Archive | February, 2009

Get your boobs off my donut

27 Feb

So this morning I hitched a ride with my friend (well, I don’t know if you can really call him a friend per-se, he’s my ex-husband), who was telling me about how excited he was to go to this new donut shop to have coffee. I was really only half listening, until I heard, boobs. I was like, eh, what? Apparently, it’s a topless donut shop he’s going to. I don’t think that this was thought all the way through.

First off, aren’t there inherent health risks with this? Not only for the bare-chested women who run the very real risk of burning their boobs on hot coffee (hello? ouch), but also for the customers. What happens when the waitresses’ boobs touch the food? I don’t know if boobs carry any more germs than hands do, and I’d like to think that most people wash their hands before serving food, do these waitresses wash their boobs just in case? Or like what if they bend over the counter and if their boobs aren’t all fake and perky, their boob grazes the donuts? I’d be like, uh, get your boobs off my donut. It’s like when Chris took me to Hooters for our first date (yes, he really took me to Hooters for our first date), the waitress was like fucking SITTING on our table, like kinda perched on the edge taking our order. I was like, uh, get your ass off my table. Chris was like, aww, don’t get upset, I don’t mind. I was like, yeah, I bet you don’t.

Just like you don’t mind getting ass germs on your table for the price of chicken wings at Hooters, I suppose the running the risk of donut contamination by boobs is worth it if you get to see naked boobs for the price of a cup of coffee. I like my food uncontaminated and boob and ass free, but that’s just me.


Working the guilt angle

26 Feb

When I was a kid, I was so excited for my birthday. I did a daily countdown, pretty much reminding anyone who would listen that it was MY birthday. For the past 3 or 4 years, I wasn’t like that all. I was very much leave me the hell alone, I’m not ready to be old. But I found that kind of approach really limits my ability to get what I want. For instance, my birthday this year will be spent at a cheering competition (big surprise, right?), but that’s ok, because I support my kid and all that. But because I “have to spend the day at a cheering competition, I don’t even get a real birthday”, I said I wanted to go to Outback for a steak the size of my head (seriously the size of my head, their steaks are ginormous and freaking awesome). Chris was like, Outback, that’s really pricey. And then I’m all, but that’s what I REALLY want for my birthday, and I have to spend the day at a cheering competition, I don’t even get a real birthday (cue whiny voice). We’re going to Outback.

So far I’ve been able to score some pretty sweet stuff, because I’m either great at birthday guilt or he has a mistress on the side that the feels guilty about: A brand new camera (but baby, I REALLY want it for my birthday, and I never get anything), an Ed Hardy shirt (but baby, I REALLY want it for my birthday, and how often do I get new clothes?), and $28 mascara–now this one a little was harder to justify. He was all, that’s friggin insane, what the hell is in it that makes it $28? And I was like, well it’s called Yves Saint Laurent Effet Faux Cils. It’s French. I think I threw him off with the French because he was all, what the hell does that mean? I was like, I have no idea, but it’s YSL and French, so it must be good, right? And I just know that this would make me feel like I look better, and that will make me feel better about turning 30, and you know I’m really struggling with it. And honestly, how can you say no to that? It came in the mail yesterday from Sephora–and it really does kick ass, totally worth $28. Now you’re probably thinking, what a greedy bitch, but it’s not really like that…ok it is. But I’m completely unapologetic. Honestly, your birthday only comes once a year, why not capitalize on it? I also figure if on the off chance this isn’t just birthday gift-giving guilt, and Chris really does have a mistress, I’m going to be able to get that Jeep I’ve had my eye on…

P.S. Apparently because of all the economy crap, people have actually found freaking Manolos at Goodwill (or so says Politco’s Political Playbook). Seriously. I’ll be cruising Goodwill from now on.
P.P.S. Effet Faux Cils means false eyelash effect, or so says the babelfish translator.

But have you gotten any smarter?

24 Feb

My 30th birthday is Saturday. So this week is will probably be filled with the thoughtful musings random thoughts of someone who’s not entirely sure they’re ready to be 30. See, I totally NEVER thought I’d make it past 18. Then 21. Then 25. So 30 is just fucking scary. I know that’s retarded because I have 9 year olds, so certainly I must’ve thought this far ahead, right? This just wasn’t on my radar.

So what have I accomplished?

I’ve never killed anybody. This was always a possiblity given the fact I spent the better part of my teenage years drunk, high or both.

I’ve never technically been arrested, because the time the cops were standing watch outside my hospital room totally doesn’t count.

I’ve succeeded in not causing serious harm to anyone. I’m counting “not serious harm” as not losing any limbs and accident resulting in less than 10 stitches.

I’ve been married…twice. Second time seems to be the charm.

I’ve been to college 7 times. Granted, I still haven’t finished, but that’s hardly the point.

I’m the same exact size I was when I was 18…if you multiply by 4, divide by 3, add 47 and find the square root of 8109283021983109283.

I’ve finally gotten myself a real wrinkle. Right in the middle of my eyebrows. No doubt from spending the past 29 years scowling at people. This is a success…because…well…ok it’s not. But that’s a lot of scowling, and that deserves some recognition.

Ok, so maybe I haven’t accomplished all I’d wanted, or even really anything at all, but since I never thought I’d make it 30 anyway, we’re counting these as successes.

I’m thinking that anything not a catastrophic failure is a success in my case.

Bees in the php

22 Feb

So perhaps you’ve noticed my blog has changed…again. Since my move to wordpress, I’ve been using a good theme, just not at all customized. So I’m kinda digging my new blog, it’s all good, and then I get a bee in my bonnet (yes, I said a bee in my bonnet) about changing it. I read up on it, and from everything I read, it’s super easy, wordpress can do anything, blah, blah, blah. All those people who said that are dirty liars. I started this little adventure Thursday afternoon. I worked on it all evening on Thursday. I worked on it all afternoon Friday and until about 1 am Saturday morning. Then Saturday, I woke up at 10 and worked on this freaking blog until 1 am. In case you’d never seen it, this is what obsessive compulsive looks like. Here’s what I learned.

1. I’m not nearly as computer-savvy as I thought. In fact I think I’m computer retarded.

2. I don’t know the difference between html, css, php, cbs or acdc. I don’t know whether I should be backslashing or headbanging. It’s all very confusing.

3. I’m way more obsessive than I thought I was. What started out as an excerise in improving my theme turned into a 72 hour ordeal rivaling my trek to the top of Mount Everest.

4. I didn’t really trek, climb or ever even get close to Mount Everest, but I know that this programming shit was way harder.

That guy? He totally feels my pain. Anyway, enjoy the new atmosphere, tell me what you think…as long as what you think is that I’m awesome and my hard work was totally worth it because my blog kicks all other blogs’ asses…if blogs had asses. If not, go to hell and keep your opinion to yourself. See that computer? Yeah…don’t mess with me. I’ll php you…or something.

Violence UnSilenced

18 Feb

Today I was doing my customary web surfing, blog reading, etc., and I came across a really kick ass site on one of the blogs I read reguarly. She started a web site dedicated to telling the stories of domestic violence (Violence UnSilenced). This is kind of ironic because for the past couple of weeks, Chris has been bugging me to write my own story down, he says that if I share my story, maybe it will help someone else. Well, maybe it will. And I’m SO not ready to write the great American novel, but I was ready to share my story on this website. There is only 1 story posted there as of today, but there will no doubt be hundreds and thousands more shared. I don’t know if all submissions are posted or not, but either way, I feel really glad that I shared my story. In case it’s not posted there, you know, like if my worst fears came true and this nice lady was all, God her writing sucks ass, there’s no way people could stand to read that garbage, I’ll post it here as well. Once again, I’m noticing my $5.99 a month is paying for itself since I can do whatever I want on my own website. My brother was right, being a tech geek (or at least enough of a tech geek to have your own web site) has it’s perks. Anyway, here’s my story.

Because everyone tells you, smart girls don’t get into trouble like that…except when they do. Everyone tells you, pretty girls from good families with good values don’t get into trouble like that…except when they do.

I was 17 when it started. He was older, 19, tall, dark and handsome. When he was good he was wonderful, but when he was bad, he was a monster. The first time we had sex, he wrapped his hands around my neck, and smiled while I tried to squirm away. He whispered that he knew I liked it rough and laughed when I told him he was hurting me. The first time I disagreed with him, he slapped me so hard my lip split. I never knew what would make him so angry, or what would set him off. Once we had seen a friend of his at the movies, and I’d somehow “embarrassed” him. I spent the ride home crouching on the floorboard of his truck, fielding kicks and punches while he told me how disgusting, unworthy and stupid I was. As the cliché goes, he never hit me that he wasn’t sorry afterward.

My parents were clueless, they didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, and I certainly didn’t tell them. I stayed with him because they disapproved of him, my friends were jealous of me, and no one was going to tell me what to do. I stayed because I was too proud to ask for help and too proud to admit I’d made a terrible mistake and was in serious trouble. At times I think I honestly loved him, at times I hated him, but a part of me believed that he was right. I was worthless, and I deserved everything I got. I spent the next 9 months using makeup to hide bruises, wearing long sleeves and turtlenecks in the summer, and hating the person looking at me in the mirror. I hid until I couldn’t hide anymore.

My parents had gone away for the July 4th weekend. He and I were supposed to go watch fireworks. We were laughing and joking, it’d been a good day. I was looking at a pen he’d won at work. He told me to give it back, I playfully said no, and put it behind my back, playing keep-away. He seemed so happy, I thought everything was ok, but it wasn’t. I can’t remember everything that happened next, most of it was, and still is, a blur. I remember him picking me up by my ears and throwing me against the wall. I remember covering my face when I saw his fists coming at me. I remember him choking me so hard I lost consciousness. When I woke up, hot angry tears were streaming down my face, stinging on their way down. I was humiliated, I was furious, I was completely broken. I came clean to a family friend who told my parents. They never said anything about the bruises when they came home that Sunday afternoon, but their eyes told their story. They were filled with sadness, regret, and pity.

I’ll be 30 in 2 weeks, and even though the bruises are long gone, I’ll never forget what I felt that night on the kitchen floor. The person I have become is nothing like the girl lying on the floor all that time ago. I am strong, independent, and un-breakable. Even though I wouldn’t recognize that girl anymore, I can’t forget her. For my daughter, I can’t forget her. I have to remember, and I have to tell her story.

A big brother conspiracy and Hannah Montana?

17 Feb

Well, the plague didn’t get me this time. I spent the last week trying to be sick. I emphasize trying because Chris decided he was sicker than me. Totally stole my thunder…if you got thunder for being sick. Maybe not thunder, maybe that’s the wrong metaphor. All I know I was perfectly happy being sick and babied, and he went and ruined it by getting a case of the plague. Dick. Yeah, speaking of Dick (which is totally my new name for Chris), last night, I’m thinking, ok, he’s surely feeling better by now. He’s been milking this for like a week. It’s totally my turn. Merritt-time! So we’re watching tv, and I was like, we don’t have to watch tv, we could talk or something. And he goes, eh, no. No thinking, no considering, nothing. Just “no”. So I was like, fine. Dick. He freaking LAUGHED at me. I was like, yeah, laugh it up, DICK. No apology, no sad face, nothing, he just keeps laughing. So I go, what’s so damn funny? He goes, heh, dick. Just the way you said it, all serious-like. I was like, yeah. Shut up. Dick.

In other annoying news, I hate my ipod. Or, to be more specific, I hate itunes…I think. I plugged my ipod into the computer to charge it, no problems, all is good. I’m sitting at my desk this morning, and all of a sudden I hear friggin Hannah Montana. I was like, oh hell no. So I went onto the next song…which was from High School Musical. SIGH. Now, I don’t know who to blame here. My ipod, itunes, or maybe there’s some big brother Apple conspiracy going on. Maybe they’re trying to brain wash me with their peppy, up-beat preteen anthems about being preteen and fabulous even thought you’re not even old enough to know what fabulous really is because you’re not even allowed to watch an R-rated movied by yourself. All I know is Kat’s music has invaded my ipod and I’m stuck listening to Rob Zombie and Hannah Montana, which just sucks. If I show any signs of regressing into preteen hell, please send help. k? kewl. c u l8r.