Lofty goals: Taking my bite out of the juicy peach of life.

Well, on the day of my 28th birthday, I am facing the stark realization that my life is nearly a third over already. I have done some significant shit in the first third pushing a kid out of my snatch, etc..), but I should really get crackin' if I want to really do this life thing right (and by "right" I mean "with mad flava"). I want to be able to look back when I am about to croak and say "That was nice, kinda fucked up at times, but it sure was funny as hell."

I was going to write a bucket list. I was going to attempt to complete the bucket list before I die. There is only one problem...I can't think of anything good to put on the bucket list. Sure, I could go on and on about my travel dreams, animals I want to touch, people I want to touch and wild and crazy adventures I want to have...Blah blah blah blah....*yawn*.....WHO THE HELL CARES? I hardly do and it's MY bucket list. I'm all about life experiences, but I need to take baby steps.Traveling to Europe or molesting the rich and famous are all well and good, but having them rot away on a stagnant, idealistic list is not good for my morale. I need some instant results. Let's do this one thing at a time.

 Here is my first item on the agenda:

#1. BREAK INTO THE EUGENE COMEDY SCENE.
Ha! I bet you didn't even know that we had a comedy scene here. I throw the term "scene" around loosely seeing as it seems to consist of a comedy club small room attached to a bar downtown. Every Wednesday the up and coming comedic "talent" of Eugene and it's outlying areas comes out of the woodwork to try their hand at making a small group of people laugh. It's free, painful to watch and inspiring, at times.

Now I like to think of myself as a fun lady. I think I might even make people laugh every once in a while. So, naturally, my morbid obsession with embarrassing myself has gotten the best of me. I want to try open mic night. Just typing this makes me want to wet burp a little from jitters....

I am giving myself 5 weeks to grow a pair. I will keep you updated on my progress. Maybe.

T to the J to the M-A double X: Bitches who play with big silverware get stitches.

Sometimes you go to TJ Maxx looking for a slutty dress and find everything but....



Take, for example, this sack of glitter skulls. Perfect for when just one glitter skull won't cut it. They come in this great mesh sack so they are easier to take home on the bus. The contents of the sack can clearly be seen so no one assumes you bought something frivolous. (like food for your children.)


This could be useful. No one can say they weren't warned. Can't sue me. You should have read the pillow.






These were actually normal sized pieces of silverware. We were just shrunk when a baseball we threw through the window triggered the eccentric neighbor's shrinking machine. (I don't care if that wasn't funny. I have always wanted to make an obscure "Honey I Shrunk The Kids" reference. )





Things turned dangerous real quick. I was lacerated by the silverware. They really should have posted some sort of warning that fighting with items in the middle of the store could lead to injury. I was given a band aid before I could spread any blood borne pathogens about the store. I was NOT given, however, any free items or discounts to compensate me for my injury.




What is this? My assumption is that it is a candle holder....of a hand assuming the conventional position for giving manual pleasure to a male. I know, I know...how could I post such filth? Easily. If you have learned anything about me by now, it is that I AM FILTHY. My grandma doesn't have the Internet, so it's O.K..

So of course I had to ask myself "Is this $8 funny?"
The answer was yes. And now I have a banana holder that I affectionately refer to as "Handy Jay". Get it? He's handy because he he holds bananas and his name is Jay. Duh.

Jessica O., Rn : The jail nurse.

It is my divine pleasure to introduce you folks (ALL 5 of you) to Jessica. Who is Jessica? She is My cousin. My cousin, the RN. Why am I introducing you to her? Part boredom, lack of things to write myself and an obligation to expose the seedy world of being a nurse behind the walls of the Lane county jail.







So I asked "Hey Jessica, What happened at the jail today?"


Her response (If it looks like this, it's me chiming in and interrupting like an a-hole):


"Today at the jail I thought of you while straddling a drunk fellow (Naturally, she would be thinking of me) faking a seizure. I struggled to keep him held down so he didn't flail about hitting someone or himself as I gripped him tightly by his jail scrubs and held down with all my might. Great upper arm workout, FYI (good to know, Jessica. Can we make jailhouse exercise videos?) He was a very great actor ... thrashing about, foaming at the mouth, held his breath and drooled all over my shoes. I held tight standing there comforting him and trying to calm him, he finally was still (exhausted from his acting job) and the first thing out of his mouth was "I need a beer" . (I hear ya, man) I walked away at this point and told them to send him to the hospital went back to my cave and cleansed my drooled on shoes.


This leads me to about an hour later when my heart starts to pound at the sound of the code alarm, the second time it went off in the past hour and a half! They call and say they need medical RIGHT AWAY in the sally port outside, we grab our gear and start heading out at a fast pace (I notice you didn't use the word "run") thinking this just has to be fake seizure guy back from wherever. But no, this was going to be the real thing I thought because halfway there a deputy sees us and says "The crash cart is already out there!" ( I am assuming this is a big fucking deal)


My heart started to pound even faster and all I could think of was, dear God, I'm going to have to give CPR to someone, please don't let them be too dirty (hey, I've frenched bums, it's not so bad. Has an earthy taste). Another nurse and I start to run like some drunk bum's life depended on it (most likely literally) I get out side and what do I find but a tiny woman in a moo moo with bright colored Hawaiian flowers going crazy on the ground. (Not me, for once. Oh, and I thought it was "mumu".)


She literally looked like she was plucked from her house in the middle of frying some chicken up for her old man (YUM! Lucky guy!) when perhaps their level of drunk got to a point were the cops were called and they had to pull this tiny chihuahua woman off him (all speculation and my great imagination of course). I rush over to start assessing her worried she's on the verge of dying, when I'm hit with a barrage of profanities from this tiny woman's mouth. I was impressed I gotta say, she strung words together like a dirty drunken poet. (oooh...perhaps I found a new guest blogger!) I figured great at least she's with it (sort of), I furiously look her over trying to find the problem...


Still cuffed she was a fighter, 6 deputies and a cop surrounded her (A personal fantasy of mine, BTW) , I ask "What's going on?!" That's when this giant hole of disappointment ("giant hole of disapointment". How some could describe my bedroom skills...) washed over me, they all looked up at me and one of the deputies answered "That gash in her head is going to need sutures isn't it?" I looked down at the meaty gash (I'll show you a meaty gash. SORRY!) and agreed. I however was still at the ready to put my nursing skills to the test further, I started to pull out the blood pressure cuff, was searching for some gauze for the wound when the deputies around her said "That's all we needed to know thanks." I looked up and asked "That's all?!" "Yup, that's all."


I sadly walked my fat, hot, sweaty self (Let's try not to give everyone a boner, Jess. Tone it down.) back to my cave and quietly cussed to myself about that moo moo wearing fool. I guess the lessons learned for me were two things:


1. If I'm going to where a moo moo to fry up some chicken for the old man and shit starts going down put some pants on underneath for later so the world doesn't see anything whilst I'm thrashing about (surprised this didn't occur to you before this. I guess this was your wake up call.)


2. I learned how to spell moo moo. (Still to be determined if this is correct.)"


Thank you, Jessica! I will be waiting on pins and needles for more tales from the jail.

Cereal dating.

We met at Target. It was just my typical 3rd or 4th trip there that week. This time was different. I had more than $15 in the bank and I was feeling like a high roller with lady luck on her side.

I decided to treat myself to some food. What could be more luxurious than breakfast cereal?

I browsed past the usual suspects... Cheerios didn't do it for me (boring). Lucky charms don't suit my lifestyle (too flamboyant). Frosted flakes are overly sweet and I am pretty sure that tiger still lives with his mom. Cinnamon Life and I had a regular thing back in the day and I just couldn't bring myself to go crawling back. Oh well. Perhaps I'll go check the bagels out, I thought...

Then I saw them.


Mini wheats. These aren't your mom and pop's mini wheats. These have a "touch" of fruit in the middle. Not a "blast". Not "stuffed to the max". Just a "touch". I knew from the moment I saw them them that I wanted them to touch me. On the inside.

Upon returning home, I hastily poured myself a bowl (serving size is 21 biscuits, by the way). I couldn't even wait until breakfast.

I shoveled 21+ fruit touched biscuits into my pie hole. It. Was. Glorious. A symphony of textures and flavors exploded in my mouth. Each bite was better than the next.



When it was over, I wiped the beads of sweat from my brow and reflected on what had just happened. If I was a smoker, I probably would have lit up. THAT WAS DELISH.

It has been a few days now. We have seen each other every morning...even if it hasn't been exclusive (breakfast sandwich and I still have a little thing going on). This could be the start of something beautiful...

The things I have learned since high school.

In no particular order of importance:

• Never wear a turtleneck.
  
• Perms are a mistake.
  
• Overalls are not a good look.
  
• I can't think of anything else.
  

This, my friend, is my inner conflict involving ice cream.

I have reached a crossroads in my life. The ice cream that I have been abusing reached it's end today. Where do I go from here?





I have every urge in the world make a quick run to the store to stock up. Just one more time. Maybe even purchase a few other things to fool myself and others about what I really came there for. One more sweet, sticky, mind blowing time. Life's been easier with ice cream around. I think it even cured a migraine today.

Or... I could just enjoy the time we had together. I should come to terms with the fact that every naughty spoonful I shoveled into my mouth wasn't meant to be enjoyed every day.

While fantastic in almost every single way, something tells me that a long term, daily encounter with ice cream would surely be detrimental to me. After all, there have been some side effects.....

Aside from the instant guilt and stomach aches, it has also prevented me from eating other food. It has had nearly my full attention. How can I possibly make room for things with better nutritional value when I have already binged (while still standing in front of the freezer, mind you.) on a bowl of vanilla bean with whipped cream and chocolate sauce? My appetite for what I should be eating has left. Should it continue as it has, I would surely fall victim to massive weight gain, deficiencies of various types, heart disease and possibly even diabetes (Or "the sugars" as I like to call them). Hell, if anything, after a few weeks it would probably start giving me the shits.

This would make me hate ice cream in the long run. I really don't want to hate ice cream. Ice cream is perfect in small doses. Ice cream will be there for me when I need it but we will have to live our separate lives. We can hang out at parties 'n' stuff.

It's for the best, really. I love ice cream but I hate being fat. I have my high school reunion in two weeks and it would be cool not to be asked when my next child is due. I would hate to have to explain that I am not, in fact, pregnant but rather a poor example of self control and self medication. That's just uncomfortable for everyone involved.

Confessions. (title to be read in a breathy whisper for effect)

Here are some little known secrets about me. Hope we can still be friends after you read this.

For few days in a row now, my breakfast has consisted of at least 2 of the following: Whipped cream, Ice cream, chocolate sauce and vegetarian corn dogs.
A mental funk and lack of funds has created the perfect storm for (ahem)...alternative food choices. If God thought this was wrong, he would have brought me an egg McMuffin or a pack of waffles. (I am 97% positive that this is written somewhere in the scriptures.)


I have no idea what is going on in politics or the world.
I can tell you what one of my facebook friends had for dinner last night or what funny thing their kid said. I can't tell you anything about a debt ceiling (besides the fact that people on twitter keep talking about how Lionel Ritchie should dance on it). I am OK with this. Judge me. Hate me. Just don't try to explain anything to me. I can't pay attention that long. I know how to google stuff if I need to.


There is a live wasp in the window by the couch today. This will keep me out of the living room indefinitely.
Will someone with a healthy sized pair of balls come take care of this situation for me?

I don't know how to hula hoop. Never have.
I will never be the hot girl next door who innocently turns everyone on by gracefully keeping that hoop around her hips. I, instead, am the short, fat, awkward girl that seems to be humping the air wile the hoop falls to her feet. This may not seem like a big deal, but it is. How I handle a hula hoop represents my lack of ability and tact in so many other areas of my life.


When I was in middle school, I was convinced I was part cat.
A whole summer with hardly any social interaction and access to national geographic specials on VHS will do that to you. My parents were far too accepting of me. I also had a crush on the kid down the street that liked to set fires and torture animals. Not a shred of disapproval from my parents, still.

I don't think all babies are cute.
This one is a shocker, I know. I value all babies and I know that life is more than looks, but sometimes I am left speechless by the bug-eyed wrinkly sack of skin that came out of someone's uterus. Looking back, even my child looked a little like the crypt keeper when he was fresh out of the oven. I'm not saying yours isn't cute. But if I haven't said it is, well...

Maybe that's enough for now. It's been real.