Three Glasses of Wine Kept Me Talking

How about I walked into the bedroom and had a whole conversation with a bunch of pillows disguised as a body. Extremely eager to share what Samantha did on Sex and the City, I was confused why Batman wasn’t instantly responding, but the three glasses of wine kept me talking. So angered over the fact that Samantha would cheat on Smith with Richard (who’s an asshole!), I didn’t understand why Batman wouldn’t comment. He wouldn’t even move. Slowly, I pulled back the purple comforter and found a mash of our pillows together and gasped aloud.

He was in the closet laughing.

Crack Town Puppies

I have the most bizarre dreams. Ask my mother; she’ll tell you.

I’m going to attempt to describe last night’s crazy adventure which I’m still processing, even now, as I sip my morning coffee and try to piece it all back together:

It started off with a move… or an eviction from our currently awesome complex. Sure, I’d like to upgrade to a larger, roomier place but preferably when Batman and I have another dwelling picked out. Somehow (and I stress somehow, since we’ve pretty much filled our entire one bedroom apartment) we managed to fit all our belongings into ONE car and started driving… somewhere. I can’t be sure, but I believe we ended up at a motel as the going rate was $60 a month. Not bad, but it wasn’t home. Still we unpacked, made it homey-ish when Batman told me he had a surprise for me. Getting back in the newly unpacked car, he took us around the town which was yes, not your ideal neighborhood.

We arrived to this barren lot with a small, dirty, shed-like building in the back with a handwritten sign that read PUPPIES. Yes. We were looking at crack town puppies. Hesitant, I still followed Batman into the nasty dwelling to find eight to ten crates of severely neglected pups and one who might’ve been cute if not for the folds of fabric fur falling off its sides. I believe it was a cocker spaniel and when I asked how much, the man (who, by the way, looked very similar to the grungy character in the video game Batman was playing last night) told me $1.00. I’m not certain what happened after that, except we weren’t at the crack town puppy store anymore and I was very much relieved.

Then, somehow, we were transported to our new place where a bunch of friends were already partying. But suddenly they were leaving, heading home and I grew super sad at being alone again in my new motel home. And then Red, one of my best friends from high school (which was Batman’s *amazing* surprise for my birthday last weekend),said he’d be right back and I went off following him through a parade/smoke protest until I lost him in the crowd. I turned back and headed to the new apartment where I couldn’t reach the vodka because it was on the top shelf (?) It was night time and then morning in a second and I made a cup of coffee which turned into a cake. After picking off a piece of the crust when no one was looking (like normal), it exploded, and splattered my mother’s apron with tiny brown dots that looked like a constellation and matched her freckles.

And then I woke up.

For those of you looking to diagnose, here’s your chance.


Willy or no Willy?

This is probably extremely inappropriate but did Edward Scissorhands have a penis? The hands were the last thing the doctor made right? So… that means every other part of his anatomy was already created. Nipples, knee caps, toes and so on…

I might’ve missed this part but why were the hands—one of our most useful parts—made last? Because they were most complex? That doesn’t make any sense. I’m pretty sure I’m reading too much into this but I just don’t understand why making a willy was more important than a pair of hands. I mean, was he hoping Edward would procreate with other robots? And what other robots? And wouldn’t the doctor just make them? Ah! This makes no sense.

Maybe he doesn’t have one. In which case, what were those women hoping would happen after their erotic haircuts? Especially that freaky red head in the salon? And I’m not so sure I’d be throwing myself at some shy, pale robot who’s able to ruin the water bed simply by picking up a pillow. I mean, think of all the sheets you’d need to buy! Now, I know most women have a very tiny, very secret little crush on Edward Scissorhands. It’s probably because of that one scene with Wynona Ryder, when he’s sculpting the ice and makes it snow—I know, I sighed too.  Or maybe it’s the fact that Johnny Depp plays him. But let’s think about this—would Edward still be hot (if you think he is) if he was played by… oh, I don’t know… Danny Devito? Randy Quaid? What about Steve Buscemi? See? Casting makes a huge difference to all this. And if one of them played the iconic Scissorhands, would anyone care if he’d been created with a robot penis?

I would, because I care about the important things.

But maybe he’s just a manikin under that skin-tight black rubber suit. With no toes, no knee caps or nipples—just a plastic ken doll. I wish I could ask him. Or the doctor. I’m just too curious about so many things in this movie. Like does he pick his nose? Edward—not the doctor. And does he get heartburn? Or gas? He seems to have all the other traits of a real person, but what about these things? And he never ages right? Wynona gets all old and wrinkly and he’s still up in the castle, trimming away the topiaries. Why doesn’t he ever come back down? That’s what I want to know. I get that it’s a dangerous thing but come on, he’s got SCISSOR HANDS. Doesn’t he want to see his lady—haggish as she may be? And what’s he supposed to do for eternity up in that castle? Don’t get me wrong—I love the movie, I really do—but a lot of questions are left unanswered.

Like willy or no willy?

It’s not fair to keep us in suspense.

I Deserve a Badge

I know it’s been a while since I’ve posted. Yes, I was asked about the cupcake and no, I wasn’t able to lie well enough to convince them it came like that in the package or that Batman ate it. Damn my inexistent poker face! I also went through the whole transitioning of age thing on Friday as I completed my 28th year of life. Whew! That was close. I was pretty sure Darwinism would’ve kicked my ass by now. But I made it through middle school gym (middle school in general) so the hard part’s been over for a while. I’ve also managed not to get run over, left behind or inducted into the hunger games, so, many accomplishments in this first phase of life. And I’m not even 30 yet. I deserve a badge or something. But right now I’m settling for my cup of coffee (one of few, I hope) and later, more birthday surprises are coming, or so Batman’s telling me.

Life is pretty good. I’m employed, so yay for keeping the lights on and the television playing for the upcoming season of Walking Dead. I’m working on my second book in my series and hope to hear back from my editor about the first one by the end of the month for final revisions. Lots of exciting things a-brewing in the old cauldron I might’ve been able to use in Hogwarts had the owl never lost its way to my childhood dwelling.  And like I said, more birthday surprises today. Who could not be happy? I also got a lot of love on my Facebook Wall and not that that measures success in life, but it was pretty nice to have so many birthday wishes. Especially with cousins I don’t get to regularly see or friends I haven’t been able to call in a while. That’s the great thing about birthdays. Being physically (or virtually) surrounded by people you love. What’s better than that?

There’s not a lot of other news to report, except several dishes need to be cleaned and I’m excited about mother’s Salmon tonight. Oh and whatever this surprise is Batman keeps hinting at.

Hmm… what could it be?

Would you ask?

Here’s the plan:

Batman and I are going to a game night with some friends. Normally, our hosts are most awesome in providing the necessary drinks and snacks so Batman and I decided to repay the favor, with some free cupcakes he brought home from work.  Since I had to try one—being as they were double chocolate—there now remains eleven out of a clearly purchased carton made for twelve.

I’m dying to see if they’re going to ask.

If they do:

  1. I’m feigning ignorance- “I don’t see the problem.”
  2. I’m telling them we purchased it on clearance- “I know. Saved us like, a buck-fifty.”
  3. I’m telling them Batman ate it- “I told him not to, but he wouldn’t listen.”

I can’t wait.

Isn't it normal to only give 11?

Isn’t it normal to only give 11?

Fart-Chair Girl

So… it pains me to say this.

I got another job.

BELIEVE ME—it’s not what I wanted either. In fact, it was sort of the opposite of what I’d wanted since getting up every morning to write for hours in my recliner is kind of the best thing ever. But with the way our economy works, I’m not paid to use my real talents (yet) but rather, to sit and learn a specific system in a specific company that over 300 people have also applied to sit and learn, even though that terrible little voice still asks why am I here?

Yeah. That’s where I am.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m excited to know I’ll be able to pay October’s rent. I’m super attached to this whole living in an apartment and not on the street thing, so, win there. But I really wanted to take more time off to write. Really write. I’m getting Escape from Harrizel out there soon and hopefully, it won’t be detested by all and hordes of hate email won’t flood my inbox. (If it does though, Seattle and I have already agreed a night of cake icing and wine is in order. Obviously.) But the book’s coming out mid October and even though I’m working on the next installment, I want to be a successful writer now. Yesterday. Maybe ten years ago?

And my new chair at work makes fart noises when I move. No joke. It’s a comfortable nap chair but I’m constantly leaning forward or shifting to this side or the other and every time this sound emits and I feel obligated to explain it wasn’t me. Every time. But I don’t want to be known as that girl with the fart-chair. I don’t want to be fart-chair girl. Who would? I try and keep still and only move when I really have to, but there are beeping machines and filing cabinets surrounding me and I need something FROM ALL OF THEM. SIMALTANEOUSLY. It’s like I went to a Mexican restaurant and ordered the extra bean taco. Maybe the smartest defense would be bringing in some perfume or a candle. Just so they are convinced it’s really the chair. Unless they think I’m covering up for something… in which case this plan is flawed.

I guess I’ll just be fart-chair girl until my identity as Super-Awesome-Author arrives.

Please buy my book so I can be the latter.