Critique this

My first blog contained the line, ""...I don't know if I like the idea of leaving a ""blog"" It sounds like a particularly thick wad of mucus.""  I've carried that thinking with me as I've continued this MySpace page.  When I blog, I shove my virtual finger up my virtual nose, (way the hell up there) scrape my brain and smear my findings here for your reading enjoyment. (or misery-- whatever gets you through the day)

Sometimes I get really funny comments posted which make me laugh out loud and John (he owns the place) kinda looks at me funny over his glasses.  Sometimes I'll get an IM or email regarding my latest smear.  I appreciate these things, though they're not necessary as I mostly do this to amuse myself.  And just lately, I discovered that I have repetitive readers who criticize my smearings as if they've contributed anything to the writing world outside of ""Why I like to Fingerpaint."" 

My Dear Readers,

Most of you know that I write much better than this...especially those of you for whom I've written papers...I mean, um...those of you for whom I have proofread.  To those of you who don't know, shut the hell up. My random rantings are not for credit.  My blogs are not required reading for any college course.  Lurk elsewhere or at the very least, don't bother me with your insecurities.  Talking behind my back, BY DEFINITION, means I don't have to hear it.  You don't have to be ghetto to keep it on the low.

Ok.  I love you, buh-bye!

No training, home or otherwise.

The ""reservationist specialist"" at the hotel we use must be new.  She told me A) I couldn't get one of my rooms a day earlier and B) let our call get disconnected.  Since I just had their Senior Sales Manager buy me lunch and kiss up to me *big time* because our contract is up for renewal, I know that I deserve a little better.  And indeed, after a quick email, I got better.

I don't know why people think they can be rude on the phone.  I am the image of professionalism while representing this company.  Politeness overkill.  What ever happened to having a little pride in your work and at least pretending you know what customer service means?  When I was at the hotel, said phone-girl was smiling and nodding and happy to meet me. Somehow because I wasn't standing in front of her it was, ""No, I can't do that."" ....silence....""Can you hold on?"" Click.  What the hell? 

I've done my best to teach my son, but I can't reach everybody.   Pass it on:  EXCUSE ME, PLEASE REMEMBER TO USE YOUR MANNERS.  THANK YOU.

There’s an ulterior motive to my hidden agenda

Being suspect.  In some instances, I accept it as a matter of course.  I fully expect to be pulled over while driving in Highland, IN after dusk.  Can't be Mexican in that neighborhood after dark without a very white escort and even then the cops get bored, you know?  I incorporate ""so where are you headed?""  time into my driving schedule.

 

But then there are times that it just makes me irritated.  Getting followed around the store by the undercover security guy irritates me.   I'm the most honest person I know.  (That irritates me too, but thats a story for another day)  My parents always told us, DON'T STEAL.  DON'T DO DRUGS.  There was a list of other stuff as long as both my legs, but nothing that I wouldnt get bailed out over.  I'm not gonna take anything from your store and if I were, it wouldnt be off the clearance racks that youll usually find me perusing.  

 

And then there are times that it just pisses me off and hurts my heart.  Usually, I'm all kinds of honest.  I do the whole spare-your-feelings thing, but other than that, I'll shoot you straight.  I'm not up to anything that I didn't tell you about 2 weeks ago.  I don't try to manipulate men out of money, don't use them for status, or date them for their car. 

 

Why do men always seem to suspect that I want something?  I may not have a new ride, but I have a ride and if I really, really wanted it, my daddy would buy one for me.  I don't care how much you make, what you're driving, what you do for a living or where you went to school.  I don't care about bling--bling is for other people and I don't care about people I don't know.  People I know and care about dont expect bling.  If I care about you, you are in a very exclusive minority.  Please don't fuck it up by questioning my every move and sentence and telling me what I meant by what I said.  I know what I meant to say, THAT'S WHY I SAID IT.

I can see behind me now

It's so damn hot that 2 weeks ago, the glue on my driver's side mirror just gave up.  I walked out of the apartment to head to work and the mirror was lying on the floor in 2 pieces.  I used the epoxy we have at work and glued the pieces back in. 

A long ass time ago, the mirror on the passenger side was shattered.  It was just the glass, not the plastic part.  I put a mirror over it with hooky thingees.  Somehow it got ripped off.  I don't know who thought that shit was funny, but who understands crackheads?  I went and got a new piece of mirror at Pep Boys and voila!  I can see!

Two days ago, I was on my way to lunch, when I look to back up, I realize my rearview mirror is just not there.  There was a dried up glue booger sitting where my mirror used to be.  I look around and realize that my mirror is on my seat.  Chicago-made trucks are not made with glue that can stand up to Dallas heat.  It's been frozen for nine winters in a row, but two Texas summers and the poor glue just died.  I peeled it off and it wasn't even remotely sticky.  It was like a piece of plastic.  I went and bought a repair kit and fixed it myself tonight. 

I've changed air filters, oil, bulbs, flushed a radiator and I've even changed tires in the rain. All of that is nice, but I'm taking  pride in glueing  the mounting bracket of my rearview mirror to the windshield and securing the mirror again.

Snip snip

I'm chopping off my hair.  I'd shave it all off if I were really bold, but my head is large and funny-shaped. 

In the movies women cut their hair when they cut ties with reality.  I've never felt that close to reality, myself.   I just feel the need for a change.

I dunno whether to wait for Alex to come back or do it and just see what he says.  When he was 2 or 3, he used to take out whatever I had holding my hair up.  Then he'd say, ""Now you're mommy."" and then I'd put it up and he'd get irritated and say, ""Cindy, Cindy, Cindy, Cindy"" and go about taking my hair tie out.  I asked what about when it's half up and he said, ""then you're Cindy-Mommy.""

Let's begin at the end

He asked that I not blog about him.  I considered it and decided that I'm not all that concerned with what he wants.  Betrayal warrants at least one blog.  I'm thinking there will probably be a short series.  I haven't slept right in 2 weeks.  I need to sleep so I'm gonna blog.  He says, Jason, that is, that my blogs are semi-illiterate garbage and he can't believes that anyone reads them and blah blah blah.  (Thats why he reads them at least 19 times a day)

 

I thought he was romantically tragic.  Turns out hes just a crisis boy.  

 

Crisis boy: n. -- A man who needs to spill all his emotional garbage on you and uses you to boost himself up...and then bails.

 

So after being friends with this man (read: being his emotional dumping ground) for over four months, he has decided that he no longer wants to have any contact with me ever again. (at least until his girlfriend dumps him again and he takes another handful of pills)  The fact that I stayed up talking to him for nights on end until I was passing out is not important.  You see, now he tells me that I was never attractive to him at all, I smell like a fat girl, I am crass and a pig.  He never mentioned all these things when he was clinging to me and I was telling him that we were incompatible.  No, then it  we could move past it and I had to try to work it out and compromise.  Of course, I am the fool who went back knowing it would never work out. 

 

I know that he's mean when hes angry, but I didn't realize that he has no conscience at all.  It just kills me though that he thinks its acceptable to insult my child who he met once when he was over an hour late meeting us for dinner.  Tragic?  Nope.  Just pathetic.

 

I hope things work out with her.  I don't have what it takes to emotionally support someone with more issues than I have.

Mexico es muy bien

Foamy's latest rant is out and it is hilarious.  Ill will press dot com is the best!  If you don't know of Foamy, it's high time you became familiar with genius in poorly drawn cartoon squirrel form.  Spreading the word of Foamy.  My work here is done.

http://www.illwillpress.com/mex.html

I need a hobby

Mother's Day 2005 my little sister's gift to me was to take me to the mall and have a little Indian girl take a string to my eyebrows and rip them off my face.  Well, I had some left, but not wild ones.  A few days later, they started to grow back.  Not wanting to do the whole ripping thing again, I started to tweeze the strays. I think I have an addictive personality or a pain thing cuz I continued to tweeze almost daily until just last month.  My little sister saw me and said I had been OVERtweezing.  I didn't think so, but I'm pretty used to looking myself in the mirror so I reluctantly took her word for it.  I've been letting them fill in and only tweezing the strays.  The trouble is a good many look pretty stray to me.  I need an objective point of view on my brows.  I look at magazines trying to pick a style.  I've considered lightening them, maybe doing my hair, too.  But that's extremist and silly.  I try to ignore them like I did for the 20-something years before that fateful day.  It's not easy being as weird as I am. But I must resist the temptation to pluck.  I resist as I check out the yellow pages for "little Indian girl with string".

*pop* *pop-pop*

I've been in a funk of late.  But I had a moment where I laughed right out loud.  Who knew hitting a lizard with a marshmallow gun would be so much fun?  It's hard to aim, but I recommend it to anyone in a funk...or bored...or anyone interested in seeing a lizard freak out.

Sister of night

I owe an apology to someone I've never met.  I've wished she would just vanish into a black hole or side slip into an alternate universe. 

It's not her fault. 

He couldn't give his heart to me when it's still full of her.

dollar movie, anyone?

I'm bored and I'm lonely.  I miss my baby so much.  The whole no responsibility, staying out on Friday till 3 a.m. thing is fun and all, but I'd rather snuggle up with my big boy, have some popcorn and watch Yu-Gi-Oh again.   He's coming back July 22nd.  Do the Alex Dance...Oh yeah! Uh-huh!

Thanks, my friend

My Sudafed is working rather well, but I'd still rather be in bed than at work.  I think I'll be spending my lunch hour passed out on the floor with my blanket.  

It came on quite suddenly.  I went to bed on Saturday feeling damn fine and woke up Sunday breathing snot bubbles.  I tried to go about my day,  it just wasn't working.  I had every intention of going to the park and feeding the ducks.  I'm fairly certain I passed out saying so...arguing that I was not  tired and the ducks needed a cookie.  I woke up wondering when exactly I had fallen asleep.  I slept for four hours in the middle of the afternoon. 

It was nice to have someone look out for me, even though I was not looking out for me.  Plenty of people will be your friend when you're at your best,  but few will stick by you when you're dripping snot, mumbling incoherently, drooling on their pillow, and mostly unconcious.  Is ""Thanks"" enough?  I still have that cookie.