3, 2, 1... 1, 2, 3... What the Eff Is Wrong With Me?

I should not be feeling like this.

Overall, the pieces of my life are genuinely and honestly falling into place. Some by mere chance and others by a stroke of dumb luck. But as I sit here and write this, I have two major bills that apparently went unpaid. No, I can't tell you how that happened. And no, I don't have the money to pay them - either of them.

I'm not sure how it happened but I let a major piece of my life - my finances - get by me. I mean, usually when something goes unpaid it it entirely on purpose and the creditor is made well aware that they shan't receive payment this go round. Ah, well. What can I do except keep on trudging forward?

In other news, I have gone bat shit crazy. I actually said to someone (out loud mind you) that I would "stomp a hole in his face and piss in it". "He" is my boss.

Now, he knows how to pluck my strings. It's like he looks for new ways to make me create new methods of torture. He is the tiny drip from your faucet that you ignore until you realize that the stopper has been in the tub and now your whole bathroom is in your downstairs neighbor's apartment.

I've gone so far overboard that I managed to condescend to my dentist's receptionist. (But seriously, how many times do I have to say that I'm not coming in until October?)

I tried talking to my Grammy about it; she knows how to make things better. But all that did was make me miss her. And I'll tell you what else it did. It almost almost! brought on the slightest tear because I really just wanted to be with her.

And I get to meet Nat's new boyfriend tonight. Is it wrong that I don't give a damn? Not because I think he'll be a worthless no-good but because I really feel like she should be focusing on getting a goddamn apartment! She is homeless and I'm pretty sure that it has yet to occur to her that the kindness of strangers dries up before that of family.

All in all, I think I'm on the verge of firing myself from my own damn life. For all the things that are going right, I seem to be sabotaging myself in another area. So, instead of setting things on fire or smashing them with baseball bats, I'm going to go to McDonald's, get an ice cream cone, and go see April's first cheerleading game.

If I'm not back again this time tomorrow, send a search party to my house.

Paranoia Sets In

There's nothing I like more than getting packages in the mail. I actually have one waiting for me right now as I type:

Jun 7, 2010 9:49 AM
Delivered
In the Middle, OH
Left at front door. Signature Service not requested.

I am as giddy as a 16-year-old boy preparing to get his first blow job. This is the kind of excitement that you just can't manufacture. I mean, yes, I ordered the items and yes, I knew they were coming but you must understand two things. 1) These are BRAND NEW something-somethings that I just had to have and have been waiting (semi-) patiently for and 2) They are finally here! There's the anticipation of finally getting to hold my package. Then I get to rip it open. I'm going to admire my new things and place them accordingly. And finally, my life will feel complete because I have these new things and they just so happened to be the things that I never knew I needed. And that's just with stuff I actually order.

So imagine the state of perpetual orgasm I must live in when surprise packages show up at my door. It's almost too much to bear. That's why the Package Project seemed like such a good fit for me. I would get my very own surprise package created just for me from someone in a mysterious location somewhere in the world.

The problem with this line of thinking and way of living is that I am not, in fact, taking my Grammy's advice. You know the advice. That little thought in the back of your head that says that this is just a ploy for someone to get your personal information so that they can stalk you, come to your house in the dead of night, slay you and then steal your identity.

Whenever this happens, I punt Grammy's voice to the far reaches of the black forest where it can't bother me with its nonsensical logic. But recently, Grammy's voice managed to meander its way back into my head. I mean, What the F*ck, Grammy*!! Because now, I feel like a total douche. Why? Well, words aren't enough.

Do you see what I mean? It's been 11 days since I've given out myyyyyy address and gotten no response from this person. I mean, I just don't understand it. When she (as they presumed to be) first emailed me it was so sweet and endearing. Just a 19-year-old, Australian girl that loves to read and was just as crazy excited about this project as I was. She said that she wanted to know the basics. I told her my age and that we share a love of books. I even told her about my Corgi. I felt as if I could hear her engaging little Aussie accent come through all her messages. So why is it that I feel like I need to be constantly peering over my shoulder looking for a Tom Bundy look-alike?

I'm scared people. I'm afraid that should I actually receive a package it will contain standard stalker photos of me (ie; me and The Boy, me going to work, me pumping gas, me picking a wedgie). Or an audio tape of all my faked orgasms. Or worst, a pair of ugly shoes that are actually in my size! SSSSSSHHRRRRIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!

I just want to say that if anything bad happens to me, I want this blog to serve as my memorial. Be sure to fill it with tons of crude jokes and penis humor. That's the only way to stay true to my life.

*Please know that I would never talk to my Grammy this way. She's the sweetest, most wonderful Grammy in the whole world. Not to mention she raised me for the whole first half of my life and wouldn't hesitate to put the pimp-hand on me or in other words "fatten my lip".

Update: I received an email from my package partner. It had her mailing address and everything. I'm so excited now because if she does decide to stalk me I can stalk her right back. Ha!The slogan by which I now live my life: Blogging: It gets shit done.

Late Night Posting

Hello Dear Heart,

Welcome to J-Bird's After Hours Excuses. I haven't posted in two days because I simply don't have the motivation to write. As of right now, there are at least 3 other things I should be doing before I have to head back out of my incredibly messy house to go to family dinner. But fret not. I shall return and in greater form than when I left.

I know. I miss you too. It's ok. Little boy blue and the man on the moon. When am I coming home? Less than 24 hours. Promise.

P.S. - When a male friend asks you to "put him on", he doesn't mean that he wants you to put his hand on your boob although he won't immediately remove it. Rather, what he means is "will you talk to your friend for me because I like her and even though I act like I'm a grown man I'm really just a fragile little boy".

Good night, Loves.

Delays

I know I haven't posted in days and I apologize.

But I have been using this time to spend with my brother while he's in town. It's weird to realize that you have to "re-discover" who people are when they've been gone for two years.

Also, I went back to work today.

And I'm dog tired.

But there are tens of posts coming your way. I'll probably schedule them out in advance.

So stayed tuned, Bloggies. Some of these are too good to miss!

pics = WIN, labeling = FAIL

Soooooo, I figured out how to post pics today. And it's not because I'm so smart but mostly because I asked someone else who is successfully posting pics. After she looked at me like I ride the short bus she accepted that I was honestly stumped and offered some simple advice. (I love having friends).

On the flip side, when I started this blog I had every intention of labeling my posts. I figured it would be a good way to organize my thoughts. The problem? I'm not truly organized in my real life. So why I expected to be organized in my blog life? I can't explain.

Point is: I can upload pics now. So, I'm off to edit some posts; adding pics and labels.

Yay for you!!

pics = FAIL

I wanted to take pics this week to post on my blog and allow myself a glaring look at the reality that is my fat ass. But alas, what I did instead was recover from the hangover that was my life.


Friday night I discovered something that's almost too good to be true. Yes, I found root beer flavored vodka. And yes, it tastes just like the real deal. I just wish I'd had some ice cream because I would've made a float! And so, I had a sip here, a shot there, all while making myself a tasty little low-fat meal.

I sent a text message to my friends and they figured I was primed for going out and this is what happened. Everyone arrived at my place to get ready. It was just like old times and I was so happy to be with the girls again. I put on a cute orange dress (totally borrowed) and my new fav gold & brown platform heels. And was READY!!

Please note that I haven't been out on the town with my girls since I met NFL. That's more than three months. Yes, this is important information.

We go and get into their favorite haunt (some things never change), Sugar. And we get more drinks. (Yay! for cherry vodka and sprite -- it goes down like candy). And this very tall man touches my elbow. I give the stink eye. And then whisper to Natalie, 'That guy looks like Warren'. She says, 'That is Warren!'. oh.

Warren asked if I like 'Indian dudes'. I told him no, but apparently that wasn't good enough because he proceeded to escort me over to his friend. Who was definitely tall enough but just not my type. And my rude ass (to hear them tell it) just walked away from the guy before he could even say hello. Bahahaa. So classy.

I remember going to the bathroom. And they say I didn't tell anyone I was going. But I'm sure I did because it's like a cardinal rule that you can never go alone. It was exiting the bathroom that I fell. But not before I kicked my feet and yelled, 'NOT MY SHOES!!'. The bouncer caught me and JB helped me put them back on. Yay for friends!! And that bouncer... super cute. I really want him. But the girls won't let me... sigh.

Fast forward to The Patio where I'm standing at a table minding mine and trying to focus in the dark. This guy - whose face I don't remember - starts to talk to me. I instruct him to talk into my left ear cause the right one don't hear so well. That's when he says that he finds that 'interesting'. Wha? And that he wants to study me. *choke* Because he just wants to know how I get along in the world with my disability. Asshole. So then his girlfriend walks up and then he decides that he wants his chair back. I turn my back on them both because I'm not moving (especially for some tool shed and his pimp).

We go back inside and it's my turn to buy a round (someone should stop my consumption). I'm standing at the bar and one of the bartenders gives me The Look. I can't decide if he's cute or not, so I poll the girls and get a unanimous No with head shake. That settles that.

The night is over and we're walking back to the car. But me? I'm barefoot. Yes, on the skanky downtown side walk a la Ms. Spears. Until we get to the gravel parking lot. That's when I flag down these three guys and use them as a foot stool. Gramma would be proud.

We go to the Taco Bell near me. I didn't ask to go. It's just like the fourth meal gods smiled down upon me and decided that I should, in fact, indulge in a nachos bell grande, soft taco, and nachos with cheese. Now, to hear Natalie tell it, I was mouthing off to some people in the parking lot and she saved my life. What I remember is almost losing my nose in the window (that rolled up all by itself) and being trapped inside her car until (AHA!!) I figured out how to unlock it.

When I woke up at 8 on Saturday morning, I was still in my dress, laid across my couch with my contacts in and a Taco Bell spork clenched in my teeth.

I had a great time.

Reality Check

In the excitement over realizing that I could, in fact, fit into my Buckle jeans again. I forgot to take one very important thing into consideration. The fact that all my jeans were "worn". You know "worn", don't you? Not dirty but not freshly laundered.

Well, my jeans were worn and not freshly laundered. So last night, I washed all my jeans and because I was feeling especially cocky, I put them in the dryer.

This morning when I woke, I had the cutest outfit picked out that involved my most favorite jeans. I pranced around until 7:12 only to find out that GASP!! they wouldn't go on. It was ridiculous. The wrangling. The cringing. The utter insanity. I spent so much time trying to put on these stupid jeans that I didn't have time do my hair and makeup.

By 7:27, I was at a loss for what to wear because if these didn't fit that meant none of the others would either. I would have called off work but my phone was DOA so I did what any self-respecting woman would do. I dug through the tote of forgotten garments for my SPANX. (dunh-dunh-duuuunnnnnhhhhh!!!!)

The sadness was palpable. Even my pups looked at me with sad eyes. People, I'm wearing Spanx and these jeans are still stealing my life force.

*heavy sigh*