Just a Small Town Girl!

The public library have come through for me yet again with Journey's Greatest Hits! Is there anything better than cruising the strip, windows down, screaming "DON'T STOP! BELIEVING!" at the top of your half-frozen lungs, while the Notorious VAG stares at you, gripping the door handle, just waiting for her moment to spring free to tuck and roll down the ravine? Nay, I tell you!

So, it really wasn't quite that bad. As me and the Giz sang along, she kind of looked resignedly through the windshield, if she wasn't threatening to smack me for serenading her at a stoplight. That wasn't the scary part though. (She threatens to kill me on a regular basis: it's part of her charm.)

It began in the restaurant, with the subtle twang of "Open Arms" assisting me with my garlic chicken. Assuming it was just a coincidence, we continued on with our Journey-themed evening wandering through the mall. Upon leaving that mecca of retail (recession? What recession!), the Giz and I popped the cd out, only to hear the badass tones of "Any Way You Want It."

There you have it: I'm being stalked by Journey. They are also apparently going to be in my area for a "concert" soon. If I am not heard from for more than 2 weeks, kindly send your regards to my mother, as I have been kidnapped by a classic rock band and likely been forced to re-pierce myself, add some more tattoos, and employ large amounts of mousse.

Her Way

Today my niece, Bear, was over at my mum's house to be babysat. She's a redheaded 7 year old ball of manic and hilarious and one of my favorite people and today was no different. Yesterday, mum and I picked out fleece for a blanket. One side is pink (her favorite color) with monkeys on it (they remind me of her) and the other side is leopard print. Today, Bear barreled through the front door dressed in bloomers with a matching dress, bright pink lipstick smeared all over her face, huge spangled pink rock star shades and a leopard print headband with ears holding her perpetually tangled hair back. Mum laughed and told her she looked silly. Bear just went about her business, red patent leather shoes clicking as she struggled to hold Satankitty against her will.

My immediate thought was, "Damn, kid. If I ever reproduce, I want her to be just like you, because you are awesome."

Outing

Friday night, The Giz texts me to meet her and her school chum at a bar downtown. I left the birthday party wherein middle aged drunken ladies that I'm not related to were carrying each other around and farting and pretend farting and all sorts of strange shenanigans and headed out. I arrived, immediately judged School chum's fiance, Dirty Crabapple, for wearing a corduroy jacket and button up shirt to a piano lounge, decided that the piano player was hot and pulled up a chair. DC was buying. I had a Miller Light. At some point in the very convoluted evening, School chum comes up with, "Oh, I get it! You [pointing at the Giz] live in the basement, and you[pointing at me]. . . "

I looked at her confused, ". . . live upstairs?"

Giz, calmly,"I think she's trying to infer that you're gay."

"Oh." Five days later, I realize she was attempting to say that I live in the closet.

Wooooooossssssaaaaaaaa.

I just wrote a really angry, rageful post, posted, then deleted. I'm trying to breathe through it. Apologies to anyone who has me in a feed reader and doesn't find that post here, if they pop over. Email me, if you wish, with your comments, but I can't post in private here, which is a huge drawback and makes me consider crossing over to Wordpress. If anyone has any advice about that sort of changeover, it would be useful.

This is your brain on beer.

No worries, folks, I'm not going over to the Dark Side. Yesterday's post was an example of the "peace, love, beer-for-all" theory gone wrong.

Moral of the story is: Don't drink and blog unless it's angry, belligerent blogging. The next day, when you re-read what you wrote and are mostly horribly appalled at both your naivete and your grammar is an uncomfortable moment.

It's like waking up realizing you drunk dialed your ex at least three times, sniveling. Shameful, sad, and just embarrassing.

Unpopular

Alright, so all I really have to say, right now, before I go get myself another beer, because I'm working 10 days straight and for the love of all that is holy and most of what isn't, I need one, is this: what if Sarah Palin isn't the epitomy of all that is the worst in the world? WAIT!

Before you click away in disgust or rant angrily about me on some forum, hear me out. Really, think about all the stupid people shoved in your face everyday. Now, think about all the stupid, brainless, idiotic women that do nothing but throw themselves at old dudes, "forget" their panties to become more famous, and generally do nothing and get paid for it. And think about how little girls see them every. fucking. day. Be it on The Hills, or Survivor, or that one stupid show about Hugh Hefner and his triplets. Palin may be ill informed, right wing and docile, but at least she has a job.

Now think about 90210 and fucking America's Next Top Model. When I look at Palin, I don't desperately want to dig through my fridge and feed her a loaded up sandwich, and possibly some chippies and black bean salsa.

Now think about the previous public interest in politics. My former mantra was something along the lines of "Screw it. They're all lying bastards anyways. No matter who takes office, they're going to up taxes, cheat on their wives, and possibly become some kind of cigar or hunting connoisseur." At first, Obama got us all going with his "Change" rhetoric, which actually prompted me to check out both candidates' web pages. I understand that none of what is on either page will actually come to pass, regardless of who becomes president. Most people seemed to love or hate Obama at the beginning. Most people seemed to like McCain. Now that Palin is in the picture, though, we have polarized. You can love Obama, you can love Palin. You cannot even like both. Biden and McCain are on the backburner, it seems like, poor guys.

Innocence?

In 7th grade, I learned about the great and everlasting bj. Standing outside my 8th grade friend "Bobbi's" locker. Bobbi was talking about spending time with her boyfriend "Bobby" the night before and announced that her throat hurt, "if you know what I mean." This friend was a bit of a trainwreck and a leftover from my 6th grade friends who transformed me into a social pariah after I refused to give one of their cousins my lunch money and they decided I was gay.

"Oh. Yeah, I bet." I had no idea.

"I told him to let me know when he was going, you know, and he didn't. That's why."

"Uh huh." Thanks for the clarification, bitch, but I've got nothing. Of course, I couldn't tell her that, because that would be so elementary school. So, later, I relayed the conversation to a different friend, who enlightened me.

"She let him do what?" I was 12. I had gotten my period not 6 months before and I was thoroughly pissed and disgusted by all things physical that didn't involve a sport. "What the fuck was she thinking? Why would she do that?"

Thankfully, my good friend was just as sicked out as I was.