Marilyns and Jackies

I've just spent the last several minutes (read: hours) meandering down the rabbit hole that is my sordid past (or in other words, this blog).  I began parading my prior degradations in this pathetic online publication about a year and a half ago for a couple reasons:

1) People are too hard on themselves (and God knows I am not exempt from this).  My hope was that by throwing myself under the bus and sharing some of the more uncouth examples from my lesser refined days, whatever audience this monstrosity reached might feel less alone in their own mistakes.  My broader hope was that I'd be able to gather submissions from other people so that this blog was less a showcase of egocentrism and more a display of our collective humanness, but that didn't quite pan out.  Since I think there can be profound personal healing through real human connection (and while I still believe the most effective form of this is recognized over a cup of coffee through an hour of interpersonal communication), a growing social media (for better or for worse) has seen fit to broaden our ability to identify with each other, so I decided to forge ahead with my own personal submissions.  At the end of the day, I fear loneliness can be a cancer (even thought I'm a cynical misanthrope), so this blog may have been more an exercise for my own comfort than the comfort of others.  I've been known to be selfish that way, which leads me to...

...2) I started this blog as a form of penance.  By publicly ridiculing myself and outing my skeletons, I thought I could atone for my indiscretions with humility.  Also, I am openly being accountable for my actions, which may tickle the fancy of any victims affected by the wreckage of my past.  Granted, there are people out there who have committed bigger blunders than I have, who have lead a more lascivious life than I did, or whom have been the unfortunate offspring of individuals who had no right procreating - and these people will all have greater stories of humiliation and misfortune than I could ever dream.  To you I say, please write your memoirs.  There is an audience waiting for you.  But the point here is: I have to live with me.  This is not a big dick contest.  The only way I know how to deflate the power I assign my past indecencies is through sharing my experiences.  Yes, I could do this with a therapist (and I have) but, A) they're expensive, and B) see above article #1.  Listen, keeping personal secrets can freeze developmental growth.  (It should be noted that I am not advocating sharing - or in my case, exploiting - any secret that pertains to anyone other than yourself, unless you're gunning to irrevocably damage a relationship and make life shit for yourself.  And if you're going to share a personal secret that involves another party, at least have the decency to wrap them in a cloak of anonymity, like I did for an ex of mine who discovered an affinity for transgendered prostitutes on our shared dime.)  But as it happens, writing this blog has turned out to be humiliating, humbling, and cathartic for me.

That said, I now find myself at a crossroad - one I thought would never come based on where I have come from.  Allow me to explain…

… For many, many years, I lived my life like a Marilyn.  God knows not physically.  I'm more talking about her penchant for self-medicating and attention from men.  If I had her bod, I probably would have posed nude and tried to seduce presidents as well.  I could be scrupulous, there's no hiding from that.  But I was no Marilyn in the looks department, and I don't talk in a baby voice, like a victim of molestation.  In fact, I didn't even realize I was trying to live like a Marilyn until some years later, well into my sobriety, when my prim and proper Southern co-worker explained that the world is made up of two kinds of women: Jackies and Marilyns.  She self-identified as a "Jackie;" and since I have never made it a point to write thank you cards on monogrammed embossed stationary, attended a cotillion (let alone known what one is), or dress in anything other than a t-shirt and jeans (not to mention the fact I've seen the inside of a Planned Parenthood once or twice), I was left to surmise that I am not in the "Jackie" tribe.  I am what the South would call tacky, and since there are only two kinds of women in the world, I arrived at the conclusion that I must be a Marilyn.

And that's all fine and good for a few laughs or a shot in the ass, but it's not sustainable.  Let's not forget Marilyn died when she was 36 - which just so happens to be my age.  Since I would be a greater idiot to try to continue living like a Marilyn for the sake of posting content to this blog (not to mention I'd be divorced in a New York second), a question of transformation is proposed: Can I transition from Marilyn to Jackie while maintaining tonal consistency?  The answer is: I have to - because this change is as unavoidable for me as menopause.

I picked up a Better Homes & Gardens magazine over a Vogue while I was getting a "mom" cut (read: castration) at the salon yesterday, for Christ's sake!  AND I FOUND IT INTERESTING!!!  They were advertising one-piece swimsuits and coupons for Bed Bath and Beyond, and I found myself casing the joint to make sure no one around me was watching so I could rip the pages out and take them home with me.  So I must be going through "the change," and I remember thinking in the moment, "Oh… This is how a Marilyn becomes a Jackie…"

I get it now: how does a woman maintain the vitality and sexuality of her single youth when making the transition to A) parent, or B) nears her shelf-life (which in L.A. is 29)?  The struggle is real.

While I'm not ready to turn this into a mommy blog - although some of those broads are funny as hell - my aim is to be less esoteric than that (in a different way than writing about being a completely drunk hooker was).  There has to be a certain allowance for growth, and since I made a conscious decision to write about my personal experiences as opposed to focusing on a collective of shared experiences, I think I'm justified in broadening the scope of the kinds of material that qualify as "ridiculous."  At the end of the day, it's still all about life.

It was Emerson who once said, "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds," and I take that to mean if presented with new information, a change in direction is not only warranted, but expected.  To be faithful to a previous set of actions or beliefs, of which can now be seen as detrimental, solely for the sake of consistency, would be downright moronic.  Seriously, how many people think a Marilyn would make a better mother than a Jackie?  Or in a more personal light, how many of you who have read a blog entry or two of mine would give me your blessing to procreate if I was still concerned with dating meth heads for a summer boat rental, blowing my bartending tips on alcohol and cocaine, or frivolously dating any man who happened to glance in my direction?  Be honest; you would just encourage me to get another hole punch in my Planned Parenthood rewards card.

In life, we have to allow for change; as much as in our own journey as in another's.  "Flip-flopping" isn't a four-letter word.  The margin for error should be directly proportionate to room for growth; and a change of heart, a change of mind and a change of opinion, should be celebrated, not scrutinized.  I guess what I'm saying is: Flexibility.

So while I may be departing life as a Marilyn, I'm not convinced that automatically means I'm looking at life as a Jackie.  (That would take a lot of rehabilitation.)  Maybe there's a way to explore life as a Marilyn/ Jackie hybrid (for the sake and well-being of my marriage and child).  So please forgive me if what I write begins to stray from the collection of illicit debaucheries I started with.  But going forward, no matter how you want to slice and dice it, pretty much everything* in life (at least all the small stuff we like to sweat in this first-world nation) is fucking ridiculous.

*Genocide, war, poverty, natural disasters, racism, incest, female circumcision, gender inequality, homophobia, animal cruelty, M. Night Shyamalan movies, et al. not included.

Pregnancy Dreams

I'm definitely someone who has always been a wacky dreamer.  In fact, one of my earliest and most bizarre dreams I can recall was when I was around twelve or thirteen years old.  Our old black lab, Tar, was on her last leg.  She had gone blind and deaf and would stumble through the house and fall down on the reg… it was terribly depressing to watch.  We knew doing the right thing meant her days were numbered.  This was also my first experience with imminent death, and it felt like a rock in my stomach.  I loved my Tar baby (you can blame my parents for any tone of racism here) and I didn't want to let her go, but the end was lurking in nearby shadows - a fact I couldn't escape, not even in my sleep…

I closed my eyes, desperately seeking refuge from the reality that I was about to lose my best friend, when I saw him - my father, walking into the laundry room with a meat cleaver and a white apron.  Instinctively I knew what was happening behind the locked door: he was "putting Tar to sleep"!  I pounded on the door, sobbing hysterically, and when he finally opened it, I saw his white apron was covered in blood, and I knew it was too late.  Tar was gone.  He silently pushed past me, leaving the horror of killing my dog behind him.  And there in front of me, I saw her: all chopped and ground up in a bunch of plastic bags.  He had made hamburger patties out of her.

So this is the mind I'm dealing with.  Fast forward to now: I'm three and one-half months pregnant, and things on the 'ol dream front are getting out of control.  In my defense, I'm not entirely responsible for the oddity of my dreams in my current state.  Supposedly, raging hormones are to blame.  And even though I'm not very far along - barely into my second trimester - the hormone fuel for my dream machine is in full effect.  While I can't remember what I've dreamt every single night, I started keeping track of the most vivid ones, of which I decided to share a short sampling, below:

Buzzfeed.com

- I was with Shree and Jen, and we were getting ready to go out for a night on the town!  First stop: Tom Cruise's house.  Suri was having a birthday party and we were going to crash it.  Somehow Shree knew the password, so we just cruised by (see what I did there?) the guard at the gate.  The lot was massive.  The party was in full swing in the backyard - kids and adults, a bouncy house and pool - the whole kit and caboodle.  Shree and Jen disappeared to God knows where, and I was just meandering poolside.  Suddenly, I noticed a baby that had slipped into the deep end and was sinking towards the bottom.  I quickly grabbed him by his feet, pulled him out of the water, and hit his back until he coughed out the water and started breathing again.  I called out to the crowd for his parents, but no one claimed him.  So I took him home as a party favor.

- I was trying to rob a house with my mom and brother.  Also, I was thirteen again.

- I was at my parents house, and someone was trying to murder us.  I didn't know who the killer was, but I knew he was upstairs.  Next thing I know, I'm in the garage, and I've captured the killer.  Only, he was a miniature person, no bigger than a baby doll.  I knew I needed to kill him, so I asked my brother to hand me an axe so I could chop off his head.  I set the murder doll on the driveway and pulled his head from his body, revealing a spinal column that looked more like an umbilical cord.  Then I took the axe and started hacking through the cord.  It turned into a fleshy material I couldn't cut through, so I just kept hacking and hacking, turning the little guy over  and over so I could go at it from different angles.  "Fortunately," I thought, "there's no blood!"

- Charlie (my seventeen pound Ewok dog) was a bigger, white fluffy dog.  She had a bigger brother (or sister) she was racing around with, and they took off chasing two monkeys.  I was trying to explain to the owner of the monkeys, and older gentleman, that she's a nice dog and was just playing, but he was embroiled in a heated argument with his son over the injustices "we" (white people) were handing the Native Americans.  All of a sudden, I was in the middle of a "battle field", and it felt like the mid-1700's.  There was a white guy dressed as an Indian, trying to stand up for his "brothers", but aligning himself with their group only insulted them more.  So one of the Indians threw a spear through his forehead.

- A girl I work with, we'll call her "Amy", took my job.  I knew it was her, even though I couldn't see her face, and I was PISSED.  I was complaining to T.T., my co-worker, about Amy as I sat on the toilet, taking a shit.  No matter how many times I wiped, it wouldn't get cleaner.  Simultaneously, I couldn't figure out what T.T. was doing in the bathroom with me.  I kept wondering why he was there, and why he wouldn't leave.

- Woke up early this morning worrying that I would sleepwalk into the kitchen and slice my wrists.  I was too scared to go back to sleep.

- I was doing a lot of speed.  I only paused for a second to consider the baby, and whether or not all this speed I was doing would hurt him.  I justified it by telling myself, "Well, at least I'm not drinking…"

And just last night:  I had a dream that my brother took a woman in a wheelchair, with no arms or legs, as his date to my wedding, and all I could think to myself was, "That's a funny looking prostitute."

Constant Craving

Craving:  I know all about it.  In fact, I’d venture to say that most humans with a pulse – whether they choose to admit it or not – do, too.  Even Nuns.  I bet those birds crave a thing or two now and again, (and it’s been well documented that Priests do).  

But suppose it’s not fair to speak on behalf of the population as a whole.  In that case, maybe I am unique in my craving?  Maybe no one else on Earth, past or present, has ever known what it feels like to desire something so strongly as to become almost possessed by it – certainly not the estimated 2.1 million members of Alcoholics Anonymous worldwide*.   

Sticking to my personal experience, I’ll share that my sense of craving began in infancy.  Not that I was capable of coherently identifying or understanding, that, what I was feeling was called a craving, but I certainly cried out for milk when I was craving food.  And when I craved sleep, I let that be known through blood-curdling screams as well.  As I developed, I began to comprehend that I most definitely craved safety.  In fact, I feel comfortable identifying “safety” as my strongest need on Maslow’s hierarchy.  

This craving for safety morphed into an uncontrollable anxiety that crippled me throughout my entire childhood – most likely perpetuated by my getting lost at Santa Anita racetrack when I was two.  Anxiety wracked my being – the only thing that could quell my nerves was to know where my family was at all times, and the only way I could do that was through control.  I began to crave control – which is a futile and exhausting effort.  Later on down the road, I discovered the only other thing that could mitigate my fears – alcohol.  

It didn’t take long before I began to crave that beast.  Even when I had a drink in my hand, I was already nervously anticipating the next – I needed to make sure there was enough supply to medicate my dis-ease.  Before I knew it, I couldn’t function without it.  Sure, I had plenty of moments when I was dry, but I always felt more relaxed with booze coursing through my veins.  The problem is:  inevitably it stops working (quicker for some than others).  And much to my dismay and benefit, alcohol stopped working for me around the time I was thirty.  Suddenly I craved relief – relief and rest from the exhaustion trying to control a drinking problem creates.  I craved it like I had never craved anything in my life, because I was at the end of my rope.  It was now a matter of life or death, because I knew my soul was empty and it was only a matter of time before my brain caught up to the idea that death may be a more suitable option.  

I got a taste of sobriety and hung on for dear life – I began to crave recovery.  It gave me a new lease on life.  I was surfing a “pink cloud” and I had never felt so good.  Life got better fast, and before I knew it, life was actually good.  I started to dream again, and as my dreams grew, so did my vision for my future.  I had ambition!  I started to crave achievement… success!  

I dove, head first, back into the entertainment industry (my only constant love) with unadulterated enthusiasm and vigor.  I put twenty thousand miles on my car in four months, driving back and forth between San Francisco and Los Angeles, until I finally cut the apron strings and made the move to live in La La Land amongst all the other transplants and dreamers.  I landed in features, then television; and during the course of my employment on a procedural drama I would never be given the opportunity to write for, something even better happened:  I met my future husband (in a rather roundabout way) through a co-worker.  

We jumped into a relationship, and before I knew it we were engaged and I was pregnant, and that, in and of itself, introduced a whole new comprehension of craving (apart from FroYo at 10pm) – I had a craving for Life, and a deeply burning desire for the life growing inside of me to thrive and be healthy.  Now I crave the knowledge and empathy necessary to make me a good parent – a parent equipped to raise a well-adjusted and capable child, one who can differentiate between right and wrong and who “makes good choices”, as my father once (and still does) badger me to do.  I crave compassion.  And lastly, I crave the power to stop cursing like a truck driver, cuz that’s really gonna fuck up my kids.

*Estimated worldwide A.A. individual and group membership gathered from service material from A.A.'s General Service Office, revised June, 2014.

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 :