Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Sadly, he was not the only boy I dated that got arrested. Because I was kind of stupid in high school, apparently.

A little while back I made a joke about all the "bunny boilers" my husband dated before he met me. In the interest of fairness, I should probably talk about some of the borderline psychopaths I chose to date. Even though I'm afraid of what it says about me that I chose these people.

First up: Kody (P.S. is this a generational thing? With the name spelling? Because I later dated a guy named Korey, and I'm wondering...what up with the K names?)

Kody completely a baby psycho. I was 16. He was...17? 18? I don't know, but he was still in my grade. To be fair to Kody, I knew from the instant I started talking to him that he didn't want a girlfriend. He wanted to get laid. And was perhaps interested in me because I had a reputation for not sleeping with guys (true: I did not once ever have sex in high school, and many, many boys wanted to get in my pants for the sole reason that they wanted bragging rights about being the one that got in my pants first). But anyway. I was in that very, very short lived period of my life where I thought the "bad boy" thing was sexy and that the "love of a good girl" would save him and it would all be very romantic, and a lovely story to tell our children one day. (It is okay to laugh. I am laughing at myself).

So Kody and I hung out a few times (in fact, he was the star of the story about the first time a boy touched my girly parts and how that contributed to my continuing virginness for...quite a long time, actually). Kody was horrible to me in public. He either ignored me or went out of his way to mock and humiliate me. But then he would call me on the phone every day as soon as I got home and be really, really sweet to me.

Did you catch the important part there? He called me EVERY DAY AS SOON AS I GOT HOME. He had it timed. If I was a few minutes late he would badger me about where I had been and what I had been doing and who I had been with. These "conversations" lasted for HOURS. Even though after the first 20 minutes it generally ended up being me, struggling in vain to get off the phone while he played video games or smoked weed or ate mushrooms. And listen, all of those activities are fun, don't get me wrong. But they are only fun if you are actually participating. It is not fun to listen to someone else play a game or get high (okay, the day he tripped on the mushrooms was a little amusing..."Damn. Nothing's happening, I'm not feeling anything...holy shit, there's a cartoon rabbit in here!")

So, after two weeks of putting up with his split personality disorder, his stalker-y behavior, and what is still the worst sexual experience of my life...he got arrested for shoplifting and started screwing some other chick. Because she came to bail him out of jail. Except...I think she just picked him up, because I'm pretty sure teenagers can't bail other teenagers out of jail? Whatever, it was all very Melrose Place.

And yet, I continued to date losers who wound up arrested for one thing or another. I don't know what was wrong with me, but I'm pretty sure I'm responsible for all of my mother's gray hair and God will punish me by gifting me with a daughter EXACTLY LIKE ME.

God help us all.

Monday, September 27, 2010

Just so you know what we're dealing with here...

I did not work on Friday. This was the biggest mistake of my career so far.

Ya'll. YA'll.

While I was gone they hung a deer head over my work space. It is huge. And dead. And yet STILL STARING AT ME.

I am frightened.

I mean okay, there have always been dead ducks hiding in corners all over the place here, but...the deer, man. The deer gives me the willies. I don't think it's happy to be dead. I'm pretty sure it's going to get together with the ducks and they are going to rise up as one body and smite us or something.

I would just like to go on the record as saying I think the ritual of killing and stuffing and preserving something so that it looks like it might still be alive is primitive and barbaric and senseless and please don't eat my soul because I had nothing to do with this.

Thursday, September 23, 2010

Rorschach Burn

I spent all of yesterday afternoon in a kayak in the middle of a rock quarry, trying to pull water samples from various depths. And apparently lost my fool mind sometime before we got there, because once we got started I pretty promptly spilled nitric acid preservative on my bare skin. Did you know that when you burn yourself with nitric acid the burn is actually yellow? Because I didn't. For a few moments of intense burning pain, I thought I was watching my skin and fat literally melt and that the yellow was the layer of fat under the skin seeping through (you're welcome).

Rest assured, it was not. Have I mentioned my tendency to be a drama queen? Well, a really stoic drama queen. Because you can't let the guys who are out sampling with you know that that hurt like a bitch and what you really want to do is cry and then go home and put on your pink jammies and your bunny slippers and watch something on the Lifetime channel that practically drips estrogen while eating ice cream. Uh, you are eating ice cream, not the Lifetime channel. Which is, in fact, exactly what I wanted to do (after the ice cream and the Lifetime maybe I'll clean the house in high heels and pearls! What? I do enjoy being a girl, you know). I knew that I was going to be in the field with these guys for a few more hours and they needed to not be babying me the entire time (seriously, other girls have to deal with sexual harrassment in the field with the guys. What do I have to deal with? The fact that they all, to a one, want to TAKE CARE of me and treat me like I'm a pretty, pretty princess. It's insulting in its own way, okay?).

When I finally limped into my house (I did have to leave my pants rolled up because I couldn't stand anything on the burn) my husband took one look at me and was all, "Holy shit what did you do and do I need to take you to the ER?" Because he knows me. (The answer was no, by the way, he did not).

It really does look like a rorschach inkblot test on my lower leg. I'm only burned where it touched me so you can actually see where it splashed and then rolled down my leg.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

See, people like me don't even need drugs. We are our own trip.

I cannot resist telling you that this morning began with me and my husband deciding on divorce, me getting re-married to a friend of his about 12 minutes later, and the new husband buying a disabled child on a leash for a thousand dollars. I took really good care of him, even though he basically walked like that thing in The Ring, meaning crawled around in a weird manner. He was surprisingly well spoken. But then his mother found out the husband had sold the kid and was really pissed and wanted him back. So we gave him back. But it was okay because my new friend/husband's wife had left him about 6 minutes before our wedding and she left her newborn baby behind on the boat we were living on which we needed to wear HazMat suits on because husband/friend is a really, really messy slobby guy (true fact). And my original flavor husband and I decided to continue dating. Which was fine because husband friend and I were really uncomfortable with the thought of sharing a bed (which was a mattress on the floor).

(Side note: There is a reason I am not a morning person you guys, and that I get tired so easily. I have to do this kind of crap all night every night, and I just need some frigging rest.)

So I woke up and had to tell Original Flavor about this dream. And I guess he's really used to me by now because all he said was, "You weren't even sad that I wanted a divorce?"

Because the dream was so realistic in every other way.

Monday, September 20, 2010

Uh. Maybe if I say enough words some of them will accidentally be funny. Or...not.

So you fall off the earth for a couple weeks because things just. got. real. Or whatever. And you realize the longer you stay away the less you have to say. And then you come back and post something just to try to get the juices flowing again, and you start to type about how you fell out of bed because you were locked in combat with a giant cobra, but you realize people think other people's dreams are boring (I, actually, love to hear about people's dreams, but from what I can tell...I'm really alone in this). So then you start to tell the story about when you had your wisdom teeth out and you were desperately trying to convince your mother you could TOTALLY go out on a date with that cute guy who will LOSE INTEREST if you cancel, and you realize there was a really, really similar post (only...better) at Hyperbole and a Half, and you don't want to be a copy cat. Then you start thinking about how awesome it would be to go back to high school as you are now, and how you would totally date the cute German boy and the band geek instead of the losers you DID date, and how you wouldn't care about the stuff that seemed like such a big deal, but then you realize you are ripping off a Matthew Perry movie, and damn, that's embarrassing.

So then you go back to reading the archives at Occupation Girl and you get even more discouraged because you are never going to be as funny as Cleo. And then you get over yourself and come type some stream of consciousness gibberish just to try to get past the block because you aren't a person who can talk about going to work and falling in to bed and make that funny, and that's all you've been doing.

You could talk about the Beauty Queen they just hired at your office (she put it on her resume! Yes, I am judging her, I'm sorry) and then you hear her talking to some of the people in the office and realize you aren't going to click with this girl because a.) anyone who says, "I need your muscles - giggle" when asking for help with boxes is...way, way different than you and also b) you overhear her turning down homemade bananas foster french toast because she had a bran muffin and she "doesn't eat that." I cannot trust anyone who can turn down bananas foster french toast (if you are such a person...maybe we can still be friends, but we aren't going to be braiding each other's hair anytime soon). But all of that sounds really judgy and you don't know this girl at all and you seem kind of catty (except the french toast thing. I very sincerely mean that).

And then you wind up with this.

Thursday, September 2, 2010

A Billion Words Explaining Why I Have Nothing to Say

So an entire month without a day off of any kind has broken me. I have nothing of interest or even mild interest to say. To anyone.

I thought that I was tough, but I really, really hate this. I always forget that being tired makes me sort of fall apart. I cannot deal with sleep deprivation. I feel like other people sleep less on a regular basis and still function normally, but I cannot (and never have been able) to do this.

I start to be anxious about nothing (prepackaged with your anxiety about nothing also comes the feeling that your skin is trying crawl off your body, surges of adrenaline that prepare you for fighting badgers with your bare hands but there are no badgers, sleeplessness, headache, raggedy nails, and a special bonus inability to bear the thought of anything even thinking about touching you! Especially awesome for married people who would like to stay married and NOT contract chlamydia from some skank your husband turns to in desperation!) So I basically sit around like Jello, quivering with excess nervous energy but too exhausted to actually harness and use that nervous energy for any interesting or useful purpose.

I start dreaming about things that I'm not dealing with, but rather am shoving down into a little ball somewhere in the pit of my brain, where I can pretend the issue doesn't exist and doesn't bother me at all. As all well adjusted, mentally well, normal people do, of course. This time around it is dreams about my dad. I should probably write a real post about him someday, and why he is A Thing I Probably Should Deal With, But I'd Really Rather Not Because Look! A 4-Hour Special About the Reproductive Habits of Earthworms is On! Let's Do That Instead. Frankly, I haven't been able to come up with a way to discuss my daddy issues without sounding either whiny (okay, I know this post is also whiny, but...its different. Or something), blame-y, or some other variant of dwarf that didn't make the final cut of Snow White.

I haven't been reading anything more challenging than the occasional trashy romance novel or trashy mystery novel or basically anything that requires me to actual think about the words and what they might mean.

I went to visit one friend and her premature baby in the hospital, but haven't been able to drag my ass to visit my other friend and HER premature baby in the hospital. Yes, 2 of my friends had premature babies approximately 6 days apart. And that makes me feel like a bad friend. I also feel like a bad wife, a bad employee, a bad daughter, and a bad person in general because all of this? Is so incredibly selfish I can barely stand myself. I mean, I'm not being marched to the gas chamber. No one is in any imminent danger. I'm just tired and I have nothing to say.

Is this post irony? It might be irony. It's not "10,000 spoons when all you need is a knife" or anything...but it might be ironic?