Category Archives: Me being positive

She says she talks to angels

I’m kind of psychic.  Seriously. Unfortunately it isn’t the kind of psychic where I can win the lottery, but I don’t feel that bad because nobody is that kind of psychic, or else they’d keep winning the lottery and laugh at all of the rest of us until Congress passed a law about psychics not being allowed to play and then whoever won from then on would be accused of being psychic and burned at the stake or publicly hung, and it would be bad, real bad (Michael Jackson) so it’s really for the best that I’m not that kind of psychic.

I’m also not the kind of psychic like John Edward or those women on psychic detectives, although I totally wish I was.  I would creep people out all the time by proclaiming that I hear and see dead people, in a really creepy voice that would give people the shivers and not want to be my friend. But I think I could do a really good job just making vague references to “bodies of water” or “the number seven” or ” a grove of trees” or “the letter ‘M'”, which I think pretty much sums up what psychics tell detectives.  Next time someone goes missing, just tell people you got this weird vision of “a body of water, by a road, and a grove of trees” and that you sense “something about the head…” because I mean, nobody dies from a kick in the shin. If you get killed, 90% of the time, it involves some type of bad thing happening on or near your head area and you can bet your ass your body is going to be hidden either by a road, by some trees, or by a body of water.  Unless you get an asshole that buries your body in their basement. Then the psychics will never find you. But that won’t stop them from watching Sesame Street that day and taking both the number and the letter of the day as psychic clues into your disappearance.  But I didn’t say all this to freak you out. This isn’t me as a psychic telling you that you’re going to die. As we’ve covered, I’m not that kind of psychic.  I won’t be able to find you – most especially if you’re in somebody’s basement.  Although you might have cancer, so I would check for that. We all have to get it at some point.  I’ve already had my turn, so it might be yours this time.

I’m not a pet psychic either. If I were, I never would have let my damn dog outside to get sprayed by some fuckin’ punk-ass skunk the other day.  That sucks. It would be cool though if I could make animals spontaneously combust with my thoughts alone. I mean, I would never do it to a good animal, but if a bear started eating my face at some point, I would totally do it then. And I think I would be justified. Maybe. I wouldn’t if it were a baby Grizzly eating my face though. Because babies don’t really know any better – but I would certainly be judging that baby’s mother as it sunk its teeth into my skull. “This baby Grizzly’s never learned to use his words! Where the fuck is this baby’s mother? I’m going get animal control all up in her bidness”.

Finally, I am not a psychic that gets paid to read your palm or your tarot cards, but I am certainly open to the possibility of that one day.  It would be so fun to mess with people. Except I’m actually a really nice person deep down so I would just tell people nice stuff about their futures, unless I got the sixth sense that they were an asshole. Then I would probably tell them they only had a couple of weeks to live, so they could repent and be nice to people so they wouldn’t go to hell.  I would be doing others a favor that way, so either way I help humanity. Which is kind of like my life’s mandate.  I should also note that there is nothing I like doing better than going to psychics. I don’t go out of my way or anything, but if I walk by a place that says “Psychic Reading – $5” and I have 20 minutes to burn, you can bet your ass I’ll go in there and hear what she has to say.  Then I go home and write everything down. One day I’ll have to fish those journals out. But the stuff I remember has all come true, so some people really are psychics. Kind of. Or really good guessers.

(Sorry – my ADD asked me to add this: One of my life’s biggest let downs thus far is that I’ve never been thrown a surprise party or been invited to a party that had a psychic there to tell everyone their fortunes.  See, I’m not related to, nor do I hang out with people, who think that would be the best EVER. Except maybe half of the WINOS.  But if anybody wants to know how I would like to spend my next birthday? A surprise psychic might be totally in order. We can both totally pretend that you didn’t get the idea from me and I’m totally surprised. But I guess the psychic will probably totally know and tell everybody.)

Okay, so what kind of psychic am I, you ask? Well, I’m the kind that hears a voice in my head once in a while about very important matters who is always right.  Unfortunately for my earning power, this voice generally only tells me things about my life on a need-to-know basis, so I can’t really conjure it up for shits and giggles or financial gain.  So I’m pretty useless as a psychic at a party or as your friend.  But I like to think of my voice as an angel. Probably since I’m Catholic and we Catholics adore our angels. When I was little my mom told me everyone had a guardian angel and I would think about mine for hours. Mostly at bedtime. I wondered if my angel slept when I did or if she kept vigil all night long so no monster could kill me as I slept. I think it must be the latter, because obviously, a monster has never killed me in my sleep and I hold my guardian angel accountable for that.  Because I’m sure there were many attempts, especially at ages 4 – 9.   But in addition to saving my life countless times, she also tells me stuff.

But not at church. The first time was at a commando party, so I want to note that angels, even Catholic ones, hang out a commando parties, in case you were wondering. I want to clear that up right here, right now, because it needs to be said.  So anyway, I’m at this party and my friend tells me that his new roommate graduated the same year I did from the same University and did I know him? He said his name but it wasn’t familiar, so then he pointed him out to me across the room.  And then, right then, my angel spoke. “That’s your husband.” Whaaaaat? I’m at a commando party and on my way to getting liquored up and you’re telling me that guy across the room that I’ve never laid eyes on before is my husband? This wasn’t really the way had pictured this going down. I would have done more waxing if I’d have known. Next time, maybe you could give me a little advance notice.  And by the way, has anybody informed him of this fact? (The answer to that question, I found out later, was a resounding “no”.  He had to be stalked per the pursuit strategy outlined here).  At least he was hot. I had that going for me.  Our courtship was a saga worthy of a 4 part mini-series and I won’t go into it here, but suffice to say that it was not like we met and it was love at first sight.  Or we met that night and then went out on a date right after that. No.  Too many starts and stops and drunken oratories to count.  There were many a day when I was like, “why the hell did my angel tell me that he was The One, when so clearly he is not?” But she was right, as she always is.

So then the next time my voice piped up, it was straight out of the New Testament.  You know how an angel told Mary she was going to have a baby and she was like, “The fuck? I’m a virgin. And not married and I’m like 14”. I’m not sure what verse that is, but you know, look it up.  Anyway, except for the part about being a virgin and not married and 14, that’s pretty much the same thing that happened to me.  My angel told me the night my son was conceived that I was with child and it was a boy. But thankfully, she did not tell me to name him Jesus. That would have been totally awkward.  Because people would call him “Hay-zeus” and I’d be like “No. Its pronounced “Gee-sis”, because it is God’s will”. And I just feel like he and I both would get our asses beat a lot for that.  So luckily God did not want my son to get his ass beat. He wanted his kid to have a unique name, so there weren’t like Jesus L. and Jesus C. and Jesus Y.’s in all of Jesus’s classes. Which is totally cool with me. I get it. But now that I think of it I feel bad because probably Mary was thinking the same thing as I was – that she and her son were going to get jacked because of this whole arrangement — and sadly, she was right.  That was kind of mean, God.  Just sayin’. I constructively criticize Oprah too, so its not like I’m just picking on you.

So when BD and I were trying to conceive our second little person, it didn’t turn out to be as easy as the first time, which had many benefits, if you know what I’m saying, but at the time I wasn’t really focused on the benefits.  Anyway, I became convinced that I was infertile and that we’d only have one kid if we didn’t go to all kinds of interesting lengths for number 2.  But after months of trying, I was brushing my teeth one morning and then the angel said, clear as day, “There is another little guy on the way.” ( Oooh. Read that last sentence again, slowly. If I ever write a book of poems, I’m totally going to use that last sentence. People pretend like being a poet is hard. Not if you’re a great rhymer/psychic like me. Totally easy.)  Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, so then my angel tells me I’m pregnant with another boy and by this time, I know my angel is not fucking with me, so I didn’t even have to take a pregnancy test. I just ran into BD and exclaimed, “My angel just said I’m pregnant with a boy!” and he kind of rolled his eyes because I don’t think he is completely convinced about my angel, but then again, he isn’t completely unconvinced, so I did have to prove it on a stick a week or so later when I could take the test, but she was right, yet again.

So I guess what I’m saying is that angels talk to me and tell me stuff. But only when its really important. And that makes me psychic, even if it isn’t the cool kind of psychic.  I guess time will tell if I ever land a spot on “The Price is Right” whether my angel would think it was important enough to send me messages so I could yell, “$3.29, Bob!” with complete confidence. Because even if Bob Barker is a sexual predator, I still totally want to spin that wheel. Is that show even on anymore? I’ll have to ask the Internet becuase my angel isn’t answering that question.

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All in favor of five year marriage contracts, say aye.

You may not have heard of this movement before because I have only recently made it up, so before you vote, I’ll explain it.

First, what I mean by marriage: two adults (I honestly don’t care about the gender) consenting to be legally, emotionally, physically, sexually and financially bound together until one of them dies.  If you get married in your twenties and you both live to be 90 — that means you’re looking at 60 – 70 years with the same person.  All of their good qualities, annoying habits, sicknesses, health, meltdowns, crisis, bad days, good days…for 65 fucking years.  I mean, even if someone is THE BOMB, 65 years is a long fucking time.

And then there are the millions of people who get married and decide that it sucks and then they get divorced – but not before they endure complete financial and emotional devastation in the process.  And if they have kids? Yeah. It’s messy. There is just so much pressure and its such a hassle to disentangle yourself from a marriage.

So I have an idea that could solve lots of problems.  Lets make it so that marriage isn’t necessarily forever.  I propose to make marriage a finite period of time.  So when you get engaged, you negotiate for how long you want to be married ahead of time.  Lets say its five years — I recommend this for the first contract.  It’s kind of like being in the army, where you sign up for an amount of time and during that time, the other person has your ass – exclusively and all the stuff that normal marriage is about. Then at the end of the time, you have the option to sign on for some more time, or split up the assets according to the original contract and amicably and legally go your separate ways. This way, if you marry somebody you wind up hating, you know you only have to deal with them for another couple of years and nobody is surprised or angered or shocked or all judgey that you aren’t renewing the contract.  If you made a good decision and your spouse is a keeper then you’re going to do everything in your power to ensure they want to renew the contract, so you’ll be a nicer person.  You won’t have the leeway to think, “So what if I haven’t taken out the garbage in 16 years? This person is stuck with me, so I can be an asshole whenever I feel like it.” You’ll try harder.

Say you’re in a five year contract and you’re coming up for renewal in a year.  Things are pretty good and you like your spouse. Are you going release some huge, putrid fart in the bed when you wake up right next to the other person? No. You’re going to save it because you want your contract renewed.  Are you going spend all the money on bobble-heads or porcelain figurines of turtles or Taco Bell Chalupas (yes, please) or are you going to tone it down? Are you going to make sure your partner is satis.FIED in bed, or be a three minute man? Are you going to think twice before you say something you don’t really mean, and say more of what you do really want, dream, hope, care about? Yeah. Yeah.  People in happy marriage contracts will constantly be working on the relationship and focused on it, knowing it can all be over soon if they don’t and it can keep getting better if they do.  And people who are miserable can see the light at the end of the tunnel, get their stuff together in an organized and professional manner, renew their Match.com subscription and start looking for the next contract. They’re going to be a free agent!! Bring. it. on.

I’m just thinking the finite contract lengths would inspire people to be more civil, more kind, more respectful to one another in marriage.  Sick of your partner or fallen out of love or out of lust? That’s okay. The contract will end. You can bear it until then.  Then you have the option to do what you want to do without being a total asshole within a marriage you aren’t happy with.  And how about when you get old? People change. Maybe the person that rocks your world at 30 makes you want to kill yourself at 60.  Or you have insane sexual chemistry with a person that you’d never want to raise kids with.  No worries!! You can find the right mate for you at every stage of your life, and have the commitment and consistency of a monogamous relationship.  And once people got used to this thing culturally, there wouldn’t be all these bitter divorces. People would understand that relationships between two committed adults are really important for human welfare, but that they don’t have to last forever.  They can end. And amicably. Or they can keep going, but on terms can be forever renegotiated, so everybody is getting what they need.

And for those few people who wind up renewing over and over for years and years, til death do they part, awesome! Romantic! You made it! And it makes it even cooler that all along the way you had the freedom to go and you didn’t. It probably means more than a traditional marriage that stays in tact for 50 years but the people don’t even talk to each other any more.  They were just too lazy or too religious to do anything else.

So now that you understand my idea, it’s genius, right?   The only thing I haven’t really figured out yet is the kids part.  That gets a little tricky.  What to do with kids that get made within the contractual period? Because I think kids are best off with two parents that love them, and each other, to death and that stay together happily until forever.  But as we’ve discussed already – that isn’t easy.  So maybe there is a special class of marriage contracts that specify the couple will want to parent children together and even if the “marriage” ends when the contract is up, there is still the understanding that both will be totally committed (and contractually obligated) to co-parent until the kids reach adulthood.  Kind of like what happens when people get divorced now, except without the expectations that parents stay together forever.

I guess my plan will not win fans with genealogists – it would make family trees a fucking nightmare.  People would end up with 10 or 12 step parents and a million half siblings, but that could be really good times.  It might also make Christmas card lists dicey, and people would have maybe 10 or 12 weddings in their lives, so you’d probably be at somebody’s wedding every Saturday.  On the other hand, maybe there wouldn’t be so much damn pressure on Your Big Day to make it perfect. And you wouldn’t burn bridges and sever ties because someone didn’t want to sit next to the cat at the reception or wear a feathered hat as a bridesmaid. Or if your best friend got preggers while you were planning the wedding, you wouldn’t care because you might have another one in a few years. The world would be full of parties and weddings that weren’t so damn complicated and were just fun! And finite!  Maybe even Stedman and Oprah would have done a 5 year “official” stint together, if they didn’t have to commit to forever. No. Probably her lawyers would spend 5 years just to negotiate the thing.

You may think this isn’t romantic, but methinks it’s actually the most romantic idea of all.  I hope that if I lived in this world of finite marriage contracts, BD and I would be one of the couples to keep signing up for more until we were 70, when we contracted to drive off a cliff together, happily, on a mutually convenient date.  I don’t know about you, but I like it.

Okay, so NOW all in favor, say aye….

Love Bites. Love’s Mom Crush Part II

Please forgive the delay in getting back to my Mom Crush story, but I have a good excuse.

It was my birthday and anniversary this week, so my husband has been busy taking care of all of my whims and most don’t involve my laptop.  One of those whims included the cutest Coach bag EVER. So I’ve been spending hours in front of a mirror admiring myself wearing it.  I’m a one purse kind of girl, and I haven’t had a new bag in three years, so it was so long overdue.  I feel like now that it is mine, maybe people will think I have some idea of how to dress myself.  But probably all they have to do is look at my shoes and realize I’m hopeless.  Forgive me for hating designer high heels – I like how they look on other people but I look like I’m a drunk prostitute when I wear them because I’m walking down the street tripping and swearing like a sailor and my clothes have fallen off and my hair is all tousled in the process because it takes a lot of energy to make the walk from the train to my office and then bandage up my mashed up, bloodied feet. So I stick with simple Naturalizer kitten heels, the favorites of corporate butch lesbians everywhere. I’ve explained how one of my greatest fears is being butch, but I have to side with those ladies on this one.

All of that was almost enough to take my mind off my mom crush story for a few days.  Okay, so I think where I left off was how I met this sparkly, beautiful rarity (you know, a mom I might actually welcome a play date with) named Kirsten through a daycare forum. So we had our conversation where I fell in love with her, and then it all came to an abrupt end when the conversation about the daycare we were thinking about sending our sons to was over.  Then I vowed to make her mine.

This took some strategy.  I went about it much like I would pursue a boy crush – and let me tell you, BD didn’t make it easy for me to land him, so I thought this might be a piece of cake compared to my stalking pursuit of BD back in the day.

So here is an outline of my general pursuit strategy:

  1. Find someone/something that I absolutely cannot live without.
  2. Make sure said someone knows who I am, and ideally wants me to stalk them even if they don’t know it yet. You can determine this by whether or not they file a restraining order. If no restraining order, proceed to Step 3. If restraining order, abort mission. Chances of success are quite low.
  3. Find a common interest. If none exists, manufacture one.
  4. Ask for their help, preferably on something that requires a lot of quality time with them.
  5. Show them how cool I am and subtly persuade them that they cannot live without me.
    1. Try sober humor first.
    2. Follow up with lunch/dinner/cocktail invitation. Drinks optional.
    3. If 5.1. or 5.2 fail, get drunk and dial, unless you know where they are.  Then get drunk, find them and profess your love. (You’ll see this one in action here)
    4. If 5.3. doesn’t work, flash boobs.
      1. Avoid 5.4 if this is a mom crush, unless you are currently breastfeeding a child under 12 months old.
      2. Avoid 5.4 if you don’t have big boobs.
      3. In other words, 5.4 is totally out of the question for me, but some others might find this a useful strategy.
  6. Get target to declare their love for me. Solidify bond through exchange of bodily fluids.
    1. In the case of a non-sexual pursuit, a secret handshake will suffice.
    2. In the case of a food item, gentle mastication and prolonged digestion will suffice.
    3. In the case of a celebrity of the same sex who has her own talk show, write emails to her or her producers every day/every other day about why you should be a guest on her show and write a blog that proves the depth of your loyalty by giving her a shout-out every day, along with constructive criticism.  When she finally sees you are The One and invites you to be on her show, admire, then touch, then ask exactly how she did her hair (see example here).
  7. Never let them go. Never. Remember how much work it was to land them?

Simple plan, right? Oh, and for those of you who can see the genius in this strategy, all this stuff is copyrighted and will be in my memoir one day, so don’t even think about reproducing it in written form.  I know it’s a risk to publish that list now, since they are ideas that the world has not seen, coupled with the fact that they have been proven to work every time, in every situation.  However, by all means, use this strategy in your own life and then tell Oprah about how it changed your life and who told you to do it.  Don’t forget that part about who told you to do it.  Oprah and I are still struggling to get through step 6.3, but I have total faith one day it will happen. Perhaps with your help.

So sorry – back to Kirsten. My dearest Kirsten. The Mom that was born to be my best friend. Okay, so we get off the phone and I decide that if Kirsten is sending her baby to that daycare, then I should probably send mine there too. I trust her judgment. Her little boy started there only a few weeks before our first call and mine was due to start within the next few weeks.  This daycare was a home daycare where the lady made you spend two days with her and your kid there before the kid could go on their own.  Kind of a pain in the ass, but it seemed like a good idea and it turned out to be for sure.  When I went there I met Kirsten’s little boy, E.  E was the cutest baby (besides mine) in the world. But he was unhappy at that place. He cried a lot and the lady said he was just really hard to soothe. I agreed with her. Whenever she just put him in a saucer by himself, he cried. Whenever I gave him attention or picked him up and played with him he giggled. Go figure. He may have been giggling because he was happy to get love and affection, or it could have been because he wanted me to be best friends with his mother and call me Aunt Love one day. I’m pretty sure it was the latter. But still, it bugged me that it didn’t seem like this daycare lady was very compassionate to this little guy. He did not like her. So after my first couple of “observation days” there, I called Kirsten.

I told her that E didn’t seem that happy at the daycare and I was a little concerned. Was he always cranky? She said he was the happiest baby ever, but he’d been home all summer full-time with his dad, so there was probably just an adjustment happening.  The daycare lady’s assistant was very kind and I saw that E liked her. Kirsten noticed too. She was a little nervous, but was pretty sure it was all good since he liked the assistant so much. I suggested we keep talking and keeping tabs on the place. Pursuit strategy step 2 – check.

(Note: I kept looking but didn’t find any better daycare options and I was running out of time for my guy, so I paid the deposit for this daycare.   To make a super long tangential story short, I didn’t wind up sending my son there. That lady was just too batty. By the grace of God, the day before we were supposed to start, I found another daycare that I loved.)

I called Kirsten again, but only got voice mail. I told her what we decided and suggested she come over to our new daycare. She emailed me back. She was going to stick it out at the one she was at. CRAP. No, FUCK.  Now Kirsten and I no longer had a reason to become BFF, besides that destiny dictated it.  Still though, I think I cleared the Pursuit Strategy hurdle Step 3.

It was time to up the ante move on to Step 4.  Asking for assistance.  So at this time I’m a PhD student and I’m in a class based on ethnographic research in marketing.  For simplicity’s sake, ethnographic research involves interviewing people as a form of research and observing them in their natural habitat.  I decided that my paper for that class was going to be called “A Postmodern Exploration of an Emotional Consumption Experience” which really meant that I had a really good excuse to ask Kirsten to be a participant in my new study, because it was about choosing daycare.  So I emailed her about it and asked her if she would be willing to be a subject in my research. Actually, she was the only person I emailed about it. And she said she would do it and she suggested we meet at ——- wait for it ———– McDonalds.   My heart leapt out of my chest. McDonalds!? Kirsten likes McDonalds?! We are so, so right for one another. Pursuit Strategy step 4 – mission accomplished.

Before you thought this story was creepy, but now you can see the genius of this plan, no? So I have to interview her about her decision as a mother to choose a daycare and now I can ask her all kinds of background questions so I can figure out if her husband is right for mine and make totally, completely sure that she and I agree on all things.  So far, we were totally in sync.  And she was willing to give me 90 minutes of her weekend – a huge deal for a working mom.  I was beginning to think she was starting to fall in love with me too.  And I was doing research. Killing two birds with one genius stone.  God, sometimes I can’t believe how good I am.

We met at a McDonalds playland, sans kids, and I bought her lunch. She ordered a salad. Not a Quarter Pounder with Cheese.  But maybe she only ordered a salad because that maybe that is what I was going to order and she didn’t want to seem like the sort of person who loved Value Meal #2.  Well, that is what I told myself. I was a little disappointed with her choice, but I remembered that she was the one who picked McDonalds, and there is nothing wrong with salads, right? Right? Right. Of course not. It’s all good.  She and I were the same height, she was probably a dress size smaller (salads, probably) and she was good looking in an all-American kind of way. She would look really good at the family J.Crew inspired garden parties I had been fantasizing about for so long.

After I got over all of my nervous giggling and tongue-tiedness, we were finally able to make it through the interview.  I learned much more about her life and circumstances and I loved her even more and her husband and her kids and I think at that point I was pretty pissed that I hadn’t gone out to Jared the Galleria of Jewelery and bought matching half heart pendants that had “Best Friends” written on it when you put the two together, because I was ready to get down on my knee and present it to her if I had it.  I mean, Step # 5 had come for sure.  It was time to ask her out. But I couldn’t do it then because I was thinking that maybe she would think my research was bogus and that I just asked her because I was obsessed with her which was true. I had to be professional and not let her know the depth of my personal interest. Plus, I had to buy some time to pick out our matching pendants.  Silver or gold? I just wasn’t sure what she’d prefer. It would take many more hours of thought to make such an important decision.

So a week later, I decided to plan “The Kirsten Party” at my house (I kept the theme to myself). The only problem was that the only people I knew that would come to a party I had were people I’ve known my whole life or were my neighbors or were my colleagues at school, who all knew each other.  She’d be the only person there who didn’t know anyone. And that might be fishy. But what the hell? I had to get her and the family to my house.  So I planned a BBQ, in her honor. But I didn’t tell anybody except BD, who told me I was psycho. He warned me against it. But I think that he was secretly afraid that her husband was going to turn out to be his BFF after all and he just wasn’t ready for the emotional depth a commitment like that might require. Or he thought I was psycho.

I sent out Evites. And waited. Some people said they’d come, but they weren’t really important except as proof that I had a life and friends that Kirsten could easily assimilate into.  Kirsten didn’t reply. Not Yes, No OR Maybe. So I made Evite do that thing where it reminds you that you haven’t replied.  And no reply. IN FACT, there wasn’t even a record that she had viewed the Evite. But I had the right email address. What to do? Did this mean she didn’t realize that we were meant to be? Or that it just went into her junk mail? Or that Evite was blocked on her work email?  It seemed like I’d be forced to call her.  And you know how I hate the phone. And if I called, what if she said no or sounded like she wanted to say no but didn’t know how to and it was totally awkward when I started sobbing and moaning softly on the other end? I didn’t have her home address, so a paper invite was out of the question.  While I have no moral dilemmas to stalking someone if I’m only trying to give them the gift of me, I don’t want it to be obvious to them. Step 5.2 was not working as well as I had hoped. It was almost time for the drunk dial as required in Step 5.3.  I had two glasses of wine. I was feeling a bit more bold. I was going to call her, dammit, because it was really for the good of everyone involved.  So I did. And I dialed the wrong number and the person was mean and my swagger dissipated and I drank another glass of wine and passed out. And then I tried to cancel my party. But BD wouldn’t let me.  So we had it. And Kirsten didn’t come. But my other friends did and they were cool and why did I need another friend anyway? I am SO busy. I mean SO BUSY.  I don’t even have TIME for another friend, you know?

So I let go of my dream of Kirsten…kind of.  Except for when two years later and eight months pregnant with my second son I decided it was time to rekindle my love affair with her.  I’ll save that for my next post: Hysteria! Love’s Mom Crush Part III.  My fingers hurt now. And my ego too. But it gets better…

Love’s Laws #2 – #21, a.k.a What Oprah knows for sure

I live to talk a lot about Oprah. You know that already if you’ve read anything I’ve ever written, or had a conversation with me that lasts over 3.4 minutes.

Hopefully, you have read Love’s Law #1. I have found further recent proof from one of my favorite blogs that I’m not the only one creeped out by mustaches.  Meg from 2birds1blog wrote yesterday:

– Speaking of ridiculous things my sister has said, the other day we were discussing her intense love of mustaches when she mentioned how excited she was because it’s almost, “mustache season.” Apparently, mustache season begins after Labor Day ends, in a sort of reverse White Pants Rule kind of way. Or as Becca puts it, “When the white pants go away, the mustaches come out to play.”

I have never felt so completely molested by a sentence in my entire life.


Wowsers! Her sister is fucked up! But I see that the first thing that entered her mind was molestation.  I’m not the only one.

Anyway, Oprah always asks people what they know for sure. From my last post I learned a few more things for sure:

  1. John Mayer is indeed a douche. But we wouldn’t kick him out of bed.
  2. Michael Jackson is asexual. Except it appears that Nel doesn’t think so and she was x5. However, now I know for sure I don’t want to know what MJ did or didn’t do with small children. Oprah didn’t even weigh in on this in her tribute to Michael Jackson. She is of zero value here.
  3. If you marry a rock star or pro athlete (except Herschel Walker) you’re ridiculous if you think they aren’t going to screw around on you. Read: buy your famous husband condoms so you don’t get any of that nastiness coming home.

But I will admit to the world today that Oprah wrote down in the November 2008 “O” Magazine all the 20 things she knows for sure and I carry it around with me everywhere. (Stop it. At least I’m being honest).

So today I’ve decided to recreate that list as Love’s Law’s #2 – 21, but know that they are straight from Oprah’s mouth because I don’t want her to sue me because I don’t even have a lawyer. On second thought, if she sues me does that mean I get to see her in court? That might be so worth it.

Love’s Laws #2 -21 – What I believe (and you should too) since Oprah knows it for sure:

  1. What you put out comes back all the time, no matter what.
  2. You define your own life. Don’t let other people write your script.
  3. Whatever someone did to you in the past has no power over the present. Only you give it power.
  4. When people show you who they are, believe them the first time.
  5. Worrying is wasted time. Use the same energy for doing something about whatever worries you.
  6. What you believe has more power that what you dream or hope or wish for.  You become what you believe.
  7. If the only prayer you ever say is thank you, that will be enough.
  8. The happiness you feel is in direct proportion to the love you give.
  9. Failure is the sign post to turn you in another direction.
  10. If you make a choice that goes against what everyone else thinks, the world will not fall apart.
  11. Trust your instincts. Intuition doesn’t lie.
  12. Love yourself and then learn to extend that love to others in every encounter.
  13. Let passion drive your profession.
  14. Find a way to get paid for doing what you love. Then every paycheck will be a bonus.
  15. Love doesn’t hurt. It feels really good.
  16. Every day brings a chance to start over.
  17. Being a mother is the hardest job on earth. Women everywhere must declare it so.
  18. Doubt means don’t. Don’t move. Don’t answer. Don’t rush forward.
  19. When you don’t know what to do, get still.  The answer will come.
  20. “Trouble don’t last always” (A line from a Negro spiritual)

I believe in all of this, except for a caveat on #17.  I think being skid row prostitute is the hardest job in the world.  And after that, being a person who lives with me. And then maybe motherhood.

More Love’s Laws to come, including #22 – People living in Seattle are cool I guess, but unfortunately they are the worst looking population in the continental United States.

I’m a lover, not a fighter…

— Michael Jackson to Paul McCartney on “The Girl is Mine”, one of only two totally unknown and wrongly unheralded tracks on the Thriller album.

I feel like the blogger who has lost her way. I started this whole thing because I’m on a journey to peace and love and understanding and then – DAMMIT! my ADD kicks in and I start bitching about my Facebook friends, and people who put signs on their cars to protect their babies and how my sister has bigger boobs. I even went so far as to be critical of the Big O herself and I’m feeling so very guilty about this on her big 24th season kickoff celebration only a few miles away.

When I took that entire 3 minutes to conceptualize my blog and sign up on WordPress, I was thinking I should probably re-tell many of the bizarre fiascoes I have managed to get myself into and swear a lot because of the pure joy it gives me. Oh, and ask all the questions that I’m not allowed to ask in real life for fear that the Soccer Mom mafia would come find me and make me bake something healthy and be in charge of the craft for the next class party as my punishment.

But its time for a positive blog entry. So I am delighting all with the little video clips that make me joyful and/or laugh my ass off. Please, enjoy.

SNL Oprah’s Favorite Things Parody

I’m on a boat AND I got my Nautica themed pashmina Afghan…

If this doesn’t fill your heart with joy, I don’t know what will…

…I wish my Hasidic neighbors were as cool as this dude. Maybe they are – they just don’t talk to me.

…and finally, how I am only one of a few hundred people to see this video and think its the bomb is astounding…my gift to you…

Don’t worry – if you have a big ass, or I think you’re gay, I’ll be the first to let you know

Sometimes I have trouble filtering.  If I consume even a drop of alcohol (Fine. No. I’ve never stopped at a single drop, but shut up, I’m trying to tell a story here), I lose the ability to not to tell you exactly what I think on any subject, including unpleasant things I think about you. I just…tell it like it is. Well, I tell it like it is for me.  And I tend to think that my perception is universal reality, so I can get quite passionate about your flaws as I list them out for you after my second martini. But only because I’m doing you a favor. I honestly believe that I’m just trying to help.  Honestly. There is absolutely no malice involved. I just get alcohol in my system and it occurs to my brain that what you really want — no, what you really need — is for me to tell you about what your problems are. My brain assures me that surely if I see your problem, then several other people are thinking it and you might not know it, and don’t you want to know? And so even though its uncomfortable for most parties involved (and I often make these revelations loudly, which tends to get several people involved), I’m convinced I’m doing you a favor.

Some people are mean or angry or happy drunks.  I’m a truthful drunk.  And this is a very dangerous variety of drunk to be, especially since I’m also a drunk that does not remember the next morning any of the shit I tell people or even who I may have talked to.  But if I try hard enough, sometimes I can conjure up a memory of the look on someone’s face when I tell them exactly what I’m sure that they need to hear.  Coming from a friend. Who loves them. And then I try to piece together what I must have said in the morning hangover fog, but I know what I must have said because I just think to myself about what I really believe about that person and with 100% accuracy, that is what I told them.

Needless to say, I avoid alcohol around those I do not care for, but I’ve never gotten a beat down, because like I said, I don’t say these things with any sort of malice. I say this with grave concern and love, like when I tried all throughout college to get one of my guy friends to just admit for once that he was gay.  I pleaded with him for three years to just come out, but he swore he wasn’t gay. He wanted to know why I thought such a thing. I told him the tight turtlenecks he wore, coupled with the track lighting and the crystal wine glasses he had in his dorm room, along with the key lime pie he was so fond of baking kind of gave it away. No, perhaps it was his slight gay lisp that probably was even more telling. But I suggested this out of genuine love and affection, which makes people less likely to punch me in the face, I think.  And it turns out he was gay. And he actually thanked me for my incessant drunken pleading in college. It helped him come out faster, he said. But then he disappeared from my life quickly after that. (But I don’t care because now I have Thomas.  Ah, Thomas. My fabulous queen.)

I don’t have a problem approaching complete strangers. Because I spontaneously fall in love with some of them and convince myself they need my advice.  Like the time I was at my company Christmas party and I told my boss’s boss’s girlfriend that he was a total prick at work, but I could see that she was a really nice person and maybe that means he really isn’t as terrible as I think he is and maybe she could work on him a little more and tell him to chill out. Or dump his ass, because he is kind of a fuck face (I never tire of this expression) and I would if I were her — all this while he was standing right next to her. But she was so NICE. I just thought I needed to tell her.  Maybe she didn’t know.  It got a little awkward after that.

But maybe God sent me to this earth to give people a clue. To help them out of their misery. Or just embarrass myself.  Oddly enough though, I think my friends would tell you that this is my best trait.  They want me to meet their new significant others immediately because they know that I won’t lie if I think the new guy is a total douche. Even my boss gets me drunk on purpose and then grills me with questions so she can figure out who is sleeping with who and who is talking shit about her and whether I’m going to quit or what.  And then there are the times I’m with my friends who are drinking and getting all pissy because they haven’t found someone to marry yet and I just very kindly tell them that maybe nobody wants to marry them because they’re fucking crazy. Or maybe too passive-aggressive? Oh, and that I wouldn’t date them either. And yes, earlier when you asked about whether your ass looked big in those jeans, you were spot on. It does. You are embarrassing yourself. But I’m only telling you because I’m the only one kind enough to do it.

But my revelations aren’t always bad. Noooooo. Because I think positively. And if I think good things about someone, I’m not afraid to show my love for them. Like when I spotted BD across a crowded bar in 1999, several months after we had a few dates that went nowhere, and I graciously told him in front of several of his friends that I felt bad that he had absolutely no game because if he did then we might be together because when I met him an angel told me that he was The One, but he ruined it because he doesn’t know his head from his ass when it comes to dating and now I might be lost forever to him, and now he’ll never get laid by me. Ever. Ever! (I forgot to mention that I was kind of in a serious relationship with someone else when I told him this. That dude should never have let me go out drunk by myself). But that guy wasn’t The One. And BD was and I felt strongly that The One should be made aware of how much he was fucking with destiny. But I don’t know how much game I had if I told a guy I went on three dates with that an angel told me he was The One. In front of his friends. That is creepy. But I don’t have a good friend like me who is willing to tell me about all the mistakes I make. Luckily, when BD is drunk, he is quite tolerant of women talking about having sex with him, so he listened. And we got married.  So its not like its all bad, right?

So I will make an offer to the internet populace – if you want my opinion on something, I will promise to drink my requisite two glasses of wine and ponder your question. And I will tell you what I think. Exactly. Send me pictures or inquiries to lovenotestomyego@yahoo.com and I will let you know. For real. Because I love you.

Oh, and Oprah – because I love you the most of all, I will continue to supply you with all of my thoughts about you via this blog. You needn’t email because I already know all of your problems and awesomeness that Gayle will not, cannot, reveal to you for fear you will kick her ass to the curb. I’m just keepin’ it real. Because I love you too.

I totally need more homo friends

I had a totally bitchin’ weekend. It was the 11th annual Women Introxicated from Now On, Sucka (a.k.a. WINOS) weekend.  This year’s conference was in Denver. The WINOS consist of five women who met our junior year of college and permanently damaged our livers studied together in Fremantle, Western Australia. Every year we ditch the husbands and kids and try to relive our past Australian glory.  And we usually have a great time even if the hangovers get worse every year.  But in all of WINO history, we’ve  A) never been mistaken for undercover cops or B) had the pleasure of having a homo (I think I’m allowed to say that since he refers lovingly to himself this way) join us or C) had to blow up a queen size air mattress manually. MANUALLY. It was so delightful.

Lets discuss point A first. We booked a last minute mid-size rental car from Priceline for $81. When we went to pick up the car we passed several respectable, newer looking rental cars and SUVs.  When we got to our assigned stall number we were a little shocked, to say the least, to see a very large, blue Grand fucking Marquis, straight out of Magnum PI.  I have included a picture here, since if you are reading my blog you probably have no idea what that is because you likely weren’t a cop in the 80’s.  Apparently FBI agents and Budget Rental still buys these bad ass mother fuckers and gladly assigns them to women on the one damn weekend all year long we find a way to escape from our “real” lives and live like we’re still childless and single and don’t require Spanx to hold in our muffin tops.  I was really hoping for a Prius or at least a fucking sweet minivan, but no. We got the Grand fucking Marquis – a car longer than two football fields and uglier than Courtney Love after a binge.  We named her Lucille.

The bitchin wheels you imagine for your girls weekend

The bitchin wheels you imagine for your girls weekend

On the bright side, what better way to start off a girls weekend with the most fucking ridiculous car in the world, perhaps the universe?  I laughed so hard at this injustice I peed a little bit in my pants. But it was easy to clean off the Grand Marquis’ pimpin’ leather seats with some of the Kleenex that came complementary in a matching blue box in the backseat window.  To all the ladies planning your own bling girls getaway I highly, highly recommend you roll in this kind of awesomeness.

But now I’ll get to the really good part — lets talk about our new Gay.  Tori Spelling has her gays and Kathy Griffin has hers and now the WINOS have ours. Well, not gays plural. Gay singular for now, but I’m sure that one gay will eventually beget many gays.  The WINOS rented out a corporate apartment for the weekend that came with a concierge. And that concierge was named Thomas. And Thomas is gay. And he is. a. RIOT.

So we all fly into Denver from our respective cities and we pick up Lucille and we get to our place around 1:30 and thats when we meet Thomas.  He introduces himself and its very, very clear by his dress, his mannerisms, his hair, the way he talks, and the fact that tells us he is a homo, that he is gay.  So we ask him where we should go for lunch. He tells us that he was just going down the street to get a sandwich and tells us we should come with him. So we do.  And it isn’t really clear whether he is going to get a sandwich and go back to work or what, but we get there its a sit down type of place, so not to be awkward, we ask him to join us.  And we thought he probably wouldn’t because why would a young gay dude want to sit down and have lunch with some thirty something suburban moms he has met 2 minutes before that haven’t seen each other for a year? But Thomas was all about it.  And it was the best lunch ever.

The WINOS and our Gay covered a variety of topics over sandwiches and $2 mimosas & bloody Marys, including midget porn, southern baptists, Oprah, our kids, my career, Thomas’ ex-boyfriend that cheated on him with two guys and a girl and revealed this to him via Facebook IM and then claimed he was just kidding, Thomas’ twin sister who is a lesbian and likes to tell him the details of her sex life (here is why I believe in the Law of Attraction. Ask and you shall receive), Thomas’ issues regarding the fact he had to ride out 11 more months of his lease with the aforementioned ex-boyfriend who also lost his keys and now they are sharing a single set of keys for their apartment they can’t get out of, democrats, stalkers, college majors, local beers, Texas, and Colorado politics.  Ah, Thomas. Glorious Thomas.  We paid for Thomas’ lunch.  It was the best $12 we split 5 ways ever. Ever.

So then we all go back to our place and Thomas hooks us up with spas and restaurants and fun gay bars we should go to. We did all of those things except for the latter.  I’ve never been to a gay bar, but I didn’t want my first foray to one to occur while I was in mom jeans. Truth be told, I don’t think I want a foray of any kind to occur while in mom jeans, but I packed the wrong ones. What can I say? The next day after we returned from the spa, he told us all about the show down he and his ex had the night before and all the juicy details as if we’re all total BFFs.  I wanted to gather him up and take him home so he could amuse me with tales of his 22 year old gay sex life.  But alas, we had to leave him in Denver.  I miss you already, my dear Thomas, and my first Gay I can call my own.

I would be remiss if I didn’t tell the story of the air mattress. Or two. But its kind of long and I’m getting bored, but lets just say that the ass clown who managed the apartments was supposed to furnish an extra bed. He isn’t much of a planner, so at about 11pm he brings over a queen size air mattress and doesn’t spring for the pump. How long do you think it took 5 women to blow up an entire fucking queen air mattress? I don’t know either – we told him to get off his ass and buy us a pump. We’ll see you on Trip Advisor, fuck face.

Anyway, to Denver, Lucille and Thomas, and the queen air mattress that we were supposed to blow up with our own drunk lungs, thanks for the laughs. We shall never forget you.