimes requires the occasional Sunday obligation, which SWEET BABY JESUS WHY DIDN'T SHE PUT ME UP FOR ADOPTION 25 YEARS AGO BECAUSE SHE WOULD HAVE SAVED HERSELF A LIFETIME OF HEARTACHE AND PAIN, IF ONLY SHE HAD KNOWN THAT SHE HAD BIRTHED A CHILD WHO WOULD DARE TO WORK ON A SUNDAY.
As I'm trying to explain to my mother that the only reason I'm working on the sacred Spoonfamily Sabbath is because I have to take the rest of the week off, she innocently asks me, "Why? Where are you going?"
"Are you serious?" I asked, "Are you totally fucking serious? You're not SERIOUSLY asking me that question, are you? Because there is no fucking way you're being serious right now."
"Oh that's right, you're going on your trip to... to... um... where are you going again?"
"And who do you know out there?"
"And how do you know her again?"
I don't think she's ever bothered to ask me that before. With as much as I've talked about Snap in the past, with as many pictures of the two of us as she's seen, with as many crazy stories as I've told, she's never, ever asked me how I met Snap. In nearly two years, I have never, ever had to mention to my mother that I have a blog. But there really isn't a reason to lie to her about it now.
"We met online. Through our blogs."
"You met someone through BLOGGING? And you're going to FLY TO ANOTHER STATE TO MEET THEM?" My mother screeched.
"Yes," I answered.
"Have you ever met her in person?" She asked. I'm beginning to wonder how many times mom was dropped on her head as a baby.
"Yes mom. Remember when I went to Austin in April? And when I went to Chicago in June? Those trips were to meet bloggers. And she was one of them."
"You've met her TWICE? Well then she's PRACTICALLY a stranger! You don't even KNOW this person, and you're spending Thanksgiving with her?!" Sadly, I began to fear she was dropped on her head one too many times because somehow, my mother has mistaken me for A TWELVE YEAR OLD WHO GIVES A SHIT WHAT SHE THINKS AND WHOSE LIFE SHE CAN STILL CONTROL.
"We talk practically every day, mom. She is NOT a stranger to me, she's one of my best friends," I explained.
After much more discussion, including a complete interrogation into Snap's background, social history, sexual preferences, and employment experience, we hung up the phone. Several hours later, I called her again to tell her something I had forgotten to mention, at which time she asked me, YET AGAIN, what Snap does for a living. I'm abandoning her at an assisted living facility tomorrow, and I'm hoping that she'll simply forget that she ever had a family, or a house, or a dog, or a car, or a life. Seems possible.
Shake it like a salt shaker...
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Blognapping by Nessa
The Leg o'Spoon and I had a blast in Hell-Ay and although we slept a mere 20 hours over the course of 5 days and ate approximately 2 actual meals over the course of 5 days, we survived and lived to tell the tales. The tales will be coming soon, once we've had enough sleep to make our brains function in a normal capacity and once our bodies have been sufficiently rehydrated...this could take WEEKS, people!
In the meantime, please enjoy these pictures on my Flickr (Spoonie takes longer to edit than I do because she's talented and shit)...although I took about 500 pictures, most of them were crap and/or were part of our foray into pornographic photography and are not suitable for the general viewing public...enjoy the salvageable ones...
Feel free to also enjoy this video of a darling gentleman on the corner of Crenshaw or Compton or Hawthorne or Long Beach Boulevard, or maybe he was in the VALLEY - this will all make sense soon! The best part of the video is the sound...I didn't know if I was recording or not...
Why did YouTube make the video big & grainy? Oh well...The link, in case the video doesn't load...(P.S. does anyone know where I can upload or how I can shrink a video over 100 megs?? Leave a comment because that one is fucking awesome!)
More to come - I'll let the ol' Leg tell the good parts and I'll fill in the stuff she missed...which means I'll be writing most of it - HAH!
Another Filler Post.
This past weekend I planned and hosted a pirate party at my house, which was simultaenously incredibly fun and the biggest mistake I've ever made. There was lots of cleaning, lots of decorating, lots of baking, lots of mixing and prepping and arranging... and then there was lots of drinking. Lots and LOTS of drinking. By my estimates we had about 40 pirates tromping in and out of our apartment at any given time. Most of the attendees were old high school friends, some of them college friends, and a few of them total fucking strangers. There was lots of laughter and dancing and fun, and by the time all the jello shots were gone, the volume of my voice had risen about 3 octaves and I was actually threatening to call the police on MYSELF. Whatever, I suffer from voice intoxication immodulation. I'm unable to control the pitch or volume of my voice when drunk.
On Thursday I'm headed to L.A. with fellow (former) blogger Nessa, whom I have recently come to know has been harrassed by some of my very own readers, to which I say HOW DARE YOU? Quit being such assholes, seriously people. Good lawd. Anyway, Nessa and I will be painting the town red (with our cosmopolitan-colored vomit) and partying like two sorority sisters on bid night. You know you're jealous. Go ahead and admit it. I can't WAIT to have a nice, relaxing vacay. You'll hear all about it upon my return, I'm sure, as well as find many incriminating photos on my flickr stream. I'm hoping the weather there is pleasant, because this morning it was 48 degrees FAHRENHEIT in Houston, Texas. I think my fingertips might fall off.
Going to Brazil, Gonna Eat Me a Lot of Peaches.
As I entered the salon, I was met at the door by Satan. My first thought was that she definitely chose the right profession, because this woman's height placed her face directly in my crotchal region. Now, I know I'm somewhat of an Amazon yeti when it comes to height, but seriously? This lady was a quasi-dwarf, and frankly her stubby little arms freaked me out just a bit. She asked me if it was my first wax, and when I answered yes, she gave me this devilish smile and replied, "Don't worry. I'll be gentle for your first time." I was suddenly reminded of one of my early highschool boyfriends who honestly believed that those same words would convince me to drop my panties in the backseat of his mom's station wagon. I seriously considered sprinting for the door at that point, but reconsidered because I wasn't wearing the right shoes and the likelihood of me tripping, falling, injuring myself and then being held against my will while hot wax was drizzled on my genitals far outweighed the possibility of me actually escaping. So I stifled the urge and followed her into the torture chamber.
Once in the "massage room" (HA!) I got nekkid and laid down on a table while the lisper senselessly rambled on about shit I could have cared less about because HELLO, I'M ABOUT TO GET SOME HAIR RIPPED OFF OF MY COOCH. At one point, she asked me where I work, and when I named the nearby hospital at which I'm employed, she asked, "Did someone you work with suggest that you come here?"
"Um, no." I replied. "I don't exactly share my feminine hygiene issues with my coworkers. Only strangers on the internet."
"I see," she said. "I was only asking because I did a Brazilian on a nurse from your hospital a few days ago and was wondering if you knew her."
Please don't tell me her name, please don't tell me her name. I silently begged.
Thankfully, she quickly changed the subject once I informed her that finding out which one of my fellow nurses is bare below the belt was not on the top my list of priorities. Instead, she returned her focus to my nether regions and began inspecting my fully grown Chia Pet as if she were the judge at the International Dog Show and my poodle was a contender for best in show. Then she took a popsicle stick and started slopping gobs of scalding hot wax onto my Death Valley and then- now this nearly gave me a full-blown panic attack- she started blowing on it. ON ME. I just about fell off that table right then and there.
As she started ripping the top layer of skin from my best friend, I had to make a very conscious effort to calm myself both physically and mentally. I tried to think of happy things- kittens playing with balls of yarn and bratty children sinking into vats of quicksand- but all the while my vagina was screaming, "NOOOOOOOO!" at the top of it's little vagina lungs.
Once she started working her way into the inner crevices of my Grand Canyon, I started praying to every higher power that may or may not exist to PLEASE, MAKE IT STOP, because this type of punishment should be reserved for the likes of deplorable, beastly human beings such as Saddam Hussein and Martha Stewart. I nearly stopped her and walked right out of there with a vag-hawk, but managed to keep my composure and remain on the table. Still, it seemed that the more tender the area she was working on, the hotter the wax and slower the rip. Then I heard her say something that I can't imagine ever wanting to hear, under ANY circumstance, "a little bit of bleeding is normal after your first time." I may or may not have blacked out for a few minutes after hearing those words, because I really don't remember much more after that.
When she finished mutilating the front of my love nugget, she told me to flip over and spread my legs. Thinking that way too many moments of this experience closely mirrored times I have spent in the back of a station wagon, I obliged and then closed my eyes tightly to prepare for the worst. She spread my cheeks and proclaimed, "Well you don't have much hair back here!" To which the only response I could think of making was, "Thanks."
When she was finally finished, I walked out of there looking and feeling like a stripper with a pole shoved up my ass, but DAMN was my snatch smooth. I think I might just do it again!
Happy Friday the 13th!
In the meantime, enjoy your Friday, and don't get too spooked!