Awkwardly Social

I woke up in a foul mood this morning and I don’t think it was because I discovered last night that live blogging is hard or that Adam Duritz is rocking some ugly ass hair. I think it’s because I miss my best friend, Ms. Cigarette.

Sure, she gave me a slight odor, a periodic cough and stained fingers… But! She also allowed me to tell Johnny Depp that I liked his shoes. (He clearly needs someone to be more specific and say, I like your shoes and your suit please don’t wear anything that might be construed as a shout out to Prince.) She allowed me to meet Sam Mendes (though I didn’t know it at the time.) She got me through those long quiet periods in my head between writing spurts. She encouraged me to step outside and grab a breath of fresh air. Yes, she was trying to slowly kill me, but you know, you shouldn’t judge good friends. They have their reasons. I miss her. I miss her very much.

Today I’m very sad.

I have hair like Bonnie Hunt. There. I said it. Except mine’s not as blond. It is that thick and fluffy and midwestern looking. All attempts at making my hair look like I’m not from Minnesota with German-Norwegian-Swedish heritage are generally foiled. By my hair.

I used to perm it when I was a kid. Well, I didn’t perm it, the hair dresser lady would. The back would take like crazy and the front…. the front would fight the curl as if it were on some kind of crusade against letting me be accepted as a kid with hair that did what it was supposed to.

In college, I got a Courtney Cox haircut, that was actually a mullet. Because, girls with hair like Bonnie Hunt don’t get to have sleek black layer-y hair cuts. We get to look like Minnesota dairy girls. With mullets.

I tried dying my hair red. People still hold on to the memory of that and call me a red head. My hair isn’t red anymore. Hasn’t been for 5 years. It’s not strawberry blond either. Let it go. I’m a dirty blond. [Dirty. heh.]

So last night all I wanted was to get my hair trimmed, maybe colored, I hadn’t decided if I was finacially solvent enough to spring for the highlights, but my goddamned hair lady decided to leave early. When you go to hip Silver Lake ‘barber shops’ you don’t get to make an appointment. You have to call in, leave your name, then check in when you get there, then wait for your hair lady to be done. It’s an assy way to do business. But hip people from Silver Lake like it that way. I am not a hip person from Silver Lake. I am a Bonnie Hunt look-a-like who needs a trim.

So you know what I did? I smoked half a cigarette. Shut up. I only smoked half. And it tasted soooooo good. But I stubbed it out half way through and went back inside, curled up in bed and wiggled my toes.

A ‘pet’ tiger got loose in the LA area. And was killing up a storm. (Go tiger go!) But it actually wasn’t. It was just walking around leaving big scary footprints. Probably was looking for a warm place to curl up and get fed filet. So they shot it. And killed it.

Humans: 1
Tigers: 0

I feel bad for the tiger.

It’s day three.

Which means this is the worst of it. Right? Because last night while I was driving home in horrendous post storm traffic and everyone, including me, had forgotten how to drive like a normal human being and there was a lot of honking and cutting people off, I really just wanted a Camel Light. Instead, I chewed 5 pieces of Hubba Bubba gum. Not at the same time, that would be crazy. In rapid succession. Then when I got home I did a 2 mile run. In the rain. (Ok, it was only sprinkling.)

Then I crawled into bed and wiggled my toes.

I’m wondering when a good restful night of sleep is coming, because I haven’t had that in a long time. I dreamt Simon Cowell told me I was fat.

This morning on the way to work in horrendous post storm traffic, everyone still not understanding how to drive including me, I heard about every other word on NPR, which made for an interesting time trying to figure out what exactly was going on with a report about a German guy in a cafe, and I chewed 3 pieces of Hubba Bubba gum.

I’m wishing I was on that beach in Mexico. Margarita in one hand, cigarette in the other. Or at least the margarita, laying in the sun. Toes in the sand. Water bluer than the sky. Four more dollars goes in my savings account today. Because I didn’t buy cigarettes this morning. And maybe soon, I’ll get that vacation.

Whilst quitting smoking, I might seem a little surly. A little more surly than usual.

Fuck you! To the storm clouds that kept me from running.

Fuck you! To the dirt track that is flooded and muddy.

Fuck you! To the delivery guy that took over an hour.

Fuck you! To the alfredo sauce that gave me gas.

Fuck you! To John Wells for ruining the West Wing.

Fuck you! To the network that cancelled Firefly.

Fuck you! To the rain storm that kept waking me up.

Fuck you! To the alarm clock that didn’t go off.

Fuck you! To the kids who walk slowly while I’m trying to back up.

Fuck you! To the people who don’t know what to do when a stop light is out. [Hint: IT BECOMES A GODDAMNED FOUR WAY STOP, ASSHOLES!]

Fuck you! To me.

Hey. It’s day two.

If there was one writer in the world I wanted to meet, it was him.

Hey, so… I haven’t smoked since 11:30pm last night.

What? That’s not, like, a huge accomplishment? Fuck off.

Cigarettes: 0

Jolly Rancher lollipops: 2

Throwing up in my mouth a little when I burp: 1

I’m so ready to be back in bed with my pirated copies of Firefly. It’s cool, ’cause Firefly was a show about space pirates. So… it’s fine that I’m watching pirated copies. That’s how the universe works. Right? Fuck off.

Last night I wanted to go out, have some drinks, and have a little Friday night fun.

6 shots of tequila + Indian Food = throwing up in the Electric Lotus bathroom.

Throwing up in the Electric Lotus bathroom + Waller and Cats = Talking inapropriately at the dinner table about your vomit.

Talking inapropriately at the dinner table about your vomit + almost falling into someone’s curry = getting driven home by Cats.

good times.

(Only Louie is going to get that title.)

So, the Birth Control Pill is making me fat and maybe a little crazy and a hypochondriac.

Two nights ago, I thought Louie was ‘grabbing’ me in my sleep repeatedly. Not, “Come here, baby,” kind of grabbing, but the “I am going to teach you a lesson” or “I’m going to murder you” kind of grabbing. Which led to me screaming, “Let me go, let me go, let me go.” Louie claims he wasn’t even facing me at the time. So what I want to know is, who the fuck was in my room grabbing me all night? Huh?

Also, my boobs have gotten bigger. I didn’t need bigger boobs. My boobs were big enough. I don’t want to have to buy a new bra. Although, I am intrigued by the no-padding push up bra. The problem with that, as I see it, is the new bigger boobs getting all pushed up might give me a kind of Kate Winslet at the Oscars for Titanic kind of look. And while I appreciate Kate Winslet in her days of looking like an ‘average’ woman except way more beautiful and talented, her boobs were totally insane. You could like dive into her cleavage, take a nap, read a few magazines watch a Real World/Road Rules Challenge marathon, and order some pizza without anyone noticing. And I don’t want anyone ordering pizza from my cleavage.

In the past two weeks, I thought I had blood clots, sudden onset rheumatoid arthritis (don’t ask), a brain aneurysm, and breast cancer. All of those things (aside from the suddent onset rheumatoid arthritis (don’t ask)) are side effects of taking the pill. Here’s a note to myself: Never read the side effects portion of a medicine. Let someone close to you, who you love and trust, read it and then tell them if they are noticing anything that might be a side effect, then and only then can they mention it to you.

I’m on the low dose too, I cannot imagine the crazy that would happen if I was on one of those other ones. Christ.

Sing it with me. Oh. You don’t know the song? It’s on KROQ. KAY ARE OH QUE.

I just deleted the things I said. Because I know when I’m being mean. And I can, you know, like, rise above it or whatever. She knows what she’s doing. The people who read her site know what she’s doing. I don’t like what she has to say, but I’ve never met the damned woman, she might be quite normal in real life. Just like I might be normal in real life. You just can’t ever tell.

I wish God had an answering machine. That would be awesome. What do you think it would say? I would call that shit every day, just to hear if he had something funny to say. Or profound. “Don’t eat hot dogs at The Vista! You will just be disappointed and gassy.” I guess it would have to be regional, because people in Alabama would be all, “What’s the vista? Ain’t that a Mexican word?”

Over at 50 Books she talks about Reading Lolita in Tehran, a great book with an important message. Iran was pretty liberal until the Fundamentalists took over and put women in birkas and took them out of schools. Interesting. Fundamentalists… Not a future I’m looking forward to. And don’t say it could never happen here. Because it could. Bits and pieces of our freedom get chinked away and before you know it Hilary “it takes a goddamned village” Clinton and Nancy “stem cell baby killing research” Reagan are sharing a jail cell. And I really don’t want someone like Nancy being our Mandela. ‘Cause seriously, “Say no to drugs,” not quite as profound as, “No one is born hating another person because of the color of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than its opposite.” Nelson Mandela from Long Walk to Freedom

la la la la. “They’ll name a city after us. And later say it’s all our fault. And they’ll give us a talking to, and they’ll give us a talking to, because they’ve got years of experience.” Regina Spektor - Us.