Awkwardly Social

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.

I used to love that Hair song, Age of Aquarius, when I was a kid.  Mostly because at that time I was under the mistaken impression that I was an Aquarius and that it somehow had something to do with me, not free love.

I don’t read my horoscope very often (horrorscope) because sometimes I’d rather not know I’m going to be experiencing financial strife, or my relationships will be rocky.   Thanks, planets, I’ll just be over here waiting for you to get back in line for me, fucking someone else for a few weeks.

But I couldn’t help myself this afternoon.  I blame the detox tea I’m drinking.  It’s making me feel like singing “White Boys/Black Boys,” and “The Flesh Failures.” (And also, “Sodomy,” but that’s a different story.)  So I looked up my monthly horoscope and it had this to say:

With the ruler of your twelfth house and the ruler of your third house aligned, some of you will be writing or otherwise communicating your more personal thoughts and feelings, perhaps focusing on the past or more private material. You are considerably more intuitive this year. Your mind often runs along moneymaking ideas and anything that has to do with communicating ideas. Writing and teaching could add to your personal income this year. In general, you have more faith in your ability to make money in 2009, regardless of the current state of the economy! This attitude can certainly bring rewards to you, but you should also be cautious about becoming too starry-eyed about finances–keep it real and avoid jumping into moneymaking schemes without first considering the facts.

Yay.  This is all true and good and thank god they didn’t say this month would finally ruin me financially.  There’s even a hint at something very close to home in there career wise, so wow.

I’m sure they’ll get back to fucking me next month.

I had my second to last weekend of freelance work on Saturday, and afterwards, since I’ve been so stressed about certain things that shall remain nameless and, no, I’m not talking about having babies, Seth offered me his gift certificate for a massage at the Beverly Hills Hotel.  He actually offered it to me a year ago when I was going through the same to remain nameless issues and I turned him down.  Because I am stupid.  And stubborn.  See also, lame.

So Saturday he booked me a massage and we sat by the pool and had a cocktail and then I went in and got royally worked over.  So worked over that the therapist told me I should take some anti-inflamatories and take it easy.  Instead I drank a couple of vodka tonics and then finished off a bottle of wine.

Needless to say, Sunday morning was spent over the toilet yacking up the three sips of coffee I took to combat the feeling that maybe I was dying of a brain aneurysm.  Turns out I was just, how do you say, “hung over?”  I rallied after a 3 hour power nap.

Sunday night we had a party to go to and there were hearing and non-hearing people there.  (Is “deaf” the correct word? I didn’t ask because no one likes the girl who’s all self-consciously asking about how to label a group of people.  And the only reason I’m even attempting to label them is because this story wouldn’t really make sense if I didn’t.)   The mother of one of the non-hearing young adults (who I want to marry, the mother that is, not the kid, although the kid was about the most gorgeous teen boy I’ve ever seen in real life) was also non-hearing and she taught me the sign for vodka and the sign for soda and she said in sign language that my name was beautiful.  So, I proposed marriage to her, but she didn’t understand. She thought I was trying to tell her that I had arthritis.  Or that my fingers are freakishly long.  Or that I was already married.

Just kidding, I only smiled at her and tried to get her to think I was funny by mouthing my words really loudly.

Hearing people are embarrassing.

I’m now on a mission to learn ASL, because if I ever meet her again, I want her to be my best friend.  And wife.