Awkwardly Social

Not quite for the reason I had originally hoped, but I have to go in for an ultra sound of my pelvic region.  You know, to rule out CANCER.  Or whatever it is they rule out with a machine like that.  I’m secretly hoping it’s an alien in there.  And that it won’t cause me much trouble, will slowly start providing me with extra income (Hello, I’m willing to sell those photos of my alien baby, bitches!) and eventually will die of a broken heart, wither up in there and disappear, sort of like Yoda.  Barring that, I’m mostly just hoping it isn’t cancer.

Because, fuck cancer.

I don’t really get the chemical reason for it, and believe me, I’m almost positive this is somehow related to ovulation or bleeding or girl parts and being a woman, but once a month I flip out and am convinced that Seth is lying to me and that he was seeing a slew of other women while we were ‘courting’ (also, ‘courting, WTF?! WHO AM I!?!) and that these women are still lurking around the periphery so that if I slip up and don’t deliver the awesome Seth’s just going to go, ‘meh, she was fine, but this chick is AWESOME!’ and then I’ll be left dressed all in black listening to my old “sad songs” mix on my iTunes and Lula won’t even look at me.

And instead of duifully noting what day it is on the calendar every month and resisting the urge to imagine Seth with other women, I start to spiral out of control.  And then?  I go ahead and start flipping out via insane e-mails to Seth and tell him that if he likes all of these other women (fictional! mostly, I mean there were a couple of whores (they weren’t whores!) that were in his life and that he did it with, but I basically have them made up!  in my head!  because he was a human that had sex before me!  and was not celibate in the months leading up to our ‘courtship’ WTF! and also, I wasn’t celibate either and there’s that COURTSHIP word again!  I hate myself!) and Seth calmly talks me down and tries to gently tell me that I’m crazy and that just because he has had sex with other women, and that I am not the only woman he has ever loved, doesn’t make what we have right now completely special.

And then I cry.  And tell him that he should just leave me now to get it over with.

And he tells me that I should take a xanax and tells me things like if I needed anything he would do it for me, like if I needed a toothpick and I’m a 1,000 miles away, that he’ll come and bring me that toothpick.  And I laugh because WTF?  Who needs a toothpick and thinks, hey, my boyfriend who is a 1,000 miles away should bring me that toothpick and if he doesn’t, he doesn’t love me WAAAAA.

So if this crazy feeling is what love is like?  I’m so totally fucked.  If it’s not and it’s actually  some kind of crazy PMS/atavistic cavewoman thing to keep me paranoid and controlling about my boyfriend then sign me up for more drugs!  I love drugs!  I especially love drugs that make me not crazy!

Generally, I’m able to wind it all up in a couple of hours of panic usually right about the time I’m re-reading a particularly dramatic e-mail in the chain, and I get embarrassed for myself.   Which is always better than feeling sorry for yourself.

I’m a lunatic.

“When do you do this recording stuff?”

“Sometimes when you’re in the other room, I quickly set the Tivo and change it back to CNN before you come back.”

“What is this show?”

“Grey’s Anatomy.”

“This is the one with the dude who got in a fight with Patrick Shitfuck.”

“Yeah.  We don’t have to watch it.  I can watch CNN.”

“No, it’s cool.  It’s like watching a music video.”

Three episodes later, I’m sobbing and he’s petting my hair.

“Is that the last one?  There aren’t anymore recorded?”

“There’s one more.  But we don’t have to watch it, I know it’s terrible.”

“NO!  I want to see what happens with this whole Denny the ghost thing.  I’m intrigued.  And I like that short, black doctor.  Also the other lady.  They seem interesting.”

“Are you serious?  You’re telling me you like Grey’s Anatomy?”

“I think it might be the best thing we’ve watched.”

Where did I find this man?  This man with the hatred of almost all things mainstream?  Where did he come from, and why does he like Grey’s Anatomy?  And why is Callie a lesbian now?  I’m so confused.

Here’s what I want:

I need $350,000.  Or, whatever, like 20% of that.  I don’t really know how real estate works.

Make it happen, Universe.

(That’s how it works, right?)

On Sunday, I pulled a muscle in my neck trying to be cute while getting out of bed.  That’s the full story.  I feel pretty lame about it.  It still kind of hurts.

There was a weird mail situation wherein someone stole our mail, then returned it to us all opened and crumpled.  I guess they felt bad after seeing my credit card balances.  And my bank statement.  I know I would.  But for a minute I thought it was some kind of blog stalker sending a weird message to me.  That message being, “I know where you live and your mail sucks!  Keep it, asshole!”  Then I realized I was being paranoid.  Also, the biggest expert on threat assessment (I’m too scared of him to even name drop him here) told us that we were being weird and paranoid.  So, there’s that.

The rat is gone.  The exterminator set some traps and sprayed some rat repellent and since then, we’ve been rat free.  Which leads me to believe that the rat saw the writing on the wall and split.  I like to believe this war is over, but rats… man, until you’ve seen one in your own kitchen, you can’t really know how you’re going to react.  Lula on the other hand, is a bonafide rat dog.  Too bad she couldn’t close the deal.

And speaking of Lula, did I tell you she bit an opossum’s butt?  Sort of?  It was more of a love nudge with teeth.  I know general wisdom on possums is that they are ugly, but I’m here to tell you they can look so cute.  Especially when dangling their little asses over our deck and Lula is trying to disembowel them (albeit badly).

Sorry about his paw there.  It’s really disturbing.  Don’t look too close.  I don’t want to alarm you, but it might have human fingers.

How many of you wish you lived in my house now?

And I get up.

Then stuff happens.

Then I set the alarm.

Then the alarm goes off.

And I get up.

Vagina gore, causing an emergency meeting with a speculum, and a rubber gloved lady.  I peed on my hand getting a urine specimen and no one could agree on the panties on/panties off situation.  Verdict: Panties off, I’m not pregnant, and it wasn’t my ovary or a dead baby that was oozing down my leg.

Giant rat vs. smallish dog battle continues apace in my kitchen.  Dog seems to be of the opinion that the rat is no longer in the house.  My heeb-jeeb o’meter disagrees.

I have had it up to here with the jokey misrepresentation of how television gets made by people who have no idea how television gets made.  I would like to tell people who think it’s funny to yuck it up about the crap we put on the networks to shove it up their self-righteous asses.  And also, remind them that they are lazy fuckers who’ve never tried to make anything in their lives except an easier path for the food to get to their stupid mouths.

Apparently, I’ve gotten a little bitter about middle America.  This is what happens when you work in television.  This is also a sure sign that one should probably stop working in television.

I’m going to be working in television for the foreseeable future.

My dad had personalized license plates when we were kids.   Let me stop for a moment and tell you that I hate personalized license plates.  I find them irritating, usually because I can’t figure them out.  And to me, if you’re going to put an inside joke on your car, and your car is something stupid like a Corvette, I’m going to think you’re a douchebag.  I know this is irrational.  I can’t help it. If you’re reading this, and you drive a Corvette with a personalized license plate that only you and four people are in on the joke, I’m sort of sorry that I’m picking on you.  But not really.  I mean, what is wrong with you?  R U LAM?

Back to my dad, he’s a C.P.A. and thought it would be funny to have plates that boiled down his profession to its essence.  C.P.A.s have questionable taste in jokes.  I remember when he drove his little mid-life-crisis-BMW home with the 4M FLLR plate on, my sister’s best friend said, “Oh, that’s cute!  For my feller!  Wait, your mom bought that car for your dad?”  No, that would be Form Filler.  Because of the taxes.  You know.  With the forms…  You might be surprised to hear that my dad also likes puns, one-liners, and Car Talk.

I surprised myself this morning when I gleefully filled out three forms, two for insurance claims and one for a rebate!  And I thought to myself, “For my feller, indeed!”  And then I told Seth to gather up his pending forms that needed to be filled out and that I would do them for him tomorrow.

I can’t be completely sure, because of the whole Republican/Democrat/complete disconnect politically with my father, but I guess there are signs that we might be related.

DADSGRL

I hate Lula.

But I like that I grew up in a house where if you didn’t have a perfect thing to do the job you needed it to do, you just put 6 or 7 imperfect things together and weighed them down with something else that maybe wasn’t supposed to be a weight and voila, you have the thing you orginally needed, or somekind of pile of something that looks bad, but is serving its purpose.

Lula, in the middle of the night, keeps leaping off the deck to the small awkward alley between our house and our neighbor’s fence in pursuit of some creature of unknown origin.  Cat?  Racoon?  Too fast for a possum?  Does this thing even really exist, or is Lula just fucking with me?  Then, because she is a shithead, she can’t get back onto the deck and back inside through her dog door.  Why don’t we just keep her in at night?  Because she has developed nighttime incontinence… and I don’t know.  I’m a moron?

So we created a barrier using a folding chair, a ladder, a wicker table, a tool box and another folding chair.  It looks… well you don’t have to really look at it, because there are no windows in that area.  Also, it didn’t work.  So we added another tool box and a folding table.  And last night I still got up with her three times because I was sure I smelled a skunk and that she was going to run out there, the skunk was also going to be trapped on our side of the ghetto gate and we would all die.  So, yeah.  I’m tired.  I cried three times at work today.

I really hate that dog.  Almost as much as I hate myself.

• The raccoons are back.
• The skunks have babies.  (They are so fucking adorable, that I can’t stand it.)
• There is something living under our house.
• Lula has three nightly wake-ups dealing with all of the above.
• I will be performing some janky construction project this weekend involving lattice, chicken wire, electric fence, dart guns, and a guillotine.
• Lula is being fitted for a ball and chain.