This washing machines are really starting to piss me off…

Actually, it’s more like the driers. My apartment complex decided to change out the washers and driers. Front loading washers, very nice.
The driers allegedly have three settings: regular, permanent press and delicate. Last time I checked, delicate was not blazing inferno, shrink your jeans and shirts beyond what you thought they could be after owning them for years. See, but the thing is if you actually DO dry them on delicate, it won’t shrink them, so now I’m stuck with a bunch of tiny shirt and skimmy shorts.

No thank you.

Why does this apartment have to be such a pain in my asshole? It’s Earth Week or Green Week or whatever… shouldn’t people be wanting to save electricity instead of blow drying my clothes into oblivion? Will someone PLEASE think about the children? (and my budget, since I’m el stinge-o and do not care to have to buy new clothes).

I love my husband

I’m not this lovey dovey sort of person who likes to post pictures of my wedding. Actually, I had a friend over recently who commented that most people who are married have photos of their weddings all over the place. Maybe if we spent more than $28 on the wedding, I’d be more likely to want to cherish the moment and make my walls into a stagnant slide show. But the truth is, my husband and I agreed that cheap was better (oddly, I’ve come to find out that this is about the only thing that he’s willing to go cheap on… this guy loves to shop for stuff. It’s hilarious.)

This past weekend, as you may or may not have heard, was Coachella, an annual music and art festival held in the Indio Desert. This is the fourth year my friends and I have gone. It was a slight bummer because usually there are four of us and this year it was only three due to the random and still unexplainable disappearance of our fourth compadre. Bear with me while I set the story up about why I love my husband. He’s in Afghanistan right now, so obviously, he wasn’t going to join us in the grooves.
Morrissey played on friday night. I’ve seen him a few other times. With EJ, my exboyfriend. We dated for five years, he was my first love. BLAH BLAH BLAH, zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. We saw Morrissey perform at the Universal Amphitheater waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay back in the early 2000s. This particular night, Jeremy decided to get shit faced and really excited that he was at this concert. After the show, he wanted me to call one of my best friends, Michael. As Michael has a life, he was unable to answer at midnight or whatever time it was, so Jeremy proceeded to talk over me while I left him a message saying how great Morrissey was and we wished he could have made it. In the background: “Michael! Michael, are you JEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAALOUS? Ask Michael if he’s JEALOUS. Michael, are you jeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeealous?”

This was hilarious at the time and still is hilarious to our group of friends. So while Morrissey is playing, Michael and keep asking each other if we are jeeeeeealous. Inside, I’m contemplating if I should call the douche rag I haven’t talked to in over a year for shits and giggles to leave a message asking if he was jealous that Michael and I were at the Morrissey show. Of course we didn’t. But the reason I say I love my husband is not because I didn’t call EJ, but because I even thought about calling him.

Right now, I realize that I am married to the most amazing man in the world. He totally does not get me, but he tries and that is more than a lot of people. I know that I’ve found the best person for me, and so it makes all those lame nights I spent crying over EJ and Roy not even seem that bad. I actually laugh at myself because I was so hurt over those two guys. But now I see that they are decent guys and I’m glad to have had them in my life. I am super glad to have my husband in my life. He is amazing. And has a huge penis.

I hate paypal.

I absolutely, 100% hate paypal. Ok, that may be an exaggeration. Maybe I only hate them 75% because they do offer a service which I happen to use often. Usually while buying most-likely-copyrighted material like solutions manuals from people with names that make me wonder what they are doing with the solutions manual in the first place, unless they wrote it themselves. Then I guess it’s not copyrighted, is it?

So it takes me fifteen minutes to pay this guy for a solutions manual. Now, just as a defense to my own ego, this particular class does not use homework from the book. The teacher writes his own questions, which I have had very little experience with. He has this strange thing about him, where he’s really excited about the subject and actually very concerned that students learn the material. It’s almost like that first year teacher, fresh out of doctorate school, all bright eyed and eger to show the world that math is FUN! But he’s not a new teacher. He’s been teacher almost longer than I have been alive. It’s refreshing and quite enjoyable. But the point is, this text book does not have the answers to any of the end of chapter questions, which are not on the homework, so I’m not cheating. So what I do, since I’ve been out of the game for a year, is I do this crazy thing called extra problems. What a loon, I know. I need to make sure my shit is straight so I order the manual.

Anyway, I have the unfortunate situation of actually having a paypal account. I opened this thing YEARS ago and every time I’ve tried to use it, it gives me issues. Usually with my password. So I’ve had to use several other email addresses to use them because I cannot handle their shenanigans. Tonight was pretty amazing, though. I reset my password (which has never worked in the past, so maybe this not being drunk all the time thing is working out for me). I go to the link the book seller sent me and it pops up an invoice. No where from this screen can you do any sort of change to your account. Nor is there a link to the main paypal site. So I open a new tab, and try to find the profile information. Seeing I can’t change my name, I have to try to find the FAQ, which I couldn’t, so I select “Contact Us” They have this thing called ask a ho, or whatever, so I type in my question, only to be told by the ho that she is not a real ho, just basically a search engine for the FAQ and my question was too long because it included a bunch of platitudes like thank you.

So I get to the point with the name change and the FAQ monkey tells me that you have to fill out an official FORM for that kind of stuff. Ok, whatever, I’ll just use a credit card and see if I can change my name on the billing information.

Guess what?

You cannot! So if you want to use a credit card, using your paypal account, you have to use your own credit card. What sort of anti-shaddy shit is this?!?!??! I know this has its merits. Identity theft, blah blah blah. But dude, I just want to buy a $15 solutions manual to a book so that I am not the stupidest person in the class. I should not have to battle for 15 minutes before being able to GIVE someone my hard earned cash. GAH!

But paypal is like tickemaster… it’s this huge beast that you have to use for some many things, but you always have to pay the “convenience” charge. In this case, 1/4 of an hour of you precious life!

Losers who invent new emails to post more negative comments…

Some douche rag a couple of months ago apparently had a problem with my Mouth Breathers blog.

Evidently, he is a mouth breather whose mother never had enough common sense or common couresty to shut his trap while he was steaming up everyone’s glasses.  I imagine him as having cronic halitosis, thus having the double punch of mouth breathing and disgusting breath.

So this guy (girl…?) has made up a few other email accounts… even one as lame as “email@promouthbreather.com”  Which, at least I’ll give it the credit for taking the time to create an entire email address just to harrass me on my own blog by leaving comments about how I shouldn’t breed.  It’s now just getting to being harassing and pathetic on his side.  Trust me, there are not enough people in the world willing to defind mouth breathers for it to be more than one person.

This guy also did not get the difference between having a GENETIC reason for breathing with one’s mouth open and a mouth breather who is too lazy/stupid to close his mouth while simply breathing.  Again, though, I suspect that his cronic halitosis combined with his stunning looks and personality have driven a few people away in his life.  If he does have some sort of cleft problem, I can only say that I have found many people still attractive with them.  Prime example: Joaquin Phoenix circa 2004 (hubba hubba), not the current attention hungry disaster you can now see gracing the “singing” stage with hot-ass re-re Casey Affleck in tow making a “documentary.”

The point is… now this guy has nothing better to do than just be a douche bag to me.  Get a life, loser.

bastard.

I sold my car recently.  It broke down for the last time on me and I found some sucker… er, nice guy to take it off my hands.  I’m without wheels.  I currently live with my brother, who happens to live 3 miles down the road from a Trader Joe’s.

I am in love with Trader Joe’s.

Unfortunately, I also used to be “in love” with one of the managers that currently works there.  I won’t bore you with the details, but just suffice to say that he is a total choad, on whom I wasted five years of my life.  Of course I realize that ultimately *I* am the idiot since I chose to stay that long, but this is why I tell dudes to snatch up the chicks with the low self-esteem.  Confidence, shomfidence.  Think about it… it’s a two for one deal: Door mat and girlfriend, all rolled into one!

Anyway, I’ve been living here since march and I haven’t run into douche biscuit yet. I’d like to keep it that way.  I do, however, miss shopping at TJ’s.  So I’m without car and stuck in suburbia until thursday when I (da-da-da-daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa) plan on walking from Irvine to Long Beach and then Long Beach to Los Angeles.  I decided today that I would walk to the movie theater, which happens to be near that Trader Joe’s.

So here is more of the deal… we sort of, kind of were still friends until Feb 20 of this year.  That’s when I realized that this guy is a major chunder whistle and I needed to stop talking to him.  At this time I knew he had tuesdays and wednesdays off.  Today is tuesday.  Score.  tit-crust should have the day off.

I had the unfortunate experience of realizing that they eventually change these days off, for whatever reason, when I walked into Trader Joe’s to get a damned bottle of water after my three mile walk.  I don’t think he saw me, but I saw him, walking away looking like that hairy beast from the Bugs Bunny cartoons, Gossamer.  How the hell did I ever bang that beast?  Oh yeah, he was 10 years younger and 40 pounds lighter.

I had to ask some kid where the water was and he, being the good TJ’s employee he is, walked me over to the water.  Lucky for me, shit-nug wasn’t around for the rest of my stay.

The point is:  the fat bastard still pisses me off.

customer service.

This is just a rant.  I used to be completely in love with priceline.  I am now on hold with them.  It’s already been three minutes of holding and the lady just came on to say it would be another five minutes.

The result of all of this waiting is going to be that they will not refund me for their mistake of booking a hotel twice.  Of this I am certain.

The first lady I talked to started out with a bad day.  Never mind that it was 5:30 am for me.  I don’t even know what time her day started and let’s face it, customer service is pretty much the shittiest job you can have.  People get bitchy when they want their damned money back.  I can imagine it’s bad for priceline because right off the bat you know that these people are too cheap to pay full price for a hotel room (like me), so they are going to fight for every last red cent.

I just want the $143 they are stealing from me.  I’m calm about it because I’m just going to call my credit card company and say I did not authorize this transaction if they don’t refund the transaction.

It’s kind of a very confusing situation, so I tried to explain it to the first lady I spoke with.  My life is always very confusing and I only just realized (!) that people are pretty much half mentally retarded, so I need to include every detail a numerous amount of times.  Unfortunately, I don’t know if it was too early or too late for this lady, but she just wasn’t getting the situation.

I guess most customer service people with whom you speak the first time don’t have any authority to do anything.  Maybe that is why they are just so frustrated.  They probably know that either you’re right or you’re a complete idiot, but either way they can’t do anything and they know that you’ll just ask to speak with their manager.

Which I did.  Not like that.  I said, “I don’t think you’re understanding what I’m saying, can I please speak with someone who will listen to what I’m saying?”

Ok, on second thought that was sort of a bitch comment.  No wonder she was pissed when she transferred me.

Eh.  Ok, the second lady has come back on and is refunding the money.  I can’t blame either of them for the situation.  It was my fault.  Actually, it was the internet’s fault. Had it not given me a false error, none of this would have happened.

The point is, this really would have made my mind up about priceline.  You pretty much hand them your money with the understanding that there are no cancellations, barring your own death (and this is true even with the “cancellation insurance” they try to hawk on you for another $14 a day).   So what happens if there is a mistake and you book the same room twice?  Not as in charged twice but were told one transaction didn’t go through, so you leave your computer for  a couple of hours and try it again, using a separate card because you realized that you needed the reward points on that one.

Boom.  You’re fucked.

Unless you talk to the supervisor.  I hate that.  Why can’t the peon just give me my money back?

Verdict:  Priceline is still a viable resource for hotel booking at, hands down, the lowest prices.  Shatner, you randy beast… you’ve led me in the right direction again.

I fall for propaganda

I’ve been on the “Tom Cruise is a freak show, possessed, closet homo” wagon for a while. I’ve been to the Celebrity Center for the Church of Scientology and laughed my ass off through one of their recruitment videos. My friend and I laughed so hard and loud that they came to get us without asking if we had any more questions. It was outstanding.

So my reaction to the snippets of the Tom Cruise/Oprah interview that recently aired was surprising. He’s not all insane. Maybe it was just a phase… that or Hubbard came to Cruise in a vision telling him he needed to clean up his act at the risk of losing the entire scam… er, church.

Judge for yourself:

old.

I am.

In a week and a few days, I’ll be turning dirty thirty. There are certainly more righteous things to be talking/bitching/complaining about. Like how Obama is ruining the democratic party and our chances of actually winning this election. If we can’t even pick a damned candidate, how the hell can the dems expect to run a country? Our shoo-in victory has been fumbled by our own party’s blunderence, incompetence and just down right stupidity. Yes, I am aware of the irony that goes along with using a word that doesn’t exist in the same sentence as calling someone else stupid.

But that is not the point.

Back to being old. My tits are starting to sag. For the longest time, I was happy they hadn’t fallen. However, my pasty skin and aging boobs are starting to look like to flapjacks that have just been placed on the grill. No one has ordered them, and by the time they are done, no one is going to want them.

Speaking of flapjacks… I have these saggy love-handles, too.

To make myself feel better, I think I’ll get a boob job. But in Mexico, so I can come back looking like Jack Nicholson a la Batman circa 1989. Come for the boobs, leave with a fucked up everything.

I don’t know what I’m going to do with my tits. I think it’s the abandonment they’ve felt the past year…s. Maybe I would get more play if I weren’t on a public blog bitching about politics and pancake tits. Or maybe the people reading this and finding joy are just my type.

This new development has caused a few problems in my life. The first is with running. Some may say that’s the culprit, but I’m going to argue that by saying I’m fucking THIRTY; it was bound to happen. With fuller breasts, it’s just more comfortable to run. Now that I have two skin flaps on the front of my chest, it’s just not the same. It’s like running with two filled water balloons vs two nasty old colostomy bags. It’s just not right.

The next is sleeping. I can just feel those little turds touching places they didn’t used to. I wake up at night thinking someone is molesting me, when I realize it’s my old, perverted, saggy tits doing the molesting. If you have ever had long hair, cut it, and then showered you know the feeling. Water is where it wasn’t before and it’s just unsettling.

Speaking of water and showers… now I gotta lift them up to clean under. That’s an exaggeration, but I can see where this is going.

Damn you, AGE!

mouth breathers.

I’ve had two very disturbing experiences within the last two weeks concerning mouth breathers. First of all, they are offensive no matter where they are. The only time mouth breathing is allowed is in the middle of a righteous run or during sex. Or if you are dog. Otherwise, close your mouth.

But if you are so lazy/stupid/disgusting as to have to breath through your mouth, there are absolutely two places where it is completely unacceptable:

1. In a public bathroom
2. In a gym locker room

The other day, I was using the bathroom in the “arts” building (a brown piece of crap that looks like it would tear your anus on it’s way out). When I walk in, I hear it… the quiet panting of a mouth breather, coming out of the handicap stall. Now, I know what you’re thinking, “shar shar… it may have been a handy! How can you be so cruel?” Well, first of all, I think it’s cruel to call them handies, so slap yourself for that, and secondly, I haven’t finished my story.

I finish my business and the entire time, I’m hearing the breathing. By the time I am finish my toilet business and completely wash my hands, I think to myself that the stall must be occupied by someone special because of the breathing and the length of time the person is using to urinate. Right as I’m thinking this, the toilet flushes and out pops a person. A non-handicapiable person. A mere mouth breather.

1. Fuck you.
2. Nice inhalation of shit particles, nast-o.

The other incident happened this morning in the school gym locker room. This twat is showering next to me (separate stalls) and I hear a MOAN. Of course I think what all of your are thinking, that she’s bating in the shower. I hear people do that. IN THEIR OWN HOMES. but whatever, I’m done and out and changing.

So twat lick decides to come out and get ready to go… mouth breathing the entire time.

I felt so violated. It never stopped, that gurgly struggle for air that is a reminder that you need to CLOSE YOUR MOUTH when you breath was overwhelming. I wanted to walk over and tell her to close her mouth. Roy said I should have just walked over and closed it for her. I don’t want to touch people who feel the need to make noise when they breath. It’s a constant reminder that they are stealing valuable air from me.

The long and short of it: I’m still pissed off that Feb 29 isn’t a national holiday. Shake your fists in defiance.

Moments

There are moments in your life that will shape you.  At the time they happen, you might not know it.  But when you look back, you can surely think, “that is the moment that changed my life.”  Lucky is the woman who can reflect at the moment and say, “this is it.  This is the moment.” And have it be true. 

Have you ever thought, “this is it.” In hopes that it would actually be “it?”  I have.  Several times.  But it never was.  Only once in my life was a moment so defining and true as to change my life and it was based on that one beautiful moment on the beach, almost a year ago.  And it was true. 

But that is not what this is about.  It’s about being wrong.  It’s about chasing a dream, only to find that you wake up at the beginning of a new day.  Right, wrong or indifferent, if you turn over a new leaf, you will still find the same dirt underneath. So I live in this city.  I hate this city.  It’s hot, bothersome, boring and filled with track housing.  It’s hard to explain to people living in Riverside why Riverside sucks so much.  And I suppose that if I were the denizen of this city, I would be reluctant to admit the sucktitude that it does exude.  We all would.  No one wants to hear that the brown mountain over which they are king is really a pile of shit.  

Why am I here?  Because I sincerely thought it was my destiny.  And I’m finding that the only thing that I am finding is that *I* am the same person.  That beyond all of the school and self-reflection and time away from my father… I still just only want the same things.  That I still want an unemployed man with a bad back who thinks he knows everything in my life.   

That was the moment, ladies and gentlemen.  The moment I found a man attractive and inquired within about the positions available… the moment I found that the only men I seem to find attractive bare a striking resemblance to my father, this is the moment.   

This is it.

This is the moment I say I’m done with that.  I am done with denying how much I love my father.  How much I loved being a child and growing up and lying on his stomach moving with his breath as we watched TV.  I’m done pretending that none of it mattered.  That I remember the first day he didn’t tell me he loved me before I went to school.  I’m done with trying to fool myself that being one of eight didn’t matter.  I’m done.  I’m done trying to replace it.  The hole is there.   

But if I fill my heart up with enough love for everything else, with the love that he has to offer now, that hole will seem small in comparison.  All these tears… they dry up.  They are not forever.  But a moment… although a second, will last a lifetime.