Offspring, aka: The Highest Form Of Narcissism

The other day, my boss's six year old daughter asked me why my pig was wearing a cape.  Since I couldn't very well tell her it's his "rape cape," I told her the pig was flying, and he was carrying his friend.

I think I'm ready for parenthood.

This is a bold statement coming from the girl whose level of patience for people in general, let alone children, is microscopic.  I understand a proclamation for the desire to have kids, as made by a girl who once hip-checked a baby into the side of a changing table when he was about to roll off, seems questionable, if not altogether unnatural.  Also, I genuinely don't know what to do with babies when I have to pee.  I once propped a baby up in his chair and set him in the corner of the bathroom, facing the wall, while I relieved myself.  

And yet here I am, preparing to slingshot myself into motherhood.  (Naturally when I have kids, I'll have to make sure they remain illiterate so they never read this blog.)  I guess that very statement is a testament to the legitimate concern of whether or not I would be a fit parent.  Other red flags might include thoughts and facts such as:

• If my child is born with red hair, how young is "too young" to start dying it?  (To be fair, this is way less harsh than my mother, who swore that if she ever had a baby with red hair, she'd flush it down the toilet.  Well, look who lived to tell, mom.) 
• My history - as I've divulged in previous posts thus far.
• My French, as in my constant requests that you pardon it.  I have nothing to offer my child in the realm of a foreign language. 
• I don't really like other people's kids, but am holding onto the belief that I'll like my own - at least that's what everyone says will happen.
• I'm not married, and if you're a stickler for tradition, you'll have a strong opinion against my need to procreate out of wedlock. 

At this point, you're probably wondering why I believe I'm a good candidate for parenthood.  Firstly, I never claimed I'm a "good" candidate, but I think we can all agree that as long as I'm not raising my child in a drug den, there are a lot worse parents out there than the one I would make.

Secondly, if I don't shit out a kid, who will take care of me when I'm old?  Not to mention I don't have a savings, so I'm counting on my child's athleticism or dramatic talent to rendezvous as my 401k.

Thirdly, I just really want to see what a mini-me would look like.  And isn't that the main reason to have children, anyway?  Because I could be like Brangelina and adopt the United Nations and start my own soccer club, but who has that kind of energy?  And honestly, if any of my adopted kids ever got in legal trouble, I can't use the "blood is thicker than water" defense to justify my denial of their guilt.  I just don't know if I'd stand by them.

Not to mention, I'm really starting to feel like the odd-man-out on Facebook and Instagram.

Granted, I'm not entirely looking forward to stretch marks or weighing as much as Mama June Boo Boo Honeypot whatsherfuck.  Frankly, the thought of a little alien parasite growing inside of me, stealing my nutrients and going poop in my stomach makes me retch.  But the fact that I still get teary eyed whenever I watch old reruns of TLC's A Baby Story has to count for something, right?  It means I'm not a complete stone heart.  That somewhere inside my Grinch-like soul, there exists a sliver of humanity and compassion.

If there's any redemption to be had in this drivel, it's this: I happen to think my sperm donor is rather handsome.  I've come to know him quite intimately, and he's the smartest man I've ever met.  He kills it at Jeopardy, you guys.  He's wildly funny, and he understands my off-beat impropriety.  He matches my level of crazy in the sense that he's chosen to be with me, and for some inexplicable reason, he stays.  He brings the goods.  In other words, he's good breeding material, and I know he'd make a wonderful father.  So if there's any outstanding concern for the blight that would befall the human race should I happen to introduce a new Being, rest assured that as long as the father is present, this kid's in good hands, and society will be safe.

  

Let's Define "Crazy"

"Crazy" is a word assigned to any chick who exhibits feeeeeelings.  You know, those pesky little emotions that result from BEING ALIVE?  Oh, yeah... those.  This fuckin' word gets tossed around as carelessly as an STD, and comes with about the same stigma.  Maybe it's time to dig a little deeper and clarify so all you dipshits understand why calling a chick crazy actually makes her... crazy.

"Crazy" is boiling a bunny.  Can we just agree?  Granted, this is a fictional example, but I think it goes without saying that obsession usually leads to poor decision making, and that is real.  There have been many documented cases of real-life obsession, and this constitutes being "crazy."

Like driving from Houston to Orlando to kidnap your ex-boyfriend's new girlfriend, while wearing space diapers so you don't have to stop to go to the bathroom; like ex-astronaut, Lisa Nowak, did.  Wouldn't want to miss your window of opportunity to pepper spray that new bitch in the face, bind her hands and feet and dump her in the ocean.  Sometimes commitment to the cause means crapping in your drawers, and that is fucking crazy.

Lisa Nowak Mug Shot

Or climbing down your boyfriend's chimney.  What?  Is "boyfriend" too strong a label for a man you met on the internet and only went on six dates with?  Eh, we'll give "love" the benefit of the doubt and say no.  Is lodging yourself in his chimney whilst climbing down like Santa to spy on him a little nuts?  Yes.  This is certifiably crazy.  Especially when he catches you up on his roof staking the place out a full two weeks before.  (That's called a red-flag, but also: crazy.)

NYPost.com

Is bombarding your significant other with text messages when you're upset, instead of waiting to get home and have a conversation with him in person, crazy?  No.  It's excessive, annoying, and probably unnecessary, but is not, by the above standards, "crazy."

Is jealousy "crazy"?  No.  It's unattractive.  How about insecurity?  Nope.  It just makes you look really fucking ugly.

There also exists such phenomena as: differences of opinion, misunderstandings, and miscommunication - all of which fall under the category of "being human."  When I raise my voice, it's because I assume you can't hear me over the noise of the chatter online.  When I cry, it's not because I'm on my period--

THE PERIOD.  The expressway to crazy town.  If you want to see crazy come out to play, boys, invalidate a woman's feelings by attributing them to her monthly cycle.  That's a sure fire way to invite the real crazy to the party.  If you want Hasenpfeffer stew for dinner, ask a woman if she's on her period while you're having an argument.

Listen, I'll concede that, in the heat of the moment or out of sheer frustration, we women have a flair for the dramatic.  We can be a little "over the top."  (We can also be cool, calm, collected and make kick-ass great arguments, but I'm talking about the "Crazy" mis-label here, not the "Bitch" one.  That's a whole other blog entry.)  I admit that I have come a bit unglued and have spiraled down the rabbit hole.  But I'm not crazy, and I can say this with certainty, because despite the obscure - albeit true - instances of crazy that have made headlines, I've been up close and personal with crazy.  I've seen crazy first hand, and it looks like this:

Crazy is delegating my grown son to place a tracking device on my estranged husband's car so I can keep tabs on where he goes.  This makes it so much easier to identify where he parks at lunch so I have time to key his car.  Repeatedly.

Pictures?  Old keepsakes of our time together?  Little mementos of the heart?  Oh, they're taped under my toilet seat lid, so they can have the pleasure of smelling my ass as I defecate and face my pool of urine after I relieve myself.  

Who am I talking about?  My grandmother, of course!  Sweet little old granny was fucking crazy.  Crazy is a broken heart, on steroids, backed by action.  Crazy is a bitter tongue fueled by alcohol and heartache.  

Lazy is a blog, recalling all the tears I've cried and the hurts I've felt, offering up countless tales and admissions of my wrong doings, hoping someone can identify and relate so I don't feel so alone while searching for atonement.  

So let's lay off the crazy talk, eh?  Most of us just have a lot of scars, and we're trying to get by the best we can.

  

Spoooooky Halloween Game

If there was ever a game designed to let the skeletons out of your closet, it's Game Of Things.  Or maybe that's just been my experience playing it, because the company I keep are a group of twisted and depraved sadists that jump at the opportunity to throw their loved ones (me) under a bus in front of new players (my boyfriend).

And, yes, all you wanton, unchaste twenty year-olds, I am the dork who is talking about board games.  This is what my "wild nights" have been reduced to.

For those of you unfamiliar with Game Of Things, it's like Cards Against Humanity meets Balderdash - the Reader chooses a card, players supply a response, and the group tries to choose who's answer belongs to who.  As with Balderdash, in Game Of Things players are given the opportunity to write their own answer to the question card.

Example
CARD: Things that would probably keep you out of heaven:
ANSWER: "Taking Helen Keller skydiving."
OR...

CARD: Things that don't exist but you wish they did:
ANSWER: "Female orgasms from intercourse."
ANSWER: "Heterosexual Catholic priests."
ANSWER: "Condoms in Tijuana."
OR…

CARD: Things you shouldn't tie to the roof of your car:
ANSWER: "Dead hookers."
ANSWER: "Garbage bags filled with aborted fetuses."
ANSWER: "Your mother-in-law."

You get the idea.

But when you're playing with a group of assholes and it's your turn to read the card, you might find yourself reading a bunch of answers written in the first person to make it look like you're talking about yourself - as commonly (always) happens to me.

Example
CARD: Things you never remember:
ANSWER: "All the guys I blew when I was in a blackout."
ANSWER: "The child locked up in my basement."
ANSWER: "Which guy I pooped on during sex."
Etcetera

Most of these answers are tongue-in-cheek.  When I play, it's usually with a particular friend - we'll call her Satan -  who knows me very, very well.  In other words, Satan's got the dirt on me.  And that dirt is sooooooooo fun to mold an answer from, especially if the other players don't know if it's really true or not.  (Go ahead.  Guess which answer above is true about me.)

In the spirit of insulting your friends for the sake of competition, I've been able to sling a few back her way.  For instance, a group of us consisting of Satan, my brother, Satan's BF and my BF (who has fortunately read my posts and still loves me), were playing not too long ago, and I ever so casually referenced a particular dalliance of her dude's from his past…

SATAN'S CARD: Things that warrant an apology:
MY ANSWER: "The hickey that Tijuana stripper gave your boyfriend before he fucked her on his bachelor party weekend." 

Naturally we all had a good laugh.  If that marriage didn't end in flames, he never would have met my friend.  See?  Everyone wins.

Then there are instances where Satan will flat out attack flaws of mine - like my inability to cultivate and nurture an interpersonal relationship in the advent of technology…

CARD: Things you would wish for if you found a genie in a bottle:
SATAN'S ANSWER: "Kristin puts down her phone."

And that's all fine and good.  Because when a card like this shows up…

CARD: Things you can't believe that someone actually did...

Watch out!  Cuz I'm coming back with this…

ANSWER: "Fucked a family."

Because that's what Satan did, she fucked a family.  (Really, would you have expected anything less from Satan?)

Back when Satan was practicing better living through chemistry, vanilla sex turned into a threesome, which turned into group sex, which turned into the kind of hangover you can only nurse your way through from atop a barstool.  Now imagine the hot twenty-one year old son of the couple you ran through the night before shows up, with eyes like Paul Newman and swagger like George Clooney, and he takes the seat next to you.  And, Holy Shit!,  what a sense of humor on this kid - the ultimate panty dropper, am I right, ladies?

Before you know it, Satan's heading home with jailbait.  And because we were roommates at the time and the walls are thin, I could hear the rest.  Also, he snuck out at 4am wearing nothing but the cat blanket and a pair of my flip-flops he found by the front door.

And that's the real beauty of Game Of Things: it's a fast way to get to know people, and an even better way to end friendships.  Or at least weed out the sensitive squares who can't take a joke, or a little razzing.

Girls Night Out

I had just been dumped by a dude that wears a thumb ring.  I felt like I was at the end of my pitiful rope: I was recently sober and unprepared to deal with raw feelings without a substance to bevel the edges.  Fortunately I have a great best friend, and she understands misery.  Without taking too much creative liberty, this is what happened the evening she attempted to get me out of my head by forcing me to join her for a Girls Night Out dinner:
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Why You Don't Make Jokes About Rape

The two criteria my mother was adamant about me finding while I was shopping for apartments were:

• secure parking, and… 
• a gated entry  

I landed on a property with a gated carport (but sports a wall in the back I could easily step over), and an entrance every delivery guy and plumber in town has the code for - including my pervy boyfriend.

Wall "protecting" carport.

But my favorite amenity of the property is "the rapist gate."

The rapist gate is my pet name for the insurmountable obstacle that stands between safety and a torn perineum.  It's like Ft. Knox, and it's the only way to access my building from the carport.  The problem with this Sentinel is that it possess a persnickety lock that mocks me every time I attempt to use it, and flat out rebuffs me whenever I'm in a hurry.

If you're still having trouble picturing this, imagine my gate is Gandalf:

I stick my key in the hole: frozen.  I jiggle it around: nothing, no movement at all.  It's getting dark, I glance over my shoulder - right to left - I'm feeling exposed and vulnerable.  I jiggle some more: my key won't budge.  Sweat beads form at my brow.  I can feel a presence, I know it's coming.  Through the gate I spy the front door to my apartment - it's so close!  The hair on the back of my neck raises - do I hear footsteps?  I jiggle the key in the lock more furiously: it's fucking jammed!  And then, without warning, he's on me, slamming my face against the wrought iron, mussing up my good hair day (a gentleman he is not), and it's game over.  As predicted, this gate was the death of me, and my vagina.

At least this is how I imagine it would go down.  It's never actually happened to me.

The question I like to ask is: Is it still considered rape if I get wet?  Because I'm the fucking sicko that likes to joke about rape being a high form of flattery.

Fast forward - I'm at a housewarming party, talking to a group of acquaintances (aka: people I barely know) when I bring up my "rape is flattering" philosophy.  I can tell my audience doesn't take me seriously to begin with, so why not spice up the conversation a bit?  Fuck it.

Luckily for me, everyone laughs and plays along.  We're not squares here!  One guy even jumps in and starts talking about the time he took a shower in the fetal position after a bad date.  Okay… We all kinda quiet down, our faces still holding half-cocked smiles, as this guy proceeds to explain that everything was going great!  They were hot and heavy, really going at it… he was definitely aroused and this girl obviously knew how to work it.  She had a bit of a reputation for being a whorebag, so she better know what she doing!  So there he is, hard as a rock, going at it with this chick on the couch, when she slides her panties off from under her skirt, pulls him over to her, and rams him inside her.  Before he could stop or back away, she wraps her legs around his waste - locking him into place - and goes to town.

At this point, he's the only one laughing as he tells his "joke," while the rest of us stand there, mouths agape, staring at him in silence, until--

Me: "Um… that's called rape…"

Party-goer: "Yeah dude, you got raped."

You see, it's all fun and games until someone actually gets raped.

Now everyone's just getting fidgety and downright uncomfortable, so he tries to explain that the real reason he was rocking back and forth in a fetal position in the shower afterwards was because he was afraid she gave him an STD.  Yeah, I'd be afraid of that too, if I got RAPED.

Suffice it to say, don't I feel like a goddamn asshole.  And I no longer joke about rape, I keep it where it belongs: in the bedroom, during role-play.

I Was A(lmost) Snow White

I am not one of those people who loathe Disney.  I don't partake in conspiracy theories around Walt's anti-Semitic ties (which I'm not excusing), nor do I  think that he was the Devil incarnate, disguising pure evil in a Mouse suit.  I think Walt Disney was human, and I think he was flawed, but above all else, I think he was a big fucking nerd who had a dream and made it come true.

Conversely, I'm not a season ticket holder, a QVC collector of Disney memorabilia, nor do I dream of getting hitched at Disney World and being whisked away from Cinderella's castle in a cheesy pumpkin carriage down Main St., on parade for all to see.  (I was loved as a child.)  I have zero desire to traipse around the park in a veiled Mini Mouse hat with "Mrs." embroidered on it.  Gross.

Be better than Heidi and Spencer.

Do I think Disney was a "gender bigot," as Meryl Streep claims?  Duh.  My generation also grew up engrossed in Disney-perpetuated themes of misogyny, even after the Women's Lib movement, but I think the takeaway largely depends on the individual and her immediate environment.  For example, my brother has a friend who, before letting his daughter watch any of the Disney classics, makes her repeat, "I am a strong, independent woman and I don't need a man to save me."  My brother's ex-girlfriend, on the other hand, did not have that paternal reinforcement.  The result: she = nightmare.  Can't argue with science.

My upbringing had nothing and everything to do with me auditioning to be a Disney "Princess" when I was nineteen.  I'm sure I showed up that morning reeking of booze and cigarettes, but I was just All-American-looking enough to pass the first round of inspection - which simply consisted of standing in a line next to, literally, over a thousand other hopefuls as judges discerned whether or not we could pass as cartoons.

*A brief back story: when I was four, I thought I was Alice in Wonderland.  I mean, I knew I wasn't, but if I dressed in pinafores long enough and insisted everyone call me Alice, maybe I could fool myself.  At least, I'm sure that was my thinking.  Fake it till you make it, right?  (It worked for OJ Simpson - I'm sure he still thinks he's innocent.)  So when I answered the open call for Disney face characters, I half expected it to be the fulfillment of my childhood dream.  Being Alice felt like my birthright.  One could certainly ascertain with a level of accuracy that my audition had less to do with any desire to be a princess, and more to do with my inherent desire to live in an acid trip.

The Disney gestapo had other plans for me, however.  Turns out I'm not believable as an Alice because I have brown eyes (color contacts, anyone?) and I'm 5'9" (got me there).  In fact, the only characters I qualified for were Belle (no one's buying that) and Snow White.  In hindsight, I probably should have been offended - with one cursory examination, these Disney "experts" determined I looked like I fit the role of the hooker who "took care of" seven tiny men and skied the slopes of many a bar bathroom.  Don't think that name, Snow White, is lost on me, Disney.  Assholes.

Anyway, there I was - I had made the first round of cuts for no apparent reason whatsoever, but realized quickly just what a big deal that was based on the level of excitement emitted from a fellow cut-maker to the right of me.  Apparently this was her third time auditioning, but it was the first time she'd made it this far.  Woof.

I had the benefit of ignorance on my side - I had no idea how competitive the Disney Character screening process is, how many people were practically dying to be one, or how goddamn long those auditions are (seriously, there goes my Saturday).  I was green and I had zero attachment to the outcome, so every time I advanced to another round, I was shocked.  I was positive my fate was sealed the second we were informed we'd have to learn a fucking dance and perform it in front of the judges in twenty minutes.

I don't dance.  Graceful and I don't run in the same circle.  My childhood friend's mother once told me that her favorite part of coming to Sarah's soccer games was so she could watch me flail my arms about as I ran around the field like a chicken with my head cut off, nearly pissing herself each time I'd trip over myself and eat shit because of how fast I'd bounce right up and keep running - like the ground was a trampoline or something.  I looked like Corky out there.

I actually didn't get excited about being a Snow White until I danced my way into the final round, where a handful of my competitors and I were instructed to suit up in full wardrobe (!!!).  Here's what I learned:

• I look hideous with black hair.
• I am a total hooker in red lipstick.

Disney noticed it, too.  Aside from perusing the park shaking hands and kissing babies, Snow's main gig was reading stories to kids in Fairy Book Land (or some shit like that), and goodness knows you can't have a trampy Snow White in front of impressionable young girls.  That might give off the wrong impression!  We certainly don't want anything to interfere with the psychologically sound message that all women need rescuing, and happiness is only realized in a kiss and a  Fairy Tale wedding (not to mention, that's a lot of pressure on a guy).

I wish I got the opportunity to read to those goofy little idiots, because I would have elaborated on what Happily Ever After is code for: A lot of fucking work.  There were days, sometimes years, when Snow White and Prince Charming don't even like each other because of a thing called compromise, which she realized she was better at doing than he was.  Then came the day when they decided to shit out a few heirs to the throne, and Snow's dreams and aspirations got put on the back-burner so she'd have time for carpool and laundry.  In fact, Snow was ultimately returned to the exact same situation - cleaning house surrounded by ungrateful little people - that she thought her Prince had saved her from.  The End.  

But I was given the boot after the dress rehearsal, and ended up shitting on a perfectly good Saturday.  So I drove to the bar, with my face still painted up, and got drunk.

And I lived blissfully ever after.  Until I turned thirty-one.

Then I started living my own life, and creating my own Happily Ever After.

The End.

Hunting a Human Jackalope

Looks like my brother got into the mushrooms.  Again.

*DO NOT ATTEMPT DURING REAL HUNTING SEASON*

Snacks In My Pants

Photo Credit

This story is more a lesson in parenting skills than a recollection of past experiences.

By today's standards, my mom started young.  She was twenty-six when I was born, and twenty-eight when she had my brother.  Or maybe it just sounds young to me because I can't imagine having a nine and seven year-old right now.  That just seems unfathomable.  I barely have the means to keep myself afloat, let alone two kids - and my collection of ex-boyfriends has done just as much damage to my credit score as it has they have to my… psyche, so they wouldn't have been much help in the child care payment department.  But I digress.

I think my mother's youth contributed largely to her parenting style - particularly when it came to pet names.  "Big Girl Parts" and "Big Boy Parts" were the appropriate identifiers for our genitals, "Bottom Burp" was our label for farting, and I assume because LA is close to the border and my parents were big on instilling culture in my brother and me at a young age, we used the Spanish word "moco" for boogers.  Not so terrible, until it came to dirty diapers, whereupon my mom or dad would look at us and ask if we had "snacks" in our pants.

That's right - Snacks.

What the fuck does that even mean!?  A snack is a tasty morsel of food to tie you over until dinner, or enjoy at the movies, or to help pass the time at work while you're chained to your desk wondering what to blog about - NOT something you shit out in your pants.  Who wants to eat that?  Sure, maybe some cultures do.  Hell, in some cultures it may even be considered a delicacy, but certainly not in developed countries.

I needed to teach my parents a lesson.  They needed to realize the error of their ways.  I may have only been a toddler, but I knew when something was gauche.

We were at the bank.  It was another sunny day in Los Angeles - a scorcher.  The air was ripe with sweat and musk.  Security Pacific's air conditioner couldn't keep up with the steadily rising mercury of the thermometer, and the natives were getting restless.  Mom stood patiently in line waiting for the next teller, but I was pretty squirmy.  Looking back, my fidgeting probably had less to do with the heat and more to do with the dump I needed to take.  So mom set me down and allowed me to wander around.

Finally!  A moment to myself, free of the constriction of my mother's arms, to take care of business.  I got really quiet - too quiet.  By the time mom registered what was happening, it was too late; my hands were already down the back of my pants, and when I pulled them out, I proudly held them up to my mother and proclaimed, "Snacks!"

She promptly ditched her place in line to grab me and - mortified - ran out of the bank.

Serves her right, I say.  Let this be a lesson to all you parents out there:  think twice about the cutesy names you assign to anatomical and biological matters, lest they backfire.  Kids have an uncanny knack for throwing grown-ups under the bus.

Mistakes Are Like Birds - Set Them Free

Instagram @openyourm_eye_nd

When I was little, I adopted a parakeet named Blinky.  I learned very quickly I am not a bird person.  This little asshole was pissed and eager to take his aggressions out on every one's fingers.  Blinky had to go, and what better person to give him to than my ninety year-old grandfather with paper thin skin, who was so old his blood lacked the coagulants necessary to clot, and every little paper cut ended up hemorrhaging?  Yeah, sounds like the perfect candidate for parakeet ownership.

It only took one small peck that nearly resulted in a trip to the hospital for Pop to learn that Blinky was best handled with gardening gloves.  I guess I probably should have drawn the same conclusion before getting rid of him, but I was eleven.  Pop had years of life experience on me.  Plus, he was an electrical engineer, so there's that.

Blinky was one of my earliest mistakes, and I'm inherently predisposed to abort my mistakes, but Pop took a different approach.  In his innate wisdom, he surmised that my bird's surly behavior was rooted in unhappiness and an aversion to captivity.  This understanding allowed Pop to look his villain in the eye with sympathy instead of contempt, and he decided to have an aviary built for his disgruntled friend.

Delighted by his new freedom, Blinky dropped the attitude and began to lighten up.  Some even say they saw him smile, though I think that's a dirty lie.  He did, however, seem less inclined to bite your hand off when you tried to hold him, almost as if he was - dare I say - happy.

Similarly, I find when I'm able to see the mistakes I've made in the same light my Pop saw Blinky, I'm able to loosen my grip on them and, like Blinky, I begin to feel happier and lighter.  Being unforgiving of myself for the mistakes I've made in my life is akin to constructing my own cage - and it's an uncomfortable, restrictive place to live.  But when I understand that I'm just a silly human and I'm going to make a mess, mistakes seem less villainous.

Also, purging myself of them and hanging on a public cross seems to help.  For example:  Del Taco and Jack in the Box.  The combination of the two, always together, effectively helped me reach my goal weight of 174 pounds my Freshman year of college.  I've always been a big overachiever, and the Freshman 15 is fucking child's play.  Anyone can eat a Del Classic Chicken burrito, but it takes a whole other skill set to pair it with an Oreo Cookie Shake - namely courage, intestinal fortitude, and commitment - and repeat this behavior no less than three times a week.

One prescription for Prozac and membership at Weight Watchers later, I was back to my pre-college weight, but it's cool… I totally love myself.  I wouldn't trade a single stretch mark for that experience. Not.  A.  Single.  One.

The catharsis I feel having shared this story has lightened it's load, so-to-speak.  I just gave my little mistake wings and set it free.  In fact, I'm so happy right now, I'm actually crying - tears of joy.  I'm definitely not having feelings of anxiety and shame over publicly confessing a weight I've hit in my lifetime.  If I were a boxer, I'd have qualified as a Light Heavyweight, and I'd be so proud.  So, so proud…

Nope.  Fuck everything I said.  This feels horrible.

"I'm A Sex Addict"

Recently, a girlfriend of mine broke up with her boyfriend.  It was one of those mutual sentiments you could see coming down the line from a mile away, so when the, "I'm coming over.  We need to talk..." text came through, she was quick to cut him off at the pass with, "A phone call should suffice." 

The rest of the breakup was pretty predictable - she was able to tell him "this isn't working" first (which we all know counts the most), followed up by a slew of lame agreements from the "ex" in an attempt to save face: I didn't see this going very far, you're not my penguin, your friends are awesome and I'd like to still hang out with them, I'm a sex addict…"

Pump the brakes - Come again?

That's right, Dude admitted he was a sex addict after breaking up.  Who does that?  It's like, "hello!   Here's some ammo to use against me, new person who I'm not even friendly with anymore."  That's the kind of information that would have been useful upfront, during the whole is this person the one for me? phase, not on the back end of a failed attempt at human connection.  I mean… why?  Why is this juicy tidbit necessary?  What purpose does it serve, aside from adding fuel to the fire of paranoia that she must naturally have contracted AIDS from his dirty, promiscuous junk.

This is what my friend was left with - the inescapable fear of death by STD, as confirmed by WebMD. I had to reassure her that if I was able to dodge that bullet after my boyfriend cheated on me with a transgendered prostitute he solicited off muthafuckin CRAIGSLIST, no one is getting AIDS.  The clap, maybe, but no AIDS for anyone.  Ever.*

This was of great consolation to her, and I was happy to be of service, but it still didn't answer the question of why this guy felt the great need to come clean about his sex addiction now.  This information could only be used against him.  (Also, I'd like to point out that this guy came from Tinder, so ladies be forewarned:  you're not shopping at Nordstrom.)  

We started work-shopping motives behind his sudden confession - was this an attempt at explaining his disconnect?  It certainly didn't explain why he still lived with his mother…  or did it?  The conspiracy theories came pouring in.  Of course he wants to keep hanging out with my friends - Fresh holes.   I mean, the places we went in our minds weren't healthy.

We concluded it was best to let his reasoning for sharing his addiction die alongside the relationship, but not until after she finished the Yelp review on his Tinder profile.

*This statement is not true.

35 Things I'm Grateful For On My 35th Birthday

Thirty-five years ago today, I was born with bright orange hair.  Why is this significant?  Well, about eight months before I popped out, my mother proclaimed that if she had a baby with red hair, she'd flush it down the toilet.  The mere fact I'm even alive should top my list of things I'm grateful for.  Being a Ginger is dangerous business.

So as a show of gratitude on my birthday a few years back, I sent my mother a dozen roses with a card that read:  Dear Mom, thanks for not flushing me.  Love, Kris.  Needless to say, she had a lot of explaining to do when the delivery guy dropped off the arrangement.  I guess one could surmise I've been fucking with her since day one.

Anyway, here it is - a list of 35 things I'm grateful for (in VERY particular order):

1. Being alive.
2. That I managed to make it through my twenties without contracting any life-threatening diseases. (Seriously, you all read my blog.  This is truly a feat within itself).
3. To that end, I'm grateful for my health.  And, might I add, that as a former smoker of thirteen years, my wrinkle situation could be so much worse than it is.
4. So I guess I'm also grateful I have a mother who insists wrinkle creams make the greatest birthday and Christmas presents.
   
5. And, while I'm at it, I'm pretty grateful for Botox, and the blissful ignorance that accompanies Science not having concluded any significant side-effects… yet.
6. My parents - although they didn't make the Top 5, their significance goes without mention.  I mean, I'm here, right?  You're welcome, world.  (I just made myself vomit.)
7. My brother.  Without him, A LOT more attention would have been paid to me. 
8. Twitter.  This piece-of-shit platform introduced me to my boyfriend.  No, that's not normal.  But then again, neither am I.
9. Vaccinations.  'Nuff said.
10. Therapists.  I've had a life, people.
11. Birthdays - because if they stop, I'm dead.
12. Sobriety.  Saving lives, relationships and genitalia since forever.
13. My extended family and the rich history that preceded them.  I'm related to some very questionable people, and I love them all.
14. Little earthquakes.  They really shake things up.
15. Friends that stick like glue, even after I disappear.  I have a tendency to fail at communication, and there's a few who remind me of this character defect frequently.
16. LOVE.  Broad, vague, ambiguous love. 
17. Vibrators.
18. My furry baby, Charlie.  
    
19. Alice in Wonderland, for stoking the embers of my imagination and creativity at such a young age.
20. That I am lucky enough to work in an industry I love, pursuing my spirit's passion. 
21. I'm a female living in a country that does not practice female circumcision.
22. My childhood - it was "normal" (for whatever that's worth).  Subsequently, I have no real excuse for my reckless behavior in my youth.
23. Accountability - Understanding what that really means has truly set me free.
24. I'm not starving.
25. I'm not homeless - although if I didn't have the supportive family I've been blessed with, I most certainly would have been homeless many times over.
26. For all my relatives, particularly Uncle Gumby, who opened their home to me and let me crash on their couch so I could chase my dreams.
27. Orthodontics.
28. Health Insurance.
29. A big shout out to the two Angels who reconnected me and my mother after she goddamn LOST me at Santa Anita Racetrack when I was two years old.  (She just kept trying to cut loose of the Ginger, but we ALWAYS come back.)
30. Facebook - as much as I hate to admit it.  I'm shit at keeping in touch, and this thing has really pulled through.
31. Rainbows - mainly for inspiring so many great YouTube videos and idiotic Tweets.
32. Unicorns - for their majesty and healing powers.
33. Grateful I learned to read good.
34. Beyond grateful I have codependent enablers for parents, who never have and never will give up on me.  
35. To have had the privilege of experiencing unconditional love, especially during times when I could not love myself.  
36. And for good measure - humor, laughter, jokes and irreverence - without which, I may not have a shot at a career.

Oh, and just in case you weren't sold on #18 :

Drawing From "Experience"

"Write what you know."  A phrase commonly thrown around and all too often misunderstood.  Point in case:  I don't know shit, but I still write.  Here's how (as any of my close friends can attest to):  I draw heavily on the experience of others.

I mean, sure - I've seen my share of crazy, but it's so much more fun to embellish on and exploit another's (and somehow it feels less narcissistic).  Plus, I'm burning through material pretty quickly, so I'm forced to steal from others - which is actually the very essence of being a writer. 

Bottom line:  life is short, and one can only glean so many personal experiences, so it's important to pay attention to what's going on outside of yourself and learn from others in order to maximize your overall life experience.  

Point in case - I did not party my face off the night before I had to be at work for some big, important certification exam.  It was not I who couldn't complete the fifty foot jaunt from the sidewalk (where I was dropped off) to the entrance of the building, and I certainly did not pass out on the front lawn of my office for all my co-workers to see.  Also, I never would have had the audacity to act as a human speed bump for the poor gardener, who was forced to cut the grass out and around me.  

No, I am not the ballsy centerpiece of this tale - because I don't have balls.  It takes a special kind of idiot to pull off a stunt like this, and that idiot is a man.  Nay, a silly little boy.  And that boy just happens to be related to me, so in a sense, this is like my story by proxy.  But if this friend of mine had not told me about his regrettable little tale, I wouldn't have the teaser to a comedy project I wrote and recently shot (above).  

Oscar Wilde opined that Life imitates Art more than Art imitates Life.  If this is truly the case, maybe I should rethink the quality of my contribution.  Surely what the world needs is more drunken assholes.  Instead, I contend that [writing] what "I" know supports the latter theory that Art imitates Life, and as opposed to perpetuating a generation of idiots, I'm merely contributing to the record of our current state of affairs.  Either way, it's depressing as hell, but at least this way I don't have to assume responsibility.  I've never been very good at that, anyway.

P.S. Be careful what you tell me.  

Tampons Are Not Sex Toys

I've had some pretty indecent proposals in my time, but this one takes the cake.  Happy Friday.

Accidental Bowel Leakage (ABL)

Apparently, this is an actual thing, common enough to warrant a full-page ad in the LA Times.  Gonna go ahead and assume it's target market is the senior crowd, since that's the same group that still reads printed news, but none-the-less, this woman looks pretty stoked there's a solution to her leaky ass.  Also not about to hide my excitement that I may have just stumbled across a band-aid to a side effect of my anxiety.  Looks like everyone wins today.

Comparison Is The Thief Of Joy

Otherwise known as: Why Facebook is the Devil.

Or in my world: There's always going to be someone smarter, prettier, funnier, skinnier, richer, cooler, more successful, more talented, (etc. etc. etc.) than me - as shoved in my face by The Book.  For real.  So it's essential for me to remember that everyone has their own journey, I am right where I am supposed to be, and everything will unfold in it's own divine and appropriate timing, blah blah blah.

This still doesn't thwart my wild, off-the-cuff jealous streak whenever a friend actualizes some good fortune, either personally or professionally.  My knee jerk reaction is to set them on fire, but instead I smile and congratulate them through gritted teeth and say, "I'm so happy for you…" until I convince myself I mean it.

Example:  All of you fucks getting married and having perfect babies.  I don't want to begrudge your happiness, but when you litter my Facebook feed with sunshine and rainbows, you leave me no other choice.  Instead of catching a ride on your wave of bliss, I'm falling down the rabbit hole of all the ways my life lacks your joy.  Then the maniacal laughter kicks in as the tears begin to fall and I'm rocking back and forth like goddamn Rain Man, repeating over and over that being single and family-less is "my choice."

Or YOU (amazingly talented person who sits across from me at work), with your perfect personality and fun Southern heritage who just happens to be brilliant at writing and is starting to scratch the surface of success… YAY FOR YOU, buddy!  You're like the Jackie to my Marilyn, and you deserve to see your dreams come true.  I'm so happy for you.

Does all this make me a bad person?  Am I a total asshole, or am I just human?  Because the fact of the matter is I just can't seem to help myself, and jealousy is like a welcome mat for doubt - which barges into my house, robs me of my prosperity, and then bitch slaps me on it's way out - leaving me filled with resentment and bitterness.

I realize this isn't exactly a shining endorsement of my character.  In fact, I think this would technically fall under the "character defects" category, but it's a malady from which I suffer.  I figure, why not see if a little honesty will expunge me of it's grip?  Because as of right now, the horror I face today isn't "the funny story I will tell tomorrow," it's actually my reflection in the mirror.

The truth of the matter is that success and happiness aren't measured in finite terms.  There's enough to go around.  One person's success and another's happiness doesn't lessen the amount from the Universal bank.  In fact, the happier and more successful people I'm surrounded by, the greater the odds I will see my own, because positivity is just as infectious as negativity if I allow it to penetrate my stone cold heart.  After my flash of insecurity passes, this is the place I land - because ultimately, I want to be a champion for my friends.  It's easier to love than it is to hate.  Also because bitterness and resentment cause wrinkles, and I can't afford regular Botox on my assistant salary.

Stop & Smell The Ridiculous

Here's what happens when I stop having fun and start taking myself too seriously: I miss all the good stuff.  Pretty obvious statement, I know; but I have an uncanny knack for getting wound up tighter than a noose - which I will quite frequently hang myself with.

The fact of the matter is there's so much fun stuff in life I miss when I get hung up (see what I just did?) on the small stuff, which is one of the reasons I think I drank in the first place.  It helped bevel the edges of my anxiety so I could chill out long enough to breath.  Invariably, I'd almost always overshoot the mark, but there was a window of coherence - usually between that second and fourth drink - where I could breathe and appreciate what I'd been too stressed to acknowledge in my habitual frenetic state of being.  I called these my "aaaaaaaaah" moments, and I coveted them.

Since I don't have alcoholic beverages as my life support system anymore, I have to find alternative ways to comprehend serenity, and it usually comes in the way of laughter.  They say laughter is the greatest medicine, and I'm inclined to agree.  Granted, I laugh at the most inappropriate things in the world, but that's probably because I don't know how to process feelings like a normal person.  I'm sure my Twitter feed is like a career condom, essentially preventing any sperm of talent from fertilizing the seed of advancement and birthing success.  But laughter is how I know peace.  It's light, it's fun, it keeps me alive - in the face of where I find my humor, I say this unapologeticly.  At the end of the day, it comes down to survival for me. 

Recently I've had my head too far up my ass with worry to notice anything, least of all anything funny.  Fear has put the blinders on.  Feelings of not being good enough have consumed me lately, and it's paralyzing.  I suffer from a disease of perception, and from time-to-time, it's hard for me to maintain perspective.  I know we all go through it - those crises of confidence that wear us down like rain on wooden shingles - but when I'm in the shit, it's practically impossible to get out of my head and see the bigger picture.  

Sure, this is my life, but there's a difference between being the center of my universe, and insisting I'm the center of The Universe.  We're all in this thing together, and I'm most understanding and empathetic to that idea when I can get out of myself long enough to notice ridiculous absurdities.  Sometimes it takes a fresh pair of eyes, and, fortunately for me, my brother just rolled into town, and he's like a truffle pig when it comes to unearthing life's little nuances.  Take, for example, the following:  

I chuckled to myself, and then continued about my business, when my phone buzzed with another text:

The text read:  Just walked by and did the polite thing - gave this nice old man the head nod.  Then I realized he was plastic.  Carpool dummy: 1, Brian 0

This pic jogged my memory, and I remembered stumbling across this car parked unsuspiciously in front of a grade school playground in my neighborhood.  (Not creepy at all…)

Playgrounds make me think of kids, and kids make me think of puppets:

Puppets make me think of the these two characters I met at a puppet show… they were not performers:

This is not Halloween.  This is a Tuesday night in Hollywood. 

Weirdos make me think of Hollywood, and Hollywood makes me think of this bad omen, painted on the sidewalk in front of my favorite Thai food restaurant:

Street Roaches

Sidewalks make me think of dead baby dolls...

And dead dolls make me think of decapitated dolls in truck beds:

Death makes me think of Mondays, and the napkin I found on the commissary floor at work:

Guns make me think of bullets, and bullets make me think of what was waiting for me at my desk upon returning from my lunch break at work the other day:

And work reminds me that we're all a bunch of squirrels trying to get a nut, but with a little luck, some of us might end up with a chocolate chip cookie.

After a tangent like that, I'm out of my head and laughing again, and, if not for but a moment, the world seems bearable.

Virgins Feel… Different

It's Monday, and as it happens, this past weekend birthed an unintentional relationship for a friend of mine - otherwise known as fodder for my blog.  I love a good story that starts out with, "Okay, don't judge me…" because right off the bat, I know I'm in the presence of a kindred spirit.

So I settle in - make myself good and comfortable - and announce to my buddy he's in the trust bubble.  He proceeds to tell me he called this girl ("just a friend") to go with him to a buddy's birthday party on Saturday night.  Since she likes him more than just a friend, he gives her the option: meet there, take separate Uber's home OR meet at his house, drive together, take one Uber back to his place, and she could sleep on the couch.

What?

Seriously, this was his best logic, and he was really crossing his fingers she was going to choose option number one.  His words.

She chose option number two.

Now, my buddy doesn't think he's charming, but he's an idiot.  He's great looking and he's funny.  Just add alcohol, and he's a real panty-dropper.  But he tries to tell me anyway that, contrary to his best effort (so as not to lead this poor girl on) he came off like the Dos Equis guy instead.  You ever have those nights when you're just on your A-game?  Well, this was his night, I guess - and it just happened to be the one night he didn't want to be impressive.  Sure.

First red flag in the story is: every time he walks up to the bar to order drinks for he and his just-a-friend, she disappears to the bathroom.  Instinctively I think she's skiing, but turns out, it's not "just like smoking when you drink."  The real reason she kept disappearing is because she's twenty.

The night continues, so does their consumption, one thing leads to another, and they're home bound in an Uber.  At this point he's still trying to convince me she was couch-bound - but now he's thinking maybe it's okay to make out with her?

Well, we all know making out leads to babies.  Clothes started coming off almost immediately after they crossed the threshold of his apartment, and right as he was about to find himself on the road to the Cabbage Patch with Just-A-Friend, he hit a wall - hers.  He says to me (and I quote), "I kept thinking to myself: I don't remember it being this hard to enter…"

My first thought is, "Moron!  You need to take the tampon out first!"  But then it dawns on me, he just fucked the Twenty Year-Old Virgin.

I remembered my first time - laying there on that dorm room bed with my boyfriend from high school.  I remember it for two reasons:

1) Getting fucked for the first time is not dissimilar from a volcano erupting.  It's explosive (physically and emotionally), sometimes there's lava, and if the boy's not clean, it can leave you burning and shooting fire out of your pee hole.

2) Still, I definitely imagined what dinner parties with our friends would be like - how all our kids would run around and play together - the kind of wife I would make (whether or not I would take his last name), where we would live, and how many kids we would have - all while having sex.

Point being, this chick is about to go straight-up Gloria from Wedding Crashers on his ass.  But warnings can't be retroactive, so instead I just make fun of him.

Moral of the story is three-fold:

• Don't ask out Just-A-Friend's
• Don't casually fuck virgins if you don't want to get married.  (Do your research).
• Don't tell me your stories.  I will use them as entertainment.

Boozy Floozy

Since retiring my drinking arm and surrounding myself with like-minded individuals, I've heard a lot of war stories.  I can particularly relate to tales of lasciviousness told by 'ol battle axes who used to call themselves "cougars" - women whose prayers now sound something like this:

Dear God,

I know I'm only supposed to pray for things I need, and not just things I want…

But I really need a husband, so that I leave everyone else's alone.

Amen

This type of behavior is not exclusive to me.  There's like, a club of women who possess this same character defect, and those women are called prostitutes.  (The others are called alcoholics).

I guess, looking back, there were signs…

Dad didn't make it to a lot of recitals...

So I guess I'm not really surprised that turned into this:

I think the obvious thing here is that I was just an innocent girl, looking for some good old-fashioned fun, and 90% of the time, that fun ended up looking like:

Which, in turn, left me feeling a lot like this the next morning:

There's really no discernible moral of the story, however I would like to offer my deepest condolences to the following individuals:

• My parents - God knows you tried your best.
• My brother - many of your friends were inconsequential casualties of my beastliness.  
• My current boyfriend - there's no reason you should know any of this.
• girlfriends… just in general (for the record, I NEVER hooked up with anyone's husband).  
• Anyone who stepped in the way of me and my dance with the Devil.
• My friends - for standing by my side through all my inappropriate behavior.

My Big FAT ASS Demons

Not gonna lie, I just sat down to write this with a bowl of popcorn, and I'm eye-fucking the shit out of some Dove chocolates.  It should also be noted that my current position in life has me sitting on my ass nine out of the ten hours I'm awake each day.  I thought this place would be kinder and more gentle on my soul, and by "this place" I mean behind the camera.

You see, I work in television, and on a daily basis am privy to the emotional deterioration of starving actresses whose hungry tummy's are eating them from the inside out.  I used to want to be that actress, and chased that image down the rabbit hole when I was a teen - just right on down the hole into a pit of anorexic despair and endless abyss of low self-esteem and self-loathing.  It was nice.  I built a summer home and lived there for a few years.  But I'm getting a head of myself.

I guess it all started when I was about nine.  Not that my mother is fat, but she's no Karen Carpenter, either.  I was sitting at our kitchen counter one morning, eating some breakfast before school, when - as I'm told - out of the blue I asked, "Hey mom?  Because I came out of you, does that mean I'll have your parts?"  She stopped scrambling eggs and just looked at me - clearly this question deserved her undivided attention.

Mom:  "What do you mean my 'parts'?"

Me (contemplative):  "Well… like your pungy arms."

(P.S. I am the reason I don't want to have kids.)

My poor mother.  I think she went on a diet right after she dropped me off at school.  But actually, it was a rather astute observation for a child to make.  There is some truth to genetics, or as my father likes to say, "You're a Carey, Kris.  Carey's like to eat."

Prior to this moment, I never paid any mind to weight or food.  I never understood why women didn't like to talk about these topics, but then I probably weighed about 60-something pounds, and fancied a good cake walk at the school carnival.  I liked to play outdoors, and there were no consequences to my eating.  I had no perspective.

Then puberty happened.

Apparently, there's a ghetto-booty gene running loose in the Carey pool, because it found it's way to me.  You've heard of J-Lo?  Well, I may as well be K-Lo.  No joke; as I was walking out of the gym Monday, I was met with some very vocal appreciation for my ass from an African American gentleman, who promptly pointed out that I "needed to be spanked."  It's also been called "luscious", and Mmm Mmmmmmm'd over, as if it were the finest cut of Sirloin.

These are all the sorts of admirations that just make a white girl from the 'burbs feel fat.  Now add social stereotypes and unrealistic standards and what we have is a cocktail for a tasty eating disorder, which brings me back to the teenage rabbit hole I went down and built a summer home in.

During my residency I suffered amenorrhea, lost part of my vision, experienced the joys of dry and brittle hair, developed Raynaud's disease, constant fatigue and a general paranoia for all things caloric.  I was miserable, but I was skinny!!!  Also, I was killing it in school - my grades SHOT up and I rode out my last two years of High School with honors.

Then I went to college.

Fun fact:  if you throw your body into a mode of starvation, it starts to eat itself.  Seriously.  I had lost a significant amount of muscle while I was in the rabbit hole, which proved most inconvenient when my disorder flip-flopped and I couldn't metabolize the food I began consuming as efficiently as my old body could.

So there I was, eating again, but I turned into a skinny fat girl.  I mean, the weight I gained was like fat on bone - no muscle for tone - so I was mushy.  Totally freaked out by this, I began purging: my food, my negativity, my anxiety - everything.  It was like I couldn't get far enough away from myself.  This is an exhausting place to live.  So after a year away at college, I went back home and took a year off while I recovered.

"Recovery" looked a lot like Weight Watchers, where my mother sent me, saying I wasn't necessarily fat (yes, I was), but "you just look like you really enjoyed your mashed potatoes."  Thanks, mom.  In hindsight, it probably wasn't the best idea to treat an eating disorder with a diet, but fuck it; I was thin again, and tired of obsessing over food all the time.  I just wanted to feel normal, feel lighthearted, have some fucking fun…

…and this is when I really started to ramp it up with the alcohol.  I started exchanging food calories for liquid calories, which was convenient because not only did I manage to stay thin, it also made my feelings go away!  Booze was my new best friend!  And you know what else?  Because I was thin, boys paid attention to me.  Alcohol made me fun and skinny made me desirable.  Guys wanted to fuck me, and that was the treatment I used to remedy my low self-worth.

Then a miracle happened.

On a morning shortly before my 31st birthday, I woke up - hungover - and something inside me had died.  I lost the energy to fight.  I had been running on empty so hard, and for so long, I was just tired.  And from the ashes, a rebirth.  I put the bottle down, gave the attention I paid to the number on the scale a rest, and focused on some real recovery.

I naturally thinned out, and thought: "Maybe I'll give acting another shot," but quickly realized that talent must be met or exceeded by looks, and there's a huge pressure, albeit implied, to be thin.  There is nothing about this scenario that feels like love to me.  So I shifted my focus to my parallel passion - writing - and I haven't looked back since.

This story is ridiculous in the sense that it's tragically sad.  It's sad because this type of story, which should be the exception to the rule, is commonplace these days.  Girls like me are the norm, and that is a Goddamn shame.

Today, I'm surrounded by conversations about food and diets and fitness ALL THE TIME.  I live in a society and work in an industry that places an individual's value of worth heavily on appearances, and in order to stay sane I have to completely disengage.  I can't participate in conversations about veganism, or the benefits of high-protein/ low-carb diets, or which workouts will shred unwanted pounds the fastest, or the insane argument a woman's body doesn't really need more than 1,000 calories a day.  When that shit starts up around me, I completely shut down.  I'm exhausted.  It's all I can do to muster up the energy to get to the gym and workout without the residual feeling that it's some sort of punishment for not being "good enough."  I'm tired of feeling that somehow, if I'm not perfect, I'll never truly be lovable.

This got a lot more serious than I planned on, but maybe there's a reason for that?  Maybe one or two of you reading this can relate?  If so, I hope you find comfort in our shared experience, because I don't have much to offer in the way of a solution except to find a way to love yourself, whatever that looks like, and then just keep moving.  It's been my experience that if you just keep going, you'll find your way.

A Bloody Mess

This story is once removed, but I'll have you know it's credible.  It's rightful owner is a friend of mine who told me yesterday (so the details are fresh in my head), and on the heels of Valentine's Day, I feel like this little anecdote is too romantic not to exploit, er… share.

Engagements are a beautiful and exciting milestone in one's life (if you consider a public declaration of surrender a feat of accomplishment).  I wouldn't know, because up until recently, I was the kind of girl you took home to dad, not mom.  In other words, proposal's weren't exactly falling at my feet.

Quick side story, the best friend of one of my exes once told me that when "Seth" and I broke up, he made it a point to rebound with the most boring girl he could find… and then he married her.  Yeah, that's what I did to guys - put them through the wringer until lackluster looked brilliant.

Now, there are multiple ways you can go with the proposal: pop the question to a long-time love who feels like part of the family, or fall in love so hot and fast you don't want to spend another moment single - so you get engaged in a month.  When you know, you know… right?  Like my favorite line in When Harry Met Sally says: "…when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible."  I get it.

My point is, sometimes the engagement comes before you have the opportunity to meet your soon-to-be in-laws.  By then, the pressure is really on, cuz you're playing for keeps.  This "simple" meeting of your two worlds better not collide, because if they do, it's gonna be a looooooong life.  This is where we pick up with my friend's story: on the eve of introducing his fiancé to his mother.

The poor girl was already nervous about meeting her future mother-in-law… I mean, c'mon… we all know the stereotypes, what if this ol' bitty was a monster?  Miss. Fiancé may have had the ring, but she still had to make a good impression on dear old mom… the paperwork hadn't been signed yet!  It was already a strike against her that she and Mr. Man were living in sin, and had been for a while… at least long enough to get a dog.  So, in anticipation of "Betty's" arrival, the least she could do was clean the house from head to toe.

Their spotless home was met by Betty's approval, and after some light chit-chat over a cocktail (to bevel the edges), the trio decided it was safe to take the meet-and-greet out to dinner.

The evening was a smashing success, and it seemed all that worry was for nothing.  Miss. Fiancé chalked up the majority of her paranoia to her cycle… after all, it was "that time of the month."  The three were having such a lovely time getting acquainted, they invited mom back to the house for some coffee and dessert without the slightest inclination that lurking in the dark shadows of the immediate future, a disaster of epic proportions was patiently waiting for them.

For those of you with a dog (and a girlfriend - if you're not a female dog owner), you know that the only thing they love more than the crotch of a dirty pair of panties is a trashcan filled with feminine products, and in regards to the latter, the last thing you should do during "that time of the month" is haphazardly leave your dog unattended.  Also, there's nothing like the wrath of a dog who's pissed you left him alone.

The evening went from great success to Holy terror with the turn of a key.  In less than a second, laughter turned to gasps of horror as they were met with an entire living room covered in bloody cotton, and a dog, hiding shamefully under the couch.

Photo from Notes From A Nerdling blog

God only knows how this couple made it to the alter after that, but they did.  Just goes to show that true love can withstand a lot of bloody challenges, I guess?  And they kept the dog!

People are weirdos.