Dibs for Dying First

I’ve claimed it. Over Batman. I don’t care when you go—well, I do, because you’re awesome—but in this relationship, the one involving the caped crusader and I, I’ve called dibs. I don’t want to be left behind with the ostriches and the castle-mansion mortgage and of course, Fartswell.

It wouldn’t be the same.

Walk the Line was on.

It’s inevitable that every time we catch some segment of the film, Batman and I will turn to each other and claim the right to die first. This probably seems odd as this is a love story, but Johnny Cash passed three months after June Carter. THREE MONTHS. If that’s not dying of a broken heart, I don’t know what is. And who wants to be left with that? A broken heart? Hence the dibs. I die first and you must accept the suckage of living without my awesomeness. I think that’s fair. Oh! And if this is *true* love between us, I’ve explained to Batman that he MUST hold my body in his shaking arms with a waterfall of tears, like Snape did with Lily. That’s how I’ll know it’s real.

Come on, who wasn’t crying that exact moment? Even if you hated Snape the entire time and really did think he killed Dumbledore (what—have you no faith in people?) his absolute love of Lily was too much not to get choked up over. I’m serious—EVERY time I watch that scene, I cry. EVERY TIME. Sometimes, when I’m too lazy to get up and put the movie on, I’ll YouTube that part and just start crying over my laptop. Batman looks at me like he’s not sure if he should pretend he doesn’t see me, or grab me a full glass of wine. Before he does either, I sniffle, turn the screen to him and yell, “You better love me this much! I want you to shake my body when I’m dead!” at which point he goes back to playing XBOX and pretending he has less of a weirdo for a girlfriend.

But I’m serious. Dibs for dying first, bitch. That’s my motto. Sure he can marry some skank after I’m gone, but will she compare to me? That’s most likely a no, unless he marries up like Emma Stone. She’s probably the only exception. But anyone else and it just won’t be as much fun for him. Which makes me think maybe he should go first, so he’ll never have to know true pain. But I want my body shook, damnit! I don’t think that’s too much to ask. Besides, he’ll hear about it for eternity in the afterlife if he doesn’t, and I just don’t have the energy for that. Hence the reminders. I think this is an awesome act on my part to prevent that.

So, dibs for dying first, bitch.

Anyway… in case you’re curious, here’s a picture of our neighborhood cat, Sir Carlton.

Sir Carlton

Pensive, isn’t he? Look at those white old-man whiskers. It’s like he’s staring into your soul.  I hope not, since he’s been occupying a chair on our back porch for the last few nights and I really could do without some demon-possessed neighborhood cat.  Or even a good-possessed neighborhood cat (is that a thing?) I just don’t want him turning into a death eater and dragging me off to Azkaban because that would be a terrible way to start off the holidays.

21 days until Christmas!

Toilets and Unicorns

I had the most amazing conversation with my friend, Red, two nights ago. It lasted for about an hour and we covered a range of topics from fancy, futuristic toilets to the evolution of Narwhals. I mean, how could it be bad with the key elements of life questioned?

The futuristic toilet thing may not be entirely suitable to talk about here, on a personal blog that I use to write about my life (especially the writing aspect of it), but just know—Red will be paten this epic toilet that I truly hope exists in the future and, most importantly, in the fancy bathroom of my castle-mansion where Batman and I will reside.

But, onto more appropriate matters—my silver unicorn hair. No, it is not gray. And it’s not white either. It’s silver unicorn, and they’re sprouting up sporadically across my scalp. Not in huge waves or anything—God, no—but they’re there, sparkling strands of once-brown and causing Batman to remind me of my cougar status. Yeah, because seven months younger is really robbing that cradle. *Rolls eyes*

I mentioned this invasion of silver unicorn hair to Red who agreed that I was climbing that mountain of life when, unexpectedly (and at the same time not) the conversation morphed into the existence/disappearance of unicorns. Where are they? Where have they all gone? If aliens and mermaids and Bigfoot exists, why not unicorns? Voldemort had to survive off something, right? Well, much like a professor, Red dove into the surprisingly animated explanation of how we—people—drove unicorns from the land millions of years ago in pursuit of their magical horn power. He said they fled to the sea where, over time, they transformed into the modern day Narwhals.


On the Narwhals, not the unicorns. They kind of went a little backwards there, didn’t they? Which gave birth to another depressing question. If Narwhals come from unicorns, and my brown hair is now turning silver, does that mean I’m devolving? I already have trouble opening doors and gates and locks and anything that should be pretty easy—ask Batman—so am I just going backwards at this point? Will I not be able to turn on the shower soon to wash these gorgeous, glistening locks? That’s depressing. Just like the Narwhales, which, by the way, I was pronouncing wrong. According to Batman. It’s Nar-wall, not Nar-whale he corrected me, oh, about a THOUSAND times. Does it matter? Yes it does, because he HAS to be right. And then, to prove himself further, he proceeded to research that possums are really spelled opossums, at which point I looked out the window to the pretty houses passing by.

I wish I could tell you more about these toilets. But Red needs to paten their awesomeness first. And, just so you know, we don’t just discuss toilets and unicorns. We talk about adult topics too. Like healthcare. I suggested that every time the common cold strikes, they (some government official) should deliver Dayquil and Nightquil to your door completely paid for. Because that would rock. I would tip the delivery guy—it would be rude not to—but how cool would that be? And it would create more delivery jobs and stuff. But honestly, I just don’t want to drive to the grocery store when I’m sick and shell out the fifteen bucks because I’m significantly underwealthy. Sure, I should keep my medicine cabinet stocked to which I say, please refer to the previous post.

But… yeah… that pretty much concluded our anything-near mature topic. After that, I think the conversation steered back to our futures as ghosts and the type of scare tactics we’d use. Ready for this? ONLY when that special someone is on the shitter. Think about it… you’re doing your business, pushing as normal when suddenly BAM! Something scares the living SHIT out of you! Except not literally, because you clench.  And it happens over and over and over again. What an incredibly epic shit that would be.

And it would be all because of us. 🙂

Ah, it’s good to catch up with old friends.

Be Prepared to Wait

I’m always in the longest lines.

All the time, everywhere I go. It’s almost comical, like a played out comedy sketch where the punch line never changes. I have to force myself to laugh because it doesn’t matter which lane or line I choose, the one I pick will inevitably be the longest or have some issue with it. Ask Mrs. Whatever—she’ll tell you. Or better yet, ask Batman about our trip to Disney last year when there was an issue with the person before us EVERY WHERE we went.

(Just a few examples)

Getting into the park, a lady handed over the wrong tickets and spent five minutes searching her backpack for the right ones. Did the dude ask her to get out of line while she looked for them? Nope. Batman and I (and everyone else behind us) had to wait. Or, how about when we reached the front of the Rocking Rollercoaster at MGM, and the family in front of us decided to have a commotion because their six year old didn’t want to get on the ride and a staff member had to come over and settle the TEN minute dispute that really wasn’t necessary. And then, after waiting patiently for twenty minutes at the President’s Hall eatery when the out of towners in front of us wanted a run-down of what a port-o-bell-o was and if that wasn’t enough, asked for descriptions of half the other super obvious American items. (Dude, they have pictures). I turned to Batman and he just shook his head because he knew—like I did—that it’s my fault.

I’m the bad luck.

Now, when I say bad luck, I mean this particular slice of the could-be craptastic life that involves anything going to shit. No one’s falling into pot holes around me or breaking devices or losing things (that I know of) so I thank my lucky star for that, but, if you’re with me—anywhere—be prepared to wait a while.

At a friend’s wedding in 2011, when Batman and the groom drove from the groom’s apartment to the hotel where all the bachelorette’s were recovering, I was quoted a drive time of five minutes. Ten tops. Of course the second I got into the car (along with the other gals) it skyrocketed to about a forty-five minute commute. Batman kept muttering, “it’s because you’re in the car.” God bless him for not leaving me when everything is slowed down to a point of utter screamage. It even happens when we’re shopping. Registers break when we get to them or they run out of paper or ink, or it’s time for that someone’s break. It’s fast and smooth for everyone else but when I approach, everything seems to slow to a halt.

So, why am I telling you all this?

Because I believe in a balance. A great, grand balance that keeps all things in check. I believe my bad luck isn’t bad luck at all, but a reminder to slow down.

I go too fast. With everything. Sure, the four cups of coffee pumping through my system don’t help, but it’s my nature to move quickly. It always has been. I speak fast because one idea sparks another and another and I start out talking about why I never clean my car and end up whining that Batman would leave me in the Zombie apocalypse. In a span of TWO minutes. People just look at me, trying to make a bridge of how I started at point A and ended up all the way over here in what-the-fuck town. I just go quickly. And I’ve always been drawn to activities that let me do this.

Batman will roll his eyes when I tell you I was the Speed champion in my eighth grade homeroom class (the card came, not the drug) because it had to deal with how fast you can put the cards down. I’m like the freaking lightning queen *flips hair proudly* and same with the Rubics cube. I can do a side in thirty seconds (not the whole thing – don’t get excited) because it’s easier to move through it automatically then to stop and think what to do next. People wonder how I’m so witty? I say the first thing that comes to mind, which is always there the second before someone stops speaking. That’s just how things are for me.

But ask me to slow and you might as well see a long line of drool at the corner of my mouth, because nothing makes sense if it’s not going in fast motion. I can’t explain it. It’s just how I work. So it’s only fitting that while I’m running on Tasmanian speed, I should be made to wait. To slow down. To take a breath every now and again. Believe me, it took a long time to figure this out. I just couldn’t understand why I was always made to wait when it was easier for everyone else. But I understand now.

It’s not bad luck. It’s a balance—a balance I need.

Sure, it’s still frustrating when I’m trying to get into the damn Disney Park, but I take it as a reminder to slow down and breathe. Just breathe. Batman understands this, but I still think he wants me out of his car when he’s driving to pick up food.

Men are so much grouchier when they’re hungry.

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.

Garage-Saleing at My Cubicle


I haven’t blogged for a week, since I wrote about my new experience paying someone else to touch me. For those of you wondering—the two or three out there who actually read this—yes, it was definitely a good experience. No bleeding, so that’s a win. And actually, it wasn’t too bad. Peaceful music played, candles were lit… it was like an E-Harmony highlight except I didn’t eat anything and my date spent the entire hour massaging the stress knots out of me. Which, let’s be honest, sounds like the best date ever. Unless it’s with Ryan Gossling, in which case, all bets are off.

I mean, don’t get me started on that Notebook scene. You know the one I’m talking about. With the rain and the swans and the whole I wrote you every day for a year! And then the steamy moment when he pushes Rachel McAdams against the wall and every girl becomes a woman. Yep. I love that movie. That’d be a slightly better date than the one hour massage fest I had with a very nice woman who I never really saw. I was either face down in one of those head-things (shout out to Phoebe Buffay!) or staring up at the ceiling, wishing there was a soaking wet Ryan Gossling nearby but hey, what’re you going to do?

Mrs. Whatever had her massage right after me so that was nice. Since we’re no longer employed together, we used the hour to catch up on some much needed gossip. Like who they’re currently considering to play Christen Grey. Very important. And also, how the Mortal Instruments movie will compare to the book. See, Mrs. Whatever and I are big readers. At least with the romance and YA books. I can also get down with some Game Of Thrones action, but our Venn diagram basically includes all the current populars and the other E-books she recommends. This is how I get all my new books. That, or my friend Seattle, who introduced the Hunger Games and my newest—and probably truest love—Jenny Lawson. Sad, I know. Being a writer, I should probably stalk the NY Times Best Sellers List or one of the thousands of book-nook websites for recommendations, but I’d rather get a personal reference. From Seattle or Mrs. Whatever. Because they’ll tell me what I’ll probably be reading in the next few weeks. And I trust them.

Except—hello, ladies. Let’s get on it. Snap, snap!! Especially you, Mrs. Whatever. I’m rereading Sherrilyn Kenyon because you wouldn’t let me keep Zadist’s book, even after you went garage-saleing at my cubicle. For shame. You know I could read Lover Awakened a thousand times, and still, you couldn’t gift it to me? Or at least, looked the other way when I snuck it in my purse? (For those of you not enlightened, please race out and buy—or download—The Black Dagger Brotherhood by JR Ward. It’s AMAZING. I’ve never been into vampires. Let me repeat NEVER, even when Brad Pitt pulled off an oh-so sexy Louis in Anne Rice’s version, but this series will give your hard backs creases, okay? The pages will be so worn from all the times you’ve reread it, and that dear friends, is the true meaning of Christmas).

But I digress…

Where was I? Oh, yes! So, it’s been a week since my last posting. But I promise I’m going to try to post more for the two or three of you out there. There are so many things the world needs to know about my not-so-crazy, somewhat unimpressive life. Like Sir Carlton, the raggedy neighborhood cat who sits on our porch when it’s raining. I think he’s been sent by Aslan to tell me the entrance to Narnia, but he refuses to spill the beans. And either will Professor McGonagall, the all white cat who always stares at me when I leave the apartment. I think the two are conspiring. There’s got to be a magic door or tunnel around here somewhere. And with Batman only using his Jedi mind powers for evil, I’ll never find it.

So, to sum up: massages are awesome, Ryan Gossling is hot, more postings will come and the cats are conspiring. Oh, and I need a new book.


Ensuring My Own Mortality

There’s nothing I enjoy more than a good cup of coffee in the morning.

 Actually, I’m lying. There are *tons* of things I enjoy more, but my mild addiction to a couple cups of caffeine is definitely up there.  And yes, by a couple, I mean at least two to three. Maybe four… But in my defense, my mug is especially average in size and not one of those bowl-like mugs you could drink soup out of. I’ve wanted to get one for a while but I know I’ll still want my two to three servings worth and at that point, I will literally be running around the apartment, tripping over various shit that has somehow journeyed from the furniture to the carpet. So, it’s a safety issue.

 I know what you’re thinking. Four cups of coffee? Is she mad?

 No, just really energetic. Besides, it’s coffee. Yes, I know, too much of anything will kill you. But you know what? I don’t plan on being immortal. Nope. I’d make a terrible vampire or zombie or whatever. I’d get super bored, super quick and would end up all Emo and although black is slimming, I don’t think I could pull it off for a millennia. (I’m not good with accessorizing.) SO, drinking coffee would be like ensuring my own mortality, if you want to put it that way. And if you’re still spinning that whole, it’s not good to be addicted to stuff, listen—at least it’s a legal yummy. It’s not like I’m sniffing Elmer’s glue or getting high off Crayola markers. If people even do that.

 So stop judging me. You’re not perfect either.

Mary Poppins comes closest and she’s still an inch and a half away.