I promise the next post will be fun...and this one is short!

I wish I could remember how to be myself. I catch glimpses, but it has been a little while. I am a bit in the hole just now, though, so it probably hasn't been as long as I think it has. Either that, or it has been longer...

The Balance

I am a difficult woman to love. This is a fact. Like saying I have brown hair. Or nice tits. (Arguably the latter is subjective, but mine are nice enough that I will assume I could get the sort of consensus necessary for it to be passed off as fact. Besides, this is Science, not science.) My point is that this is simply so. I can be more accommodating in certain directions, but I cannot change it.

Nor should I. Much of what makes me difficult to love is also what makes me so lovable: I have great spirit and passion, I am fierce, I am (almost) always up for fun (even when it is time for bed), and I almost always find it. My emotional life is rich and deep, varied and nuanced. And I have a near (or actual) compulsion to share it. I am pathetically broken, and astoundingly whole. I am impulsive, which means you never know what to expect, but there are lots of fun surprises.

There is an interesting balance I must undertake in accepting this about myself, though. Err too far one way, and self-deprecation creeps in...I devalue myself and make concessions I never should. I feel myself in debt to my partner for tolerating me, and resent that person for being so much better, so much easier to love, than I am.

Err too far the other way, and I am likely to do even more of a disservice to my partner and the relationship. I will take that person for granted. I will forget to try to be the best me I can bring to them. I will forget that I can be trying--and I need to be patient when their patience is tried. I might forget the whole universe of need and want that lies on the other side.

If I am brutally honest, I can see that this has happened. All of it. Sometimes separate, sometimes all at once. Throughout my past, and even recently. And I cannot change what has been. And this is another balance: Remembering the errors of my past, so I do not repeat them, but not beating myself into despair with my prior short comings.

All I can do is try. Because I am a difficult woman to love, but I am very worth loving. I am very worth loving.

It isn't Science. It isn't drunk. And it sure as hell ain't funny...but sometimes my voice isn't funny. That is what I am trying to find here. My voice. Because sometimes the sad, or the angry, or the just plain complicated get tied up in the funny. So this is part of my voice, and I have to find a way to incorporate it.

I am worth loving.

Late(ish...for me) musings...

Downer. For realsies. Skip it.






Okay, fine. You asked for it.





Again.






Take a moment: What is the worst thing you have ever done? What is the worst thing you have ever done professionally?

Can you live with it? Why are you in (this) business?

I convinced a young man to try and turn his whole life around. He trusted me beyond reproach. I let the system tell me what to do. I never lied. I never violated the technical ethics. From a certain perspective, I made the most benevolent choices for him...I still cannot count what I would give for the chance to have been truly honest with him.

That is the basic problem with my job: I digest the sewage of society, and I serve a high ideal when I do so--but a lot of human compassion gets set aside in respecting the basic humanity of all. (Or one's closest approximation.)

A post-it note makes a very good mask

I want to be on the interwebs! But I don't. Fortunately, group efforts at documenting our drunkenness have helped.



Point 1: Yes. I have lovely boobs. Sometimes I kiss them myself, they are so yummy.

Point 2: That is a horrible facial expression. (Not sure why I am posting this, other than I decided to when I was REALLY drunk, and I tend to post ALL drafts on this blog.)

Point 3: Though you (sadly) cannot read the diagram above, the post-it note on my face is diagramming the plan of myself and Chaseycakes to create a pinata filled with BBQ sandwiches (as befitting of the American south).

Point 4: My twin posts dirty pics of herself all over the internet. I have advised against this. She has advised against my cocktail enthusiasm. I guess we all have our limits.

Point 5: Are you reading anymore?...Or are you just running your eyes over the text while you think of my slattern twin?

I think Gin and I may need to have a talk...

Gin and I have never seen eye-to-eye...but I am contemplating calling an international peace summit. With Gin.



So this is a Gin Fizz (with the egg white...TRUST ME, I know it is terrifying and we are all  going to die [I have had food poisoning an unreasonable number of times and am subsequently terrified of it every time I eat even a Butterfinger], but it is both delicious and worth it). Even better (and I do love the basic/"Ramos" gin fizz), this is a Damson Gin Fizz...meaning it is a gin fizz made with Damson Gin, a gin flavored with damson plums. It makes me want to touch my boobies, it is so tasty.

Anyway, this in conjunction with my experience of liquor tasting (which is just not the same damn thing as wine or beer tasting--WATCH THE FUCK OUT!) at the Ebb+Flow distillery...They had a lot of tasty stuff, but the gin was so exquisite and refined that it made me think. One of these days, gin and I need to have a reckoning.

Naturally, I do not particularly care for gin. I actually think it smells like medicine sometimes (yes, I understand the pragmatic reasons why that is so--doesn't matter if you can't manage/ignore the association). But I am starting to think she is the sexy librarian, and I need to spend some time with her so she will unbutton her blouse, take off her glasses, and shake down her sexy hair...

Also, it seems like a good excuse to spend a day getting insanely drunk and blogging...It also is inspiring me to look into what it would take to turn this blog into a business...How awesome would it be if I could write my booze receipts off? I actually don't have a word for that level of awesome.

Damnit, if I could get the baba ghanoush I used to get in Madison, Wisconsin (at The Casbah), I would have to say life was damn near perfect. I am not sure what it means when pureed eggplant stands between you and perfect happiness, but I think it is a damn good thing.

Because no holiday is complete without a penis cookie...and I forgot to post it earlier

I love the holidays. I know it isn't cool...but I do. I have always been a dork, if it means I get egg nog, I am willing to stay one. Happily. I'm not into a specific holiday, it is just that everyone gets a winter holiday, and so I am willing to accept whichever one is available and convenient.



For a long time, my mom had rules (RULES!) about how cookies could be decorated...I left for awhile, but by the time I came back, I decided there could not be COOKIE RULES (that is CRAZY TOWN)! Now I (sadly) live very far away, but I get to make whatever the fuck cookies I want. And I want penis cookies. I think it is because I like cock. But that isn't the sort of thing you can actually say. Unfortunately.

P.S. I am sure this relates to Zombie Jesus somehow...so it is probably totally appropriate that this winter holiday post is being posted for the Spring Sexytime holiday. (Spring...eggs...fertility...the ubiquitousness...it is the SEXYTIME holiday...which means it should probably be my favorite...)

Ectoplasmgasm

I don't think this post worked out so well. If you are new here (which everyone is--if there was anyone...which there isn't), I would try this, or this, or maybe this. Hmmm...Maybe you should just come have a drink. Then you would know I am funny. I am much funnier with a lot of context...and the ability to use hand gestures...and facial expressions...and to flash my boobs at the audience if the whole thing goes south...

I...don't exactly remember this. Not that I was so drunk (possible), but it was just awhile ago and I found this picture I forgot to write about (true).



My biggest question is, why is there no damn cherry in there? We were putting limes on goddamned everything for awhile, all the colors of the rainbow--why not a cherry when the drink is green? Or at least a damn lime? Or some curtains...Or SOMETHING! Though perhaps I should just be thankful there was nothing on the drink to stab me. Even though the last drink stabbing made me exquisitely happy. So I shouldn't be thankful after all. Great. We are right back where we started, and the journey wasn't even entertaining. Unless you've been drinking. Which, of course, I have not. I don't go in for that sort of thing.

Oh yeah. I was going to say something about this picture. (I swear, I have the attention of a chimpanzee on crack.) So, it's defining characteristic is generic, store-brand Kiwi-Watermelon soda. To be honest, I didn't want to get involved...BUT THEN IT WAS ECTOPLASM GREEN!!! I still didn't want to drink it, but I sure as hell wanted to watch someone else drink it. That is the best part about making drinks for a lot of your loved ones: You get to see people drink shit that fascinates you, but you don't want to drink.

I don't know what booze was in there, but does it matter? Let's call it vodka. Who cares. Unless you are offering. Then I totally vote for vodka. Unless you have bourbon.

I think it may be time for bed again. DAMNIT! I WILL DEFEAT YOU ONE DAY, INSOMNIA! AND THEN I WILL BE FUNNY AGAIN!!!


P.S. I am stupidly watching "Toddlers &Tiaras" again...I like the "crazy," but it has gone well beyond that...I think this may be the last time I watch it, as it now seems a bit evil...A mom is pitting TWINS against each other, and is obviously on the side of one over the other...I am seriously debating whether I need to call DSS...I don't/can't...but some people are evil bitches. Just saying.

P.P.S. I may be sensitive to this...My little sisters (twins) used to insult each other as "ugly" or "fat"--even though just about anyone looking at them would call them identical. Breaks my heart, and always had.

P.P.P.S. Damnit! That isn't fun! How about this: I just took my top off. Topless blogging.

P.P.P.P.S. I was just going to say it--but I couldn't. I don't like to lie. Especially about nudity. NUDITY IS MY FAVORITE!

P.P.P.P.P.S. (I just said "pee-pee" more than twice! *giggle*) This post is a total patchwork--if that wasn't obvious--I totally jumped from beginning, to end, to middle, to middle of the end, to end of the beginning, to end of the middle...and so on. There was a lot of variance in...um, carbs? Does that cover it? (We all know I am drinking, I am just trying to find a good euphemism...)


This was clearly GASMIC.

(new) P.S. I once tried to get the license plate "ORGA" on a custom state plate that had the automatic suffix "SM". No dice. Party poopers. I went for "MIA." I found it hilarious, but I spent the year explaining that my name was not "Mia" and that I did not have an acquaintance in the military who was "M.I.A." Apparently no one was familiar with the concept of the miasmic theory of infection...and thus did not get why it was HILARIOUS to call my car a "miasm."

What I learned that year: No matter how funny you find a joke, if you have to explain it to EVERYONE--maybe it isn't all that funny.

Random MONKEY-trucking!

Okay...so there are a half-dozen partial posts (by which, I mean pictures with at least half-interesting titles, if not decent text...or any text...) in my drafts folder, but instead--I think I will post some bullshite stream of consciousness cram. (That was a total accident, I meant to say "crap," but it made me think of the cramberries and giggle--so I am leaving it. We have covered the stubborn bit. Plus, until someone else is reading this, I figure I can be a self-indulgent ass...Like I usually am.)



Alright, so not related to anything: “Toddlers & Tiaras” is one of the most messed up things I have ever seen…It is almost enough to make me think booze and Netflix is a bad thing. Almost. My only consolation is that it is not the kids who look nutso in the buttso on the show. That--and apparently it is educational. I will admit to being 3-deep tonight (I always giggle when I say that, but I mean drinks), but I am LEARNING shit.

A) There is/was a little 6-year-old girl in West Virginia simultaneously participating in wrestling and pageants. Each is creepy to some. Some find both creepy. But still--it shows breadth. At age 6.

B) According to this documentary (that sounds SO much classier than “reality show”), I have discovered that child pageants are a gathering place for gay (or pseudo-gay) men in West Virginia. It isn’t anything pervy! I want to be clear on that. But, apparently, they aren’t allowed to gather elsewhere in the state. As a result, they seemingly marry, have children, then coach those children in pageants, so they can finally achieve a more comfortable social setting.

C) The word “personality” is said no less than 24.78 bajillion times per pageant. “Personality” is a stand-in for everything from physical attractiveness, to expensive clothing, to dance skills.

D) Apparently, it is legal to dress a small child up as a dominatrix, have her dance provocatively in front of an audience, and then televise it.

E) Competition has become this bizarre mélange of speaking well of the competition, trying to cut everyone else down, taking any advantage you can buy, and awarding everyone a prize regardless of performance. My cow. I find this shit confusing, what the hell do little girls make of this? “Stab her in the back, but then give her a ribbon for taking it like a champ!’?

I don’t really have any Science. (But neither do most of the people who claim “Science”…one more shampoo telling me it is “Scientifically improved” and I am going to make some ad executive out there a shampoo pudding for dessert.) Here is what I do have: How many of these lessons have we not already learned from Disney? (How do I make the “registered trade-mark symbol”?)

Wow. I was going to tell you about how awesome mint juleps are…but clearly I need to go to bed. Insomnia (last night) is a bitch, and I will cut that bitch the first chance I get. (But I’ll give her a present if she takes it well.) In the mean time, I will publish this nonsense, take a shower, use my partner’s armpit as a hair-styling tool (I will explain later…maybe), and go the fuck to bed. Which is good. Now I have to have a mint julep again soon, so I can explain how awesome they are.

P.S. That picture is of a mint julep.

P.P.S. My initials are engraved on that cup.

P.P.P.S. Yes, I am a bad-ass-monkey-trucking-madam of an imbiber.