Ms. W.A.S., on location...
My boss read everything I've posted dating back to July of this year, and amazingly, I wasn't disciplined in any way. She loved what she read, and laughed a lot she said, but seeing as how I play God with the lives of teenagers, having my character called into question because of a website wouldn't play out so well. So, no more blogging for me. I might pop in here and there in the Hizzouse of Spoonleg, just to let ya'll know I'm alive. Oh, and eventually getting laid. But, other than that, the blog is dead to me. See ya around.
Self-Portrait Day Montage *and* More Drunken Tales From the Crypt.
Recently I began participating in Flickr's 365 day self-portrait challenge, and have found that my photography has come a long way in such a short time. This experience also serves to promote my already pompously gargantuan ego, because when a guy who is obsessed with Dolly Parton's mole AND a guy who's online moniker is "Make-u-Squirt" BOTH leave creepy, offensive comments on your photos, then you know you've truly made it. I'm a Flickr pseudo-celeb among all of the perverts on house arrest that have formed some kind of fabricated delusional bond with me via the radiating glow of their computer screen, and the only explanation that I can think of for their inappropriate behavior is that they must wank off so much that they have run out of semen and have started ejaculating brain cells.
In other news, I've come to the startling realization that I can no longer tolerate tequila like my younger, 21-year-old self used to be able to. What the fuck has happened to me? Am I really getting OLD? I mean, I've always heard people say that as they age, they are less able to handle a long night of heavy binge drinking. Case in point, Nessa's drunk ass. Now, don't get me wrong- Nessa is a good five years older than me (and I can guarantee that I won't live to see that age because I just exposed her!), but the girl can seriously drink me under the table any day of the week. That is until the other weekend when I risked introducing her to some of my friends whom she HADN'T yet embarrassed herself in front of, and believe me when I say there aren't many left. She arrived at my house with a 40 ounce of malt liquor in hand (typical Nessa) and we headed over to the bar down the street where she ordered several beers to chase down several shots (also typical Nessa). After a few minutes spent observing dozens of lonely, middle aged, balding, desperate singles awkwardly bump into one another while trying to initiate awkward conversations before taking one another home to engage in some awkward penetration, we decided to leave before the dismal atmosphere rubbed off on us and we ended up in the public restroom, slitting our wrists with a nail file and sobbing into the commode.
Our next destination was a fantastically filthy little dive bar called the Marquee, an establishment to which I have been only once before, with my good friend Fats and some of her college buds. The Marquee is famous for their Long Island Iced Teas, which taste a lot like Liquid Plumber and will render you unconscious almost as quickly, but with significantly less esophageal corrosion. On my first encounter at the Marquee, I shared one of these 24 ounce big 'uns with Fats and one other girl, and I can honestly say that we were all FAR BEYOND WASTED before the cup was even half empty.
So when Nessa and I arrived at the Marquee, my natural assumption was that we would be sharing a Long (Island Iced) Tit, however Nessa had other plans. She bought each of us our own, and in true Nessa form, she shocked the hell out of me by sucking that bad boy down like a Mexican hooker at a donkey show. Within 2.5 seconds, she was so utterly inebriated that she may or may not have quite LOUDLY outed a very PRIVATE secret of someone who was not present at the time RIGHT IN FRONT of said person's significant other. And I may or may not have laughed my ass off and called all my friends to tell them about it. WHAT? Don't pretend you didn't already know that I'm a terrible person.
After spending an extensive amount of time in the restroom, from which she SOMEHOW returned with ANOTHER $10 iced tea, Nessa announced that she was, indeed, wasted. She asked to be taken home, and I informed her that although I would not be driving her the hour it would take to get all the way to her house in BFE, I would take her to my apartment and allow her to pass out on my bathroom floor, because that's just the type of friend I am. A bad one.
Once she was safely in the car and buckled in, I wasted no time in calling Megan and giving her a play-by-play description of the night's events. Meanwhile, Nessa had her head hanging out the side of my vehicle, puking her guts out for about a five mile stretch of road. "LEAN OUT FARTHER!" I comforted her, "GET VOMIT INSIDE MY CAR AND YOU'RE DEAD!" What can I say? I'm a nurturer. As we pulled into my apartment complex, two of my neighbors were walking past my vehicle as I approached the gate. I'm pretty sure based on the looks on their faces that their shoes must have been vomited on.
Once I got her inside, Nessa informed me that she needed to take a shower. Then she stood there, with her arms outstretched, like a toddler waiting to be undressed. I did my best to remove what clothing I could access without touching any human waste, and then threw her in the shower. Five minutes later she was comatose on my bed after a brief bout of crying, I love you's, and I'm so sorry's.
Eight hours later she woke up still drunk, and was completely baffled at how she went from being the totally in control buzzed fun girl, to that shithouse wasted loud mouthed annoying girl. It took two car washes and a lot of elbow grease to get the vomit off of the passenger's side of my car, and to this day my friends refuse to ride in my car with me because they claim it STILL smells like spew. It has since been dubbed Regurgitation Station.
So back to the original point of this post (which, really I don't think there was one, and if there was then it most certainly wouldn't be about cleaning puke, because I get PAID GOOD MONEY to do that every day and frankly there are no freebies in my book, so I will be billing Nessa for my services). My realization about my own inability to handle liquor- particularly TEQUILA- occurred this week when my roommate and I decided to grab a quick bite at the Mexican restaurant across the street. Because it was happy hour, we eagerly ordered our grossly oversized frozen margaritas and slurped down one each with our meal.
Fast forward two hours... we're at a neighborhood tavern for dollar pint night, during which I spent an entire DOLLAR only to find that I was cut off by my friends because I began singing along to Avril Lavigne and doing a rather unconvincing job at "dancing" to some house/trance music, which frankly seemed more like corporal punishment than music. If I'm not mistaken, I believe that I was told that my dance was not only ensuring that I would never be laid again, but was in fact placing a curse on those around me so that the genitals of anyone who made eye contact with me would shrivel up and perish. I danced my way out of the bar at around 10:00 pm, slept for six hours, and woke up thinking that Derek Jeeter had somehow snuck into my room and repeatedly slammed me upside the head with a Louisville Slugger while I slept. I was extremely hungover after ONE MARGARITA AND ONE WEAK ASS BEER. Now that's the definition of PATHETIC.
Funny thing is, this wasn't the first time that it's happened. Last time my roommate and I went to that same restaurant and had margaritas, we woke up feeling the exact same way, except that time I actually VOMITED the next morning, which is something I rarely do. I dismissed it as a fluke, but this time I can't deny the facts- I'M GETTING OLD. I just can't get drunk like I used to, which is a fact that is so depressing I am tempted to drown my sorrow in a stiff drink.
So without further ado, here's a small sampling of my recent self portraits. Happy Thursday!
On Being a Kid.
Now, I don't know how OTHER peoples' families function, but in my immediate family, I'M the only one with any fucking common sense. If THAT'S not enough to convince the state of Texas that the other four members of the Spoon family ought to be donning straight jackets in a padded cell, then I don't know what is.
My mom is capable of doing some ridiculously stupid shit, like not renewing her driver's license, state inspection or vehicle registration, because she doesn't know how to go about obtaining said items. Then she operates her car with the headlight busted out and gets pulled over and ticketed for all FOUR offenses. Then she neglects to tend to ANY of these issues (which would have subsequently dismissed her citations) and refuses to show up to court. She continues operating her illegal vehicle, and warrants are issued for her arrest. Her solution to this problem is to take back roads everywhere, and to never drive after dark so as not to call attention to her broken headlight. She coasted by on luck and avoidance for about two years, until she got the bright idea to not only operate that felony-on-wheels at night, but to do so while under the influence of alcohol. She passed her breathalyzer, thank God, but ended up in jail for the outstanding tickets and warrants. And guess who she called to post her bail? That would be her eldest child, yours truly.
After my mom got out of jail, she was a wreck. You would think by her reaction to spending 12 hours in the county slammer that she'd just spent 40 years at San Quentin making license plates and getting ass raped. "I'll NEVER go back to that place as long as I live!" She claimed, promising to not only pay me back (HA!), but to also show up to court and update her vehicle. My dad got her car all fixed up for her, my brother drove her to court, and everything was solved.
Fast forward almost exactly one year later. Mom hasn't renewed her registration. Mom hasn't renewed her inspection. Mom hasn't kept up with her insurance. Mom gets another set of tickets. Mom doesn't pay tickets, mom doesn't fix problems, mom doesn't show up to court. I'm quite positive that mom has more warrants out for her arrest. And I'm again waiting for that 2:00am call from mom.
Then let's talk about the time last week when my brother called me, asking for our mother's work phone number, because apparently she had neglected to pay the electricity bill and my brother, sister and niece were sitting in the sweltering house in 100+ degree Texas summer heat, with no way to contact her because- oh, yeah- she hadn't paid the phone bill, either. Thank God my brother has the meager iota of common sense required to own and operate a cell phone, which I tend to think is more for the sake of making drug deals than actual emergencies.
Oh, and should we talk about the time when my above mentioned GENIUS of a brother spent an entire summer pilfering THOUSANDS of dollars out of my mom's checking account, and because she is such an avid check book balancer she NEVER EVEN NOTICED? She just kept bouncing check after check, not knowing why and not bothering to find out. She finally called to ask ME what was going on, as if I had a fucking clue where her money had gone. Once I introduced her to miracle of online banking, or better yet, OPENING YOUR BANK STATEMENTS WHEN THEY ARE MAILED TO YOU, we figured out what was going on. However at this point, she was three months behind on the mortgage and they were threatening to foreclose. Guess who paid THAT bill for her, and guess who's still waiting to be paid back?
This time around, mom hadn't paid her car note in God knows how long. She knew the repo man was after her, but she didn't do shit about it. Finally the police came to her PLACE OF EMPLOYMENT and took possession of her car, in front of all of her clients and staff. And instead of calling the company THEN and making arrangements to keep the car that she was almost finished paying off anyway, what did she do? She went out and financed a Mustang (which will probably also get repo'ed). But wait, it gets BETTER. She's cashing in her 401-K (FOR THE SECOND TIME) to help pay for this new car.
It's not that my mom doesn't have the money. She makes plenty of money to support herself and the three kids living under her roof. Her problem is that she spends money carelessly, she doesn't budget or plan, she doesn't check her mail, and she claims to not have the TIME to handle such petty nuisances as BILLS. So while she might have several grand sitting in her checking account, her electricity is still constantly being shut off. This INFURIATES me.
And on top of it all, my mom has now cashed in TWO of her retirement funds, and trust me when I say she is no spring chicken. She probably has about another fifteen years before she reaches retirement age, and at that point I anticipate both of my younger siblings and a slew of illegitimate children to still be congregating under her roof. I've asked my mom, what does she think is going to happen when she's retired? How is she going to pay the electricity bill when she has NO money, since she can't even seem to pay it when she DOES have money? And just which one of her kids does she think is going to be in any position to support both her AND my dad, who is no better at saving and planning ahead than she is?
"Don't worry about things that are twenty years down the road from now," my mom tells me. YEAH, THAT'S WHAT YOU SAID ABOUT MY COLLEGE FUND WHEN I WAS BORN, AND LOOK HOW WELL THAT TURNED OUT. I didn't expect anything from my parents; in fact, I was happy to put myself through college. But the fact that I had to do so is a testament to their inability to plan ahead and see the bigger picture, to think about the future and stop living so selfishly in the present.
I know I sound bitter and ungrateful, but if all you had to look forward to in life was caring for the two most spiteful, grumpy, sardonic, clinically insane persons on the face of the planet (and let's just throw in some incontinence for good measure), then you would be just a little despondent, too.
My mom's response to all of this? "Well wherever you travel in life, you're going to have to come back to Houston to take care of me when I'm old, because I'm not leaving. You can just drop me off under a bridge somewhere if you hate living in the same city as your family so much."
Who knew that raising parents would be so tough?
The Reason Why My Parents Don't Know About the Blog.
My history with John-Who-Sells-Porn extends way back to high school, back in the days before he ever considered becoming a porn wholesaler. In those days, he was known as John-Who-Sells-Pot, which may or may not be accurate because if you ask him about that today, he'll tell you, "I wasn't a drug dealer. Those were FAVORS!" I don't know about y'all, but I wish my friends would hand me wads cash every time I did them a "favor".
Back then, our school district only had two high schools, and they were connected. John-Who-Sells-Porn went to school H and I went to school E, and although there were over 10,000 students between the two schools, we still somehow knew eachother. This was NOT because he was my "favor" dealer, because the only pot this fucking band nerd was familiar with was the kind in which I boiled my Virtue soup. However, John-Who-Sells-Porn and I ran in the same circle of friends, mostly because we were both involved in theatre and were both- YES, GO AHEAD AND LAUGH- Thespians. That is, until John-Who-Sells-Porn got caught doing a really, REALLY big "favor" for the stage manager of a professional production and instead of calling his parents, they called his theatre director, who cried and then promptly evicted him from the program. Anyway, back then I wouldn't exactly say that John-Who-Sells-Porn and I were really all that friendly. Practically the only time I saw him was at parties, because whenever there is a gathering of horny, unsupervised teenagers (especially THESPIANS), there is somehow always an unfathomable demand for "favors". And somehow, John-Who-Sells-Porn was always available, equipped with the finest "favors" this side of Amsterdam.
My next encounter with John-Who-Sells-Porn was several years later. I happened to be visiting my boyfriend at the time in College Station, and I'll be damned if John-Who-Sells-Porn wasn't his roommate! He actually wasn't selling porn yet at this point, either. During this phase in our lives, he was known as John-Who-Sells-Parliaments-and-Prophylactics at the local convenience store. And from what I could tell, he also still sold "favors", too. During my frequent visits to College Station, John-Who-Sells-Porn and I used to sit around the living room together, discussing obscure biblical underpinnings in The Big Lebowski, taking shots of whiskey out of hairspray caps, and watching episode after episode of Girls Gone Wild. Don't ask me why, it just seemed like a good idea at the time. Now I shudder to think that those early, pre-porn Girls Gone Wild days simply set the stage for his current career.
It's been at least five years since John-Who-Sells-Porn and I spent our late teenage years locked in a house with the windows blocked out by tinfoil, waiting for my boyfriend to get out of class, watching otherwise hetero women lick eachother's titties just because Snoop Doggy Dogg asked them to. Although those days will forever be etched into my mind as the biggest waste of time in the history of wasted time, John-Who-Sells-Porn was taken aback when I reminded him of our shared bond.
Me: "Dude, you used to make me listen to TOOL with you! How could you forget that?!"
JWSP: "Look, that was a very dark time in my life; most of it has been traumatically erased from my memory. I worked at a convenience store, for Chrissake! Wait a minute... you dated [insert ex-boyfriend's name here]?!"
Me: "Yeah, for like nine months."
JWSP: "I totally had no idea."
After recently rekindling our friendship, I found out about John-Who-Sells-Porn's newest profession- duh, porn selling. And as if it's not disgusting enough that he sells niche porn (ie: midgets, fat girls, granny trannies), the icing on the perv cake is the fact that he drives this creepy child molester van with the wire mesh partition used to keep your pre-teen victims enclosed in the back while you drive them to a dark alley of your choosing.
When some friends and I drove up to John-Who-Sells-Porn's SexOffenderMobile to drop him off, I loudly (and drunkenly) announced, "YOU DRIVE A CREEPY CHILD MOLESTER VAN! JESUS CHRIST, WHY DON'T YOU JUST GROW A MOUSTACHE AND GET A MYSPACE ACCOUNT?!"
As my roommate's boyfriend got out of the car to rifle through the porn stash in the back of the Heavy Petting Wagon, she and I began discussing the differences between women and men when it comes to sexuality.
Me (instigating): "Why does [your boyfriend] need porn?"
Roommate: "Yeah, good question. Why DOES he need porn when he has ME?"
Me (instigating): "You should ask him that."
*potential porn-viewer in question enters car, empty handed*
Me: "Where's your porn?"
Boyfriend: "Aw, I couldn't make a decision. I felt rushed. I like variety, and I like to be able to browse through the selections at my leisure. John only has fat girl and tranny porn. I'd rather look at hot Eurobabes on the internet."
Roommate: "Are the Eurobabes hotter than me?"
Boyfriend (flustered): "Uhhh, no. I mean, I just use that to, like... you know... I mean... okay, let's just be frank here. What do you ladies use when you're taking care of business?"
Me: "ONE HAND AND A HEALTHY IMAGINATION."
Roommate: "This is the difference between men and women. We like to imagine being intimate with the person we most want to be close to, and you guys are always looking for the biggest set of tits."
Me: "Why don't you just look at Playboy?"
Boyfriend: "Because I need the visual AND auditory stimulation."
Me: "Well that's why I have a vibrator. Visually, it LOOKS like a penis, but frankly I could do without the auditory stimulation. Unlike a man, my vibe doesn't fart, snore or belch. That's all the stimulation I need!"
Suddenly, I look down in my lap and realize that my cell phone is lit up. Is someone calling me, I wonder? I look at the screen and realize that my phone had accidentally dialed someone in my phone book, as it sometimes does, without my permission. The person it chose to call? MY DAD.
MY DAD HEARD ME TALKING ABOUT VIBRATORS. MASTURBATION. PENISES. PORNOGRAPHY.
It was one of those "kill me now" moments. Seriously.
Yet Another Excuse To Create a Discussion About My Stellar Tits.
Instead, I just kept walking. But know that in my heart of hearts I was plotting my next gyno appointment, and all the asparagus I'm going to eat for lunch beforehand.
Drunken Weekend Conversation
Me: "What? That can't possibly be true. Do they take one look at someone's newborn baby and say, 'Mr. and Mrs. Smith, your child is retarded. We're going to cut out its reproductive organs so it can't pass on it's retard DNA to future generations.'"
Bob: "Yeah, haven't you heard Bob Barker's Public Service Announcement? 'Help control the retard population. Get your retard spayed or neutered!'"
Me: "Wow, you guys are going to hell."
John: "Let's talk about Plinko."
I'm Too Lazy To Give You a Real Post
Also, you may laugh heartily at the fact that NATALIE FUCKING PORTMAN is one of my physical matches. What bullshit.
Because My Maturity Level Dictates That It's Okay for Grown Women to Say, "YOU'RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME!"
Thursday night after getting off work, I stopped on my way home and bought two bottles of convenient store wine. This should have been my first clue that the night was going to be very, very messy. Then again, if I paid any attention to CLUES, I would have had to stage an intervention on myself six years ago. As far as I'm concerned, interventions are for quitters, while drinking in the shower is for gifted individuals such as yours truly. You just can't deny that kind of talent.
Shortly after emerging from the shower, four friends came by to watch Garden State, a movie that I think is beautifully shot but heinously acted. Anyone who has ever met me knows that I am not shy about voicing my professionally esteemed critical opinion on all things theatrical whether drunk OR sober (although, let's face facts, anyone who has ever met me, or read my blog, ALSO knows that I'm very rarely sober.) By the time the movie started I was so intoxicated that the muscles in my neck seemed to have gone on strike and were refusing to hold my head up unless I met their demands of minimum wage pay and two extra vacation days a year. And I heard myself, as if through some type of out-of-body experience, repeating the same words over and over in this sort of half slur/half shout (and here is the part in the post where I make up a new word and hope that it will be initiated into the street slang of today's youth, because SLOUTING is the new black. Used in a sentence: "You know you make me wanna SLOUT!")
"PETER SAAAAAARSGAAAAAAARD!" was all I could say, in my best Pirate's slout. My friends were all laughing hysterically, having never seen me so sloshed, and kept egging me on by continuously asking my opinion of Natalie Portman just so they could hear me say, "Man, fuck that stupid cunt. She couldn't act her way out of a paper bag!" Then I did something I've never done before: I turned into that mean, stingy drunk girl that shows up at keg parties and ruins everyone's good time by either crying, fighting, puking, passing out, or spilling red wine cooler on her white Keds (in fact, THAT annoying drunk girl was my college roommate and role model). As I began chugging glass after glass of the SECOND bottle of wine, my friends changed their tune from, "CHUG IT! HURRY UP AND WE'LL POUR YOU ANOTHER," to "Um, I don't think you need that eighth glass of wine. Here, let me hold it for you..." This made me highly irate and I began flailing my fists in protest and insisting, "I'M NOT DRUNK! GIVE ME BACK MY WINE! I PAID FOR IT YOU MOTHER FUCKERS!" I think it was shortly after this point in the evening that I actually PASSED OUT and didn't wake up until the end of the movie, at which time I attempted to pour myself even MORE wine. I was immediately intercepted by one of my friends, whom I threatened with a swift kick to the balls if he refused to allow me access to my own god damn wine. He took me rather seriously (and why shouldn't he? I have the hand-eye coordination of a 2-year-old with underdeveloped depth perception, and that's when I'm SOBER) and backed off, claiming that I was a terrible person for even SPEAKING such profanity.
"Look," I explained, "I haven't kicked anyone in the balls since the last time I did it to my brother. And the world should be THANKING me for that one, because Lord knows that our family lineage needs to stop with him. And anyway, even if he did have any undamaged sperm remaining after I played hackey with his sack, those little fuckers are all too stoned and unmotivated to swim across the Panama Canal to find a new home."
"Once a ball kicker, always a ball kicker!" My friend shouted accusatorily. He was actually VISIBLY upset that I just revealed my childhood tendency to Grand Plie on top of my brother's BALLerinas, and I suddenly started to feel very guilty.
"After that one time I knocked the wind out of him for two solid minutes and he started turning blue, I never did it again," I insisted in my own defense. My guy friend marched away from me in disgust. OH MY GOD, I thought to myself. I'VE RUINED MY BROTHER'S LIFE, WHAT KIND OF A PERSON AM I?! I suddenly became overwhelmed with grief and immediately called my brother. His cell phone went straight to voice mail, and I slouted the following message: "SHEA, THIS IS YOUR FAVORITE SISTER. I'M SORRY THAT I KICKED YOU IN THE BALLS WHEN WE WERE KIDS, ALTHOUGH I WON'T BE SORRY IF IT TURNS OUT YOU'RE SHOOTING BLANKS. I HOPE YOU CAN FIND IT IN YOUR HEART TO FORGIVE ME. I LOVE YOU!"
Then I sent Megsie a text message, which really isn't the ideal means of communication for ANYONE to use whilst intoxicated, especially me, because my fingers become giant kielbasa sausages and my dexterity de-evolutionizes to a prehistoric time when humans had tails and no opposable thumbs. This is, quite literally, the text message I sent to my poor, frightened friend (who is a true friend indeed, for she endures at least two drunken phone calls from me per week), "Tha ja for the retcle n ox to USA lucker." I know for a fact that those last two words were supposed to read "ass licker," but as for the rest of it... your guess is as good as mine.
We finally made it to bed around 3:00 am, and I set my alarm to go off at 6:20 in order to help my roommate wake up for work. I got up at 6:20 without a problem, walked through the bathroom and into her room to spit on her face and tell her to wake the fuck up, when I had a sudden epiphany. I realized that yes, not only was I hung over (as was to be expected), but I was also STILL DRUNK. That's right people, I was simultaneously DRUNK AND HUNG OVER. As far as I was concerned, it was like a Christmas miracle, because how fucking awesome is it to be hung over, but drunk enough not to care? It dawned on me then that I should get this drunk EVERY TIME. But then I realized that doing so would make me my mother, and it's way too early for me to be THAT completely psycho. She would be proud to know, however, that I woke up headache free at 11:00, and started drinking again by 5:00 pm. What can I say? I lead an empty life.