Friday, December 28, 2012

I still don't have the social interaction thing down.

The other day, Mr J and I were at a pet store, buying kitty litter. We have two cats, this is a common errand for us.
 
The cashier, so bright and bubbly for a Saturday morning, asked us, “Do you have cats?”

I stared at her, and turned to Mr J. I was lost for words.
He said, “Yes, two.” And continued a small talk exchange with her, as he paid for the bag of litter. As we walked out of the store and towards our car, he asked me, “Why didn’t answer her?”

I told him, “because the only thing I could think of to say was ‘No cats, we’re just perverts.’”

Monday, November 19, 2012

How I Could Have Been An Assistant To A Cult Leader

As soon as I decided to move, I began looking for a job. I found one, but not without first almost joining a cult.

I was browsing a job posting site, posting my resume, and applying for any posting that I found interesting. I saw a position working for a CEO of an international company. It would require a lot of travel, which I enjoy, and met my salary requirements, so I applied.

I got a phone call, asking to schedule a phone interview. This always seems a little redundant. Calling someone to see when would be a good time to call. If I answered the phone, it's a good time. But I wanted a chance to research the company before my interview. So I would know if we would be a good fit. I scheduled the interview for that evening, and started frantically researching.

My interview was to be with Mahendra Trivedi, of the "Trivedi Effect." 
What the hell is the "Trivedi Effect?" 
It's a "healing energy  that only Mr. Trivedi (and his wife apparently) can harness and direct into people to make them better. Sick? This energy will heal you. It will give you good luck. Your hair will be shinier. You'll have a better sex life. And cats will sit in your lap. 

If it seems too good to be true, it probably is.

Mr. Trivedi charges a lot of money for his energy infusion sessions. Sessions that you'll have to routinely have done to keep the effects. Because magic is like batteries? They need to be continuously recharged? 

If you can't get an appointment; you can buy water from his website that has already been transfused with his energy. You can buy wine transfused with his energy. Face cream with his energy. At a certain point, I can't help but snicker, and make semen jokes to myself every time I read about his "energy".

These jokes I began making to myself, suddenly became all too possible, as I learned of the sexual harassment and assault lawsuits against this man by previous female employees. One lawsuit, and I might give him the benefit of the doubt that he's innocent. Dozens of lawsuits, and guilt seems obvious.

What do you get when you combine a narcissistic man with delusions of grandeur and followers? A man with power, who will misuse and abuse the power. A man who has allowed himself to become corrupted by his own greed, and sick sexual cravings. Otherwise known as a cult leader.


I didn't answer the phone for my job interview.





For more information about this disgusting man and his practices, go to this blog:

Friday, October 26, 2012

BUT WHY?!?!?!?!

I'm moving to Colorado tomorrow. I've been packing for weeks. Today, Mr. J and some of our family are loading up a moving truck (while I go to my last day of work) and tomorrow we drive to Denver.

While my move isn't a secret, of any sort, a lot of people keep acting surprised by this move. Not sure why. I've been posting to Facebook about it for almost 2 months. and I told most people directly, just so they wouldn't be surprised. The laid plans of Jane's and men...

People have been e-mailing/texting/calling me, panicked, about my move. "Why?" everyone wants to know. Everyone is awfully inquisitive suddenly. "Why are you moving?"

As much as I've heard that question this past week, I would have hoped that I would have a satisfying answer. None of the ones I've given seem to sate any one's need for closure.

Why are you moving?

Well, I've always wanted to move away from New Mexico, go some where I haven't lived before. This seemed like a good time in my life.

Why?

Well, I'm not cemented in my current job, our townhouse's lease is up, and Mr. J really misses his family. (His entire family makes up 43% of Colorado's population. I checked the numbers. Twice.)

Why?

Um... Because that's how human emotions work? Ask Mr. J.

Why are you moving?

To be closer to Mr. J's family and start a life up there. They have a ton of schools up there too. I might enroll after we get settled.

Why are you moving now?

Because if we don't go now, WHEN WILL WE?

Why are you moving?

FUCK! For someone who hasn't see me in person for over a decade, you sure seem interested in my business!

Why are you moving?

Why not?
- Ha! Do you have an answer? Not so easy, is it?

-----------------

There you have it, distant family members and ex-coworkers; my reasons for moving. The bitchy part of me would have said I was moving to get away from you. But that would have been rude, and not even remotely accurate. Distant family members - you live in far away states. Ex-coworkers - seriously, have we hung out even once since we stopped working together? I'm already away from you.

Thursday, October 18, 2012

If you’ve ever mentioned carrot cake in my presence, you already know this.

I hate carrot cake. I’ve tried it. I’ve tasted many people’s versions. I don’t like it. Unfortunately for me, carrot cake is one of those foods that when you vocalize your distaste for it, everyone around you reacts strongly.

“What do you mean you don’t like carrot cake?”

I don’t like it.

“Well, have you tried it?”

Yes, I don’t like it.

“But it’s so good! C’mon, have a bite of mine. You’ll like it!”

No, I won’t. If it’s so great, enjoy the fact that you don’t have to share it with me.

“Why don’t you like it?”

No one ever asks me why I don’t like pigs feet. Or grasshoppers. I don’t ask people why they don’t like the taste of pigeon. That’s because the answer will be either, “I can’t bring myself to try it, it sound so disgusting,” or “I’ve tried it, and it just didn’t taste good to me.” People are allowed to have their own opinion when it comes politics, religion and what they think tastes yummy/gross. But that reasoning just isn’t enough for fans of carrot cake.

So every time. I have to justify my antagonist relationship with carrot cake. Which involves a little bit of a lie.

Carrot cake, is not cake. It’s technically a quick bread. (This is true. I haven’t gotten to the lie yet.)  Banana nut bread is a quick bread too. It doesn’t call itself “banana nut cake” though. Because banana nut bread isn’t a fucking liar. Until carrot cake stops calling itself a cake, and calls itself carrot bread I’m not eating it! (That part’s the lie.)

And truth be told, I have to admire the carrot cake. For dreaming bigger than its peers. Carrot bread didn’t want a life like his brothers. Being made by middle aged women with too many cats and too much time on their hands. It didn’t want to only be made when knitters ran out of yarn, and the craft stores were closed. It wanted to be made for special occasions. It wanted to have candles stuck in it, and spit blown on it after a wish is made. It dreamt that people of all ages would look forward to eating a slice, rather than only being eaten because there wasn’t time to make bacon.

Good for you, carrot cake. I still want nothing to do with you. But keep dreaming, kid. Keep dreaming.

Saturday, October 6, 2012

No Awkward Singing

It's a tradition in my workplace, that on someone's birthday everyone gets a card and gives it to the birthday girl/boy and eat cake. No awkward singing. Which is nice.

Except, I never know what to write in my card. I mean, isn't that why you can get cards with text? So that the card companies can do all the work for you?! I follow Demetri Martin's lead and write whatever I find interesting at the time.


Lobsters have green blood, just like Star Trek's Vulcans.

Light bulbs make terrible traveling companions.

Toes are weird.


That sort of thing. I'm getting a reputation as the "weird girl" in the office. I just think everyone else lacks my imagination.

Monday, October 1, 2012

But for some reason, I never worried about "butt dialing"...

Now with almost all phone featuring voice dialing, I can't talk about anyone without constantly checking to make sure I didn't accidentally call them. 

I can't be the only two-faced person who talks behind friends' backs, concerned about this. 

Sunday, September 30, 2012

Willy Wonka and the Children Factory


The Oompa Loompas achieve that orange glow
by regularly bathing in children's blood.

I know that Roald Dahl's Charlie and the Chocolate Factory has already inspired two movies. But I really think a third should be made. A horror-version of the beloved children's story. I mean, why not? Snow White, Hansel & Gretel, Little Red Riding Hood, and Alice in Wonderland, have inspired recent horror movies. Move over Freddy Kruger, Jason and Micheal, you've got nothing on the horrors Willy Wonka's got in store for you at his "factory". 

***SPOILER ALERT***

Willy Wonka and the Children Factory will be about a crazy candy maker, who has hidden a Golden Ticket in five chocolate bars being distributed to anonymous locations worldwide, and that the discovery of a Golden Ticket would grant the owner with passage into Willy Wonka's factory and a lifetime supply of Wonka products. The first four are discovered by self-centered, bratty children: an obese, gluttonous boy named Augustus Gloop, a spoiled brat named Veruca Salt, a record-breaking gum chewer named Violet Beauregarde, and Mike Teavee, an aspiring gangster who is unhealthily obsessed with television. The last one is found by golden heart-ed, golden haired, Charlie Bucket.

The following day, the children gather at Wonka's factory and are welcomed inside by the candy maker himself, who gives them a tour through his factory. There, they learn of the unseen workers lurking around the factory; small, goblin beings known as Oompa-Loompas, who work in exchange for a mystery substance. While touring through a room designed as a meadow made of candy, Augustus Gloop is sucked through a pipe while drinking from a river of chocolate, resulting in his body exploding from the built up pressure in the tube. His body is circulated into the river of chocolate. Not long afterward, Wonka unveils a product he's working on; chewing gum designed to replace any need for cooking or daily meals, hopefully eliminating the gluttonous attitude of western culture, which is stolen by Violet Beauregarde. She winds up inflating into a giant blueberry that must be juiced immediately, the Oompa-Loompas sink their fangs into her, to suck out the juices. However once they begin sucking, they can't stop until the girl is completely dry. The tour leaves behind her dry, shrived corpse, as it continues. Before long Veruca Salt falls down a garbage chute, while trying to snatch one of Willy Wonka's specially-trained squirrels used for selecting the nuts baked into Wonka bars after being dismissed as a "bad nut." The garbage chute leads to a furnace where she burns alive. Soon, Wonka reveals one of his products in development; chocolate bars that can be transported to customers via television, which quickly captures Mike Teavee's interest. He escapes to test out the device on himself, only to be shrunken to an millimeter tall. While trying to flag down Wonka for help, Mike encounters a spider web, and is eaten my a spider much bigger than he. Charlie, the only child who has not been eliminated, is offered the position of heir to Willy Wonka's factory. A thrilled Charlie rides in Wonka's glass flying elevator to overlook the entire factory and it's workings. Here he discovers that the secret ingredient in all of Wonka's confectionery is children, usually those abandoned and homeless, picked up from the streets. Charlie flees the factory, vowing to tell the police. Only to find his entire family has starved to death in his absence. For time in the factory does not pass at the same rate as the outside world.

The End.....?

I think the ending leaves a great opening for sequels. What do you think?

**Thank you to Mr J, who helped come up with this idea. 

Friday, September 14, 2012

I still hope they get AIDS

I work a few jobs. There’s my day job which in an office, my freelance makeup artist job which is done anywhere the clients want, and my volunteer job which is done anywhere my laptop and I are. 

My volunteer job was to create a website for a local non-for-profit (that would definitely appreciate not being connected with a blog titled anything “Suicidal”, and then to maintain it forever. Forever. I frequently hate this job, as I’m sure other web designers would agree, because sometimes my “client” asks for ridiculous things. Like redesigning the entire website based on a fucking postcard they recently purchased at a gas station in Arkansas, even though they are in NO WAY AFFILIATED TO THE STATE OF ARKANSAS. They’re local. NEW MEXICO local. But I’m getting upset, and there’s no need for that.

When they ask for ridiculous things, I swear, a lot. I get on my laptop, start trying to make their website still achieve its purpose of advertising their mission while accommodating whatever artist whims they have that week. Since I’m usually at home while I do this, the entire time, I mutter curses to the entire organization. The most common curse being, “ I hope they get syphilis, and they rot, fester from the inside out. I hope they go undiagnosed, until parts of their face falls off, and anyone who looks at them knows. I hope their genitals shrivel up and drop into a sewage hole.” Happy things like that.

Last night, I was again asked to redesign the entire website, but I had a deadline, a deadline of “before tomorrow”. I was so pissed, but I didn’t have time for usual witches cursing. All I had time to do was scream “AIDS! AIDS! AIDS!” 

Mr. J overhead me, “what do you need?” He thought I meant that I needed “aides” to help me with something.

He’s probably a better person than me.

Thursday, September 13, 2012

I'm on to your ruse

I think my friend is trying to convince me I am insane.

The friend I went to visit last month (Corlene) and I had spent hours discussing all of our former school mates, and what they had done with their lives. She kept bringing up one girl, Nell. I had, and still don't, no idea who she was talking about.

Corlene: "You remember, Nell. Tall, blonde hair, pretty eyes, Nell."

Me: "You could be talking about anyone... I don't remember her."

Corlene: "Of course you remember her, a little on the pudgy side. She wasn't in the core group, but she would sit with us at lunch sometimes."

Me: "On the days I was sick?"

Corlene: "No. Remember! She was always so sweet."

Me: "Are you sure you didn't meet her after I moved?"

Corlene: "I'm positive you knew her, you had biology together."

I was stumped. Biology had been one of my favorite classes, but I still had no memory of "Nell". I shrugged it off, and had Corlene tell me what Nell had been up to anyway. I then promptly forgot all about this mystery girl.

Until she sent me a friend request on Facebook.

I'm skeptical. Mr. J and his brother created a fake Facebook account, to convice Mr. J's nieces (the brother's daughters) that they had a younger sister. This sister was horribly deformed, and so chose to live in their mother's attic. I'll admit, I help add depth to the deception, by developing the online account, adding "Likes" and photos of socks (she doesn't like pictures taken of her face, but is proud of her sock collection). So I know just how easy it would be to create a fake account.

I mean look at the profile photo. That's obviously not anyone I went to school with. Everyone I went to school with became drug-addicts, whores, or got really, really fat.

At least that's what Corlene and I decided.

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Yes, I am a little socially awkward. Next question?

I know I shouldn't post about my day job, but I don't like being told what not to do. (I take pictures of my other job, so why not?)



A co-worker stopped by my office, and said, "You've been pretty quiet over here."

I didn't know the appropriate response to such a comment, so said the first thing that came to mind, "That's because I have mouse DNA."

He stared at me, mouth slightly agape.

"You know, because I'm as quiet as a mouse...?" I tried to rationalize what I'd just said.

He continued to stare at me.

"This is why I don't talk much." I defeatedly stated.

"You're a little weird, aren't you?" He asked, as he walked away.


~~~~~~~~~~~~

What would have been the appropriate responsed to "You've been been pretty quiet over here"?

Monday, September 10, 2012

It's good to have goals.

Not a picture I took. Stolen from here. Without the permission of tf-oto.
Mr J and I went for a hike yesterday. Like most people, I'm sure, we stop occasionally to point out wildlife that catches our eye. Look at that bird/squirrel/tree/cactus/grizzly about to eat us/etc..

Yesterday it was -

Mr. J: "Look at that lizard!"

Jane: "Is it pooping?"

Mr J: "It's HUGE!"


We stood still, and watched a tiny lizard take a giant shit. I guess I can cross that off my bucket list.

Thursday, September 6, 2012

Pear Phone

This pig is under pear pressure
I recently buckled to peer pressure and bought an iphone 4S. This is not a post about how much I love my phone. Because it's been a month, and eh, we've both decided to just be friends. And not even close ones. Like, only occasionally "Like" each other's statuses when they show up in our Facebook feed, friends.

Where was I going with this?

Oh yes, peer pressure. I didn't want those dickheads my peers to know that they had pressured me into buying into their cult a iphone. So when one of them asked me to show them my new phone, I lied.
This is the lie I told.

Me: "This is my new phone, pretty cool right?"

Person #1 in group: "Is that the iPhone? Which model is it?"

Me:  "Oh, no, it's an aPhone, they look just like the iPhone but are so much cheaper."

Person #2: "What's the aPhone? I don't think I've heard of that."

Person #1 "Who makes it?"

Me: "I'm not sure who makes it. I bought it on eBay. It took forever to get here. I think in came from China."

Person #1 & #2: nod in understanding

Person #1: "So it's a knock-off?"

Me: "I guess,  but it does everything the iPhone does. I even have Suri."

Person #1: "You have Siri?"

Me: "Well, I have Suri. It's like Siri, but a guy, and British"

At this point in my story, please note that you CAN change the settings on your phone to have male British Siri, a female Australian Siri or a female American setting. Anyone who has played with the settings on their phone would know this. But apparently the average macintosh user does not like to customize their software.

Person #2: "Nu-uh, let me see!"

Me: hands over phone

Person #2: talking into phone "Suri, where would be a good place to get lunch?'

Siri/Suri: in a male British voice "Here are the restaurants close to you that serve lunch."

Person #2: "No way! That's so cool! I want one!"

Person #1: "How much was it? Where did you get it? eBay?"

Me: "It was about $35 dollars with the shipping."

Person #2: "I'm going to tell my husband about this one. He's going to flip! We could afford to get one for each of the kids."

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yes my puppets. Believe my ridiculous lies! Tell your family. Eventually, someone you tell, will inform you of what a complete boob you are to believe such things.

Pig Pear Pressure Picture was taken by Fredrik Bj√∂reman 

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Let's be honest...

I just got a e-mail from Netflix, letting me know that season 8 of Grey's Anatomy is now available streaming. Not just one, but two e-mails.

The "cool" (and I use that word very loosely) part of me wants to scoff. Netflix, why do you think this news is noteworthy enough for an e-mail notification? What about my viewing habits makes you think I'd even be remotely interested in watching that?

But then the honest part of me is freaking out, because I can't wait to watch episode after episode, putting off sleep until I've seen every single one! And of course Netflix thinks this something I'd be extremely interested in, and worth e-mailing about, I've seen all of the other seasons this way!!!

Do you think I need to restock on tissues for this view bonanza? Or is the one box I already have at home enough?

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Shit War

If you're a girl reading this, you already know. If you're a guy, you may have suspected.

Girls do not poop. I know I've written about poop, more times than polite, and I may have joked that girls poop. But we do not. We don't fart either.

However, in order to make the other genders feel less ashamed about the stinky mess coming out of them on a semi-regular basis (eat more fiber, and it'll become more regular, or so I hear), we lie. We go to the bathroom, and play on our phones, read a book, fix our hair. We also, to make the illusion more believable, dispose of appropriate amount of toilet paper to make it look like we pooped.

That ground work being laid out, I'd like to take this opportunity to compare the bathroom at my current job (in a very small office of <10 a="a" in="in" job="job" large="large" last="last" my="my" of="of" office="office" people="people" the="the" to="to" very="very">200 people).

Round One: Toilet Paper

Small office: Ridiculously plush toilet paper
Large office: Two ply sandpaper

Winner: Small Office - Even with the point deduction, that it's hard to make my toilet paper origami's folds truly crisp. When I take a nap in the stall, the soft toilet paper makes a great pillow, and a very cuddly blanket.

Round Two: Menstruation Amenities

Small office: Ask fellow co-worker for a tampon.
Large office: Pay $0.75 into a tampon vending machine.

Winner: Large office - This was a close call. Because that vending machine IS ALWAYS EMPTY. But even then you still ask a co-worker. And if you're smart, you ask someone you've never spoken to before, so they don't know your name and won't gossip behind your back. Which is ridiculous anyway, why any fellow woman is gossiping about you being on your period. Hello, it's a natural thing. Guys don't gossip about other guys pooping. But whatever.

Round Three: Lighting

Small office: Fluorescent
Large office: Fluorescent

Winner: Draw - Come on! Why can't we have flattering lights in the only room in the office with a mirror? Whatever bulbs are used in a Lane Bryant dressing room, that make me feel super skinny and that everything I try on makes me look like a super model, instead of looking pregnant, which is what I look like where I wear that expensive outfit ANYWHERE ELSE, can we use those lights? And not just in the bathrooms, but every where? Please?


Overall winner: No one. Because as long as I have to pretend to go to the bathroom, the longer I'm going to blog about it. And I suspect, no one is enjoying this.

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Real life knock-knock joke

My day job is in a office. This isn't that pertinent to this story, I just really like my office.

One day I had to interupt a meeting to let one of my bosses know he had a visitor.

Me: "Sorry to interrupt, but Rebecca's here."

Him: "Rebecca? I don't know any Rebeccas. Rebecca who?"

Me: "Rebecca Your-Daughter"

Him: "Oh, that one."

Monday, August 27, 2012

Why is he so mad at me?

Mr. J was out of town all week. Leaving me home alone with the kitties. Mr. J doesn't let anyone use certain things when he's home. His pillow. His water bottle. His car. His pants. No one is allowed to touch them. (And I'm the crazy one??)

He got home yesterday. And he quickly noticed evidence that these things have not only been touched, they have been used.

His pillow? - The cats slept on, because they missed him. Awwwww, how cute, right?

His water bottle? - The cats knocked off the table because it smelled like him and they were angry that he was gone. Still cute, right?

His car? - The cats drove it to work, so that they could fill in for him at his job so he wouldn't have to use his vacation days.

His pants? - One cat wore them, while the other wore his shirts, and stood on the one-wearing-the-pants' shoulders to present a more human like shape. It must have looked pretty believable, since no one at work noticed!

Why is he so mad at me? I didn't touch his stuff.






I hope he doesn't notice that the cats used his razor.

Sunday, August 26, 2012

Today's inner monologue

I should really go to the store....



But that would mean changing from these pajamas into real clothes, and I don't want to put on a bra....



Fuck it, it's 2012! I don't need to wear a bra! My body, my breasts, I don't have to wear a bra if I don't want to.....



Ugh, all this female empowerment is exhausting. I wonder what's on TV.

Saturday, August 25, 2012

I'm broken too.

About a year ago I had, what I like to refer to it as, a complete nervous breakdown. I'm the only one who likes to call it that. Probably because doctors don't like that term anymore, and no one else wants to call it anything. Most people don't even want to talk about it. At. All. But fuck them. I want to talk about it, and I'm the one who had it, so I can call it whatever the fuck I want.

Back to the story.

 A year ago, I was really struggling with depression. For months I would wake up numb, go to work, feel overwhelmed, cry in the bathroom, pretend I was fine to my co-workers and friends, go home, pretend I was fine to my partner and family, try to sleep, feel overwhelmed and cry in my own bathroom, until I passed out on the bathroom floor, only be carried/dragged back to bed by my partner. Things were not great. I started cutting myself, something I hadn't done in years. And when my partner discovered it, he stopped suggesting I go to therapy, and demanded it. I told him that I couldn't. I physically could not call another therapist's office only be rejected again.

Previously I had called several offices. Only to be turned down, because my insurance wasn't the right one (despite what their website said). Or that they weren't accepting new patients (despite what their website said). Or that they weren't accepting patients with my insurance. Or that they weren't accepting patients who hadn't been diagnosed. (I don't even know what to say to that.)

My partner told me that he would call, and find me a therapist. It took a week. Hours everyday. But he found me one. One who didn't just put me on a waiting list, but agreed to see me, the very next day. I cried, because for once I could imagine the pain I was in, someday not being so bad.

I took the day off work, and went to my first appointment. I was scared. Terrified, really. What if she couldn't help me? What if I was unfixable? What if I was so wrong, that there was no way I would ever feel better? I had every reason to be horrified. And unfortunately, she couldn't help me. She made everything worse. So much worse.

In the two months I saw her, she convinced me that the reason why my step-father and I hadn't gotten along when I was a teen, was because he wanted to rape me. She gave me prescription advice, which she was not licensed to do. And told me that the only way I would ever be happy was if I dumped my partner and married someone I met in a bar. Every session (weekly) would start with her asking if I'd broken up with my partner. I told her that I hadn't, and she would berate me for the next half hour.

Eventually I started lying to her. Just so we could move on to another topic. Like, why I wasn't feeling any better? I'd been to therapy in the past. I knew that things took time, but two months, and no improvement was unusual.

After lying to her for two weeks, I decided I couldn't take it anymore. And by "it" I meant living. If this was what my life was going to be like for the rest of it, I was going to make sure the length was a short one. And I told my partner and mother. "If you don't get me better help by tomorrow, I'm killing myself."

"May we take you to the emergency room, to get you a psych evaluation?" My partner asked.

I told him that if it would help, he could. I was fully willing to be committed in an institute if it would just make the pain stop. So I went to ER with my mother, and talked to a woman named Margaret, who told me to stop going to my therapist immediately. She was very concerned that the psychiatrist that my therapist had been working with had prescribed me anti-depressants that I was having severe reactions to. Instead of feeling less depressed, the medication made me more tightly wound (anxious) and extremely paranoid. She also gave me a prescription for Xanax so that I could finally sleep. Margaret made a list of doctors she recommended. Ones who she trusted to help me with therapy, and ones who could put me on the right medication. I was released, with my Xanax and list of doctors.

I took a few weeks off of work, and rested. While my family called the doctors to make me an appointment with anyone who would see me. I started seeing a new therapist, and a new psychiatrist. I was starting to feel better. I went back to work. I'd been taking Xanax daily, and was sure that I was calm enough to make it through a measly 8 hours-a-day work week.

I made it 45 minutes.

45 minutes is long enough to clock in, start up your computer, lie to your cubicle mates about why you had to take such a long emergency break from work, open your e-mail, start stressing about how full your e-mail inbox is, and start hallucinating.

Hallucinating isn't exactly the right word. But it's much more dramatic than the correct word. Disorienting. See? That just sounds like I got lost. But if put it in the context, disorienting is much more terrifying that just seeing things that aren't there. I was sitting at my desk, when suddenly I started "believing" in things. Not about God, or Jesus. I didn't "get saved". I started to believe that despite having no evidence of such, that the air was suddenly become unbreathable. I believed that I was going to start suffocating, and so was everyone. Why was I the only one panicking? Didn't everyone know that we were all about to die? My brain was on loop, "I can't breathe, we're all going to die." I may have even said it out loud. I don't really remember. I do know that the woman sitting next to me, asked if I was okay, and when I made eye contact with her, her eyes went wide and she told me I should go home. I practically flew to my car, but couldn't figure out how to turn it on. I called my mom to pick me up, and told her about the air changing. She told me she was on her way to get me, and not to move. She stayed on the phone with me, and listened to me scream because I could see the air turning into liquid (there's the hallucinations!) until minutes before she reached me, and my mind couldn't take it anymore, and things got really calm and slow.

Suddenly everything was fine. But I was so tired. Thinking was exhausting. Why did people have to talk so much? It was hard to follow the words people were saying, let alone have a full conversation! It was like my brain had shut off. I was awake, and aware, but I just wanted to sit and do nothing. That's what I did, for days. Maybe even weeks. I don't remember much about that period. I know that I ate when people told me to ate. I went were people took me. I made child-like crafts when people told me do something creative. I slept a lot. In that period of time I lost my job, because I couldn't handle talking to people on the phone to get on short-term disability. I couldn't remember or understand the questions they needed answered. I cried a lot, again. Not because I was miserable, but because I confused and scared. I felt like I had suddenly regressed to the mind of a child, and I didn't understand why.

I got a diagnosis. Many in fact. Depression, bi-polar disorder, obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD), post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), anxiety disorder and borderline personality disorder. Wow! That's a lot of disorders! I joked that from what I've learned about medicine from TV medical dramas, you can't have multiple diagnoses, you can only have one thing wrong with you that describes all your symptoms (i.e. "House"). No one found the humor appropriate. My psychiatrist told me that some of my conditions were genetic, like depression, bi-polar, and anxiety. That the symptoms would pop up for the rest of my life, but that I could take medication to help with the struggles. The others, OCD, PTSD, and borderline personality disorder came from my history of being abused physically, emotionally and sexually (I call it the Power Trifecta... because saying that makes people feel uncomfortable, and it's an uncomfortable topic. Plus it happened to me, I can call it whatever I want). As a small child, teen and as a young adult (again, it happens in threes). She went on to tell me that while medication could help with the symptoms of these "reactive" disorders, through therapy I could free myself of these disorders. It would take years of work, and there was no guarantee that I would be successful, but that it was possible to get better.

It was very inspirational, and I almost jumped up fist in the air yelling "I can do it!" like a character from Pokemon determined to someday become a Pok-e-Master. But then my psychiatrist told me that she didn't know how to medicate me and so couldn't see me as a patient anymore. I got dumped by a doctor, for being too sick. She referred me to a doctor who specializes in my type of disorders.

I should say specialized, because when I called him, he told me that he was getting ready to retire, and wasn't interested in taking on "difficult cases" like mine. (Thanks for nothin' asshole!)

I wasn't quite back to square one, because I did still have my new therapist, who really was helping me. And I still had my trusty Xanax. But Xanax is only available by prescription, and my supply would only last so long. I called every single psychiatrist in the phone book (actually my mother did, I was still playing with legos, and having a hard time of it). The second you mention "borderline personality disorder" to a psychiatrist on the phone, even one who said they are accepting new patients, they suddenly don't have any available appointments. Or they hang up on you.

I finally found a doctor who would accept me. Though "accept" isn't really the right word. He scoffed at my diagnoses, and told me that he would assess my case and tell me what I actually have. (He later agreed with all of them.) Also, where my previous psychiatrist would see me for an hour each session, he would only see me for 15 minutes. Even in my first session, where he "evaluated" me. Squeezing the information usually exchanged in an hour, into 15 minutes was overwhelming, and I always ended up crying that day because I couldn't remember which pills I was suppose to take when, and would have to call the office for clarification. This doctor didn't want patients to bring in family, because he felt that patients wouldn't be honest around their family, so I was never allowed to have a witness in room, even though I just wanted someone to help me remember my medication information. He also kept prescribing me medications that my pharmacy refused to fill. I had been going to the same pharmacy for a while, the pharmacists would look at my file, see the list of medications I'd been on and was on currently and tell me that they couldn't give me whatever new medication had been prescribed, because the combination of what was currently in my body and what would be added with the new prescription would kill me. Or they wouldn't fill a prescription for a sleep aid because the prescribed amount was fatal to even someone the size of an elephant. (I know I'm a little overweight, but not THAT overweight.) He insisted I stop going to the pharmacy that kept track of my medications and go to a pharmacy on the Spanish-speaking side of town that couldn't counsel me in how to take each medication. He reasoned that I should only be taking it as he directed anyway. But then he confused my chart with a different patient and nearly gave me a seizure. I stopped going to him.

I stopped even trying to find a psychiatrist in this town. I didn't have any insurance (lost my job, remember?), so I could no longer afford to pay to see one anyway. I kept going to therapy, and learned some cooping skills. I finally got my brain functions back, and even returned to work (different job, different company, a lot less stress for about the same amount of money, whoo!).

But things aren't much better. I still struggle with depression. I still get disoriented, and hallucinate if I get too overwhelmed. Not to the degree as before, but it's still scary. I still wish the world would end sometimes. Sometimes I wish my life would end. And sometimes I try to make it end (I have yet to succeed, obviously). I don't have a great ending to this. Because it's not over. Even if I ended this post with something happy, how I love each day, it's a gift, whatever, it doesn't mean I would feel that way tomorrow. Some days are good. Some days are bad. Some days are very, very good. Some days are very, very bad. It's a journey. It's not over yet. I don't know how it's going to end. I just hope that if someone's going through something like this, and they read this, they know that they're not alone. Because sometimes that's the only thing that can comfort you. Knowing that you're not the only one who has felt like this. Or is feeling like this. You're not the only one. I'm broken too.

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Why I went to Omaha last weekend.

I visited a friend last weekend. Someone I've known since I was 11 years old, but hadn't seen in almost 10 years. We went to a Garbage concert, and spent more money than necessary shopping. But what I like the most was discovering what had changed about each other, and what hadn't. Changed: I once called her the uber virgin. She now has two kids. Not changed: She still talks to everyone we went to school with. I didn't realize that I'd want to know what happened to everyone we knew, when I stopped talking to most of them. I'm lucky that she had the forethought to keep track of them all. As much as I loved meeting her kids, catching up and going to see a kick-ass rock show, my favorite part of the trip was the conversation we had while getting our nails done. Me: "Do you know what happened to Chad?" Her: "I have no idea who you're talking about." Me: "You know.. " In a deeper voice, "Chaaaaad." Her: "Oh God, Chad. He was gorgeous!!!" She remembered not only our inner jokes, but the inflections of our jokes. She's amazing.

Thursday, August 2, 2012

Mr J = Classy

The Olympic Games are on TV at the exact moment I'm writing this. Are we (Mr. J and myself) watching them?

No.

What does Mr. J force me to watch instead?

Watching Wipeout. The show where average people wipeout while trying to get through ridiculous obstacles.

Sigh.


When I expressed my disappointment in his "sport" view choices, Mr. J immediately banned me from posting about it on facebook, twitter or tumblr.

......... He said nothing about blogging about it.

Saturday, July 28, 2012

I bet I'm going to enjoy my time on Facebook a lot more now...

Just over a month ago, my mother sent me a Facebook message. It detailed that I was an unappreciative brat, who never took anyone feelings into account. And how my buying a pair of shoes was most definitely the worst action taken in the history of humankind. Now, I will admit that I am paraphrasing, because I didn’t save the message. I tend to delete hate mail, no matter who sent it. Usually when someone writes me a hurtful letter, I delete it. And then delete them from my life. But as this was my mother, I felt that really wasn’t an option. So I took a few days, drafted a response, rewrote it several times, and eventually sent a response. I apologized for not giving the gratitude and affection that my mother felt was due her. I explained some feelings of my own, and reminded her of the struggles I was going through myself, and how I also felt unsupported by her.

It was a difficult letter to write, as hers was difficult to read. A few hours later, I received a response. Not from my mother, from my father. Again, I was told that I am a terrible person, and that I should immediately apologize. I didn’t. And I don’t intend to. I didn’t start this fight. I meant every word I wrote. A few days later, my mother again wrote me. Telling me how spiteful my letter was, and terrible. (Again, none of these are the exact words. I don’t save negative letters. This is from my memory, so it is biased.)

I didn’t respond. There wasn’t much to say. I wasn’t going to apologize. And it was obvious neither were they. From the beginning, I thought it was morose that my parents had chosen Facebook as the platform for this conversation. If this had been done in person, the topic would have been over in minutes. An hour tops. Mom would tell me that she felt underappreciated. I would apologize, and point out that I didn’t feel supported by her. She would apologize. Hugs would be shared. It would be over. No one would have been dragged into it. Done. Fini. But because it was pushed through digital media, which I think we all know is risky because tone can not be properly conveyed, the ordeal lasted two weeks.

Or so I thought.

I thought this little war was over, when I attended our bi-weekly family dinner. I pretended everything was fine, and didn’t mention the letters. No one else did either. We all pretended everyone was happy, and ignored the large elephant we’d shoved under the carpet. This is what my family does, and we have all gotten very good at it. The only notable difference from other similar “let’s fake that we’re all getting along” evenings, is that I now refused to be hugged by anyone. I’d mentioned in my letter that I didn’t like being hugged, due to memories of sexual abuse resurfacing. That was the one thing I refused to fake for the sake of keeping the evening pleasant. I strongly feel that if I don’t want to be touched by you, you do not have permission to touch me. And if I don’t like you at that particular moment, I don’t want to be touched by you. After I walked past the first set of open hugging arms, no one said anything or forced the issue. Let’s get some food for that elephant under the carpet. He’s a growing boy. Things were pleasant. Tense, but fine. No one was yelling or throwing things. We were all playing nicely. I thought, given enough time, these dinners will become less internally awkward, and we’ll all get over being mad/hurt.

However, now my dad seems to be on a rampage. It may be his current mission in life to piss off as many people as he can. Are you religious? Doesn’t matter which one, he thinks you’re wrong, and an idiot. Are you political? He thinks you’re wrong, and an idiot. Do you like watching TV? He thinks you’re wrong, and an idiot. Are you breathing? He thinks you’re wrong, and an idiot. Are you him? He knows you’re right. Congratulations, you are the only intelligent person on this planet. It’s annoying when he goes into a rant, about how whatever group of people he dislikes du jour is wrong. But it’s tolerable because at least that anger and superiority isn’t targeted at you. Just wait though, because sooner or later you do find yourself targeted.

My father decided that the family should go see the new Batman movie, opening weekend. He decided this, after the shooting in Aurora, CO. His logic was that people would be too afraid to go, thinking that the same thing would happen to them. His logic (which was wrong, by the way, opening weekend numbers were very high) was that people are stupid, fearful sheep. When I told him, after receiving his invitation, “thank you, but no thanks”, I suddenly was lumped in with the “stupid, fearful sheep”. Apparently it never occurred to him that I just wasn’t in the mood to go see a movie. He posted arrogant comments on my Facebook page (again? Facebook? Are we tweens? Do we not have phones? Can we not talk via the telephone, or even better, face to face?), which I deleted. I found them offensive, and I didn’t want them on my page. Now, he’s posted a blog entry, in which he refers to all of his children as “small minded”. I don’t normally read his blog. It’s normally very political, and extremely bitter/angry. But he posted the link to it (again, on Facebook) publically, and the title mentioned Star Trek. I got curious, and read it. He writes that all of his children, are “small minded” because we don’t like the “Star Trek : Enterprise” series. He lists reasons, none of which really matter. I can’t recall which of the reasons were ones I’d given him in the past, and which of them were my brothers’ reasons. Again, it doesn’t really matter. The three of us, my two brothers and myself, are considered inferior in intellect due to the fact that we simply didn’t like a particular spin-off of a fictional TV show. Really.

Dad, if you’re reading this, and I doubt you are, because you probably don’t think anything I write is worth your precious time, what exactly did I do to navigate your aggression my way? When I was a teen, you abused me verbally. I forgave you. I didn’t wait for you to apologize. Sure it took years of therapy, but I forgave you. You literally tried to kill me one night. One of your hands was over my nose and mouth, and the other was around my throat. I forgave you. Again, years of therapy, but I forgave you. I could ask you do to the same for me, to forgive whatever it is that has made you so angry at me. But frankly, I don’t care anymore. Be mad at me. Drag your image of me through the mud as much as you want. I’m not watching it anymore. I’ve blocked your account from viewing mine on Facebook (your favorite means of communication it seems). I might see you at our next family dinner. Maybe, maybe not. That might be the day that I finally decide that trying to have a relationship with my mother isn’t worth putting up with you. I guess we’ll see.

Friday, July 20, 2012

Only the good die at Batman screenings



Let me start by saying that what happened in Aurora, Colorado was horrifying. My heart aches for everyone involved.

I have to say, however, how good do the people with bad taste in movies feel right now?

Couldn't wait to see "The Raven"? You like terrible movies, and are not in danger of getting shot.

You may also be thrilled to know, that when you buy your opening night tickets to see the Three Stooges remake, your changes of survival are extremely positive.

Just make sure you have someone else drive you there and back. I really don't want you behind the wheel of any type of vehicle.

Sunday, July 15, 2012

What I think about before wishing you a Happy Birthday on Facebook.







It's CENSORED 's birthday. But I only accepted her friend request, because we worked together, and I didn't want work to be awkward. But I don't even work there anymore. Is it too late to remove her from my friends? I don't want to remove her on her birthday. That'd be a jerk move. I'll just post happy birthday. No big deal, it'll take seconds. Wait. Didn't I post on CENSORED 's page last week "Happy Birthday Beautiful"? I have to say something about her being pretty too, or else she'll think I think she's ugly. It's not that I don't think she's pretty, but CENSORED was going through a really rough time, and I though she could use the compliment. Why didn't I just unfriend them both when I stopped working there? I know, I know, I didn't want them to think that I was only facebook friends with them because they were my co-workers, I didn't want to make them feel bad.



** 30 minutes later, still no decision reached **

Christ! Look at how many birthdays are coming up. I can't do this for every one of them. I don't even remember half of these people! CENSORED? Who the fuck is CENSORED? God, I hope none of these people wish me a happy birthday. I hate it when my page blows up from people I barely know, leaving generic birthday wishes. That's it. From now on. No more birthday wishes. For anyone. Ever.



** 10 minutes later **

Starting next month. I don't want CENSORED to get her feelings hurt.

Monday, July 9, 2012

Raisin Herpes

Some kids broke into my car this weekend. I assume they were children because while they took nothing, they went through everything.
Also, they left an opened snack box of raisins.
And a bag filled with the smashed bits of what once was the cookie bit of an Oreo. None of the Oreo's white stuff.


I hope they get herpes.

You might think, herpes? Isn't that a little harsh? They violated me, with the WORST part of the Oreo, and raisins. Raisins are the herpes of the snack world. Everyone know's that. You never think you're going to get them, until you do. You can never get rid of them, because your mom won't let you throw them away, and she tells you to just eat them because they're good for you.

Saturday, July 7, 2012

I don't care about 99.9999999% of the shit you all post.


When I see my mother, I’m tired of her asking, “did you see my facebook status?” 
No. I don’t stalk your facebook page. I see you on a regular basis. I assume if something important was going on, you’d tell me. In person. Or on the phone. Remember that we have phones?
“You didn’t see the picture of the omelet I made your father?” (My mother looks just like a young James Van Der Beek.)
No. Nor do I care. Why do you?
“Then you didn’t see that your grandmother died, either, did you?”
WHY DIDN’T YOU START WITH THAT?!

Saturday, June 23, 2012

Don't joke about cat thongs (The moral of this story.)

Mr J and I may have just had our stupidest fight ever. I jokingly accused him of buying the cats' underwear. I don't recall what lead up to that. But he laughed. I laughed. So I continued to up the ante. He had spent $150 dollars at a specialty cat lingerie store online, on cat thongs. I laughed. He didn't.

"You sent $150 dollars online buying lingerie?!" All traces of a smile had left Mr J's face.

"No, you did. Last Tuesday. On cat thongs. I think you were drunk." I assumed he was playing a game.

"I can't believe you would do that without telling me first. We have bills, you know." Mr J, still wasn't smiling.

"I know! You really should have asked the cats. I doubt they'll even wear them." I still hadn't caught on that his face was getting tense.

He didn't respond. He looked down at his food and began eating. Each stab of the fork was deliberate, and loud.

That's when I noticed the veins bulging and throbbing from his forehead. "Dude. What's your problem?!"

"Nothing." He kept eating.

"Seriously. What's the deal? We were just having a good time. What did I say?"

"You just spent $150 on underwear. We're barely getting by financially, and you're frivolously spending." He was serious.

"What are you talking about? I didn't buy any underwear. That was a joke. About you buying cat thongs."

"Fine." He went back to eating. The vein was still pulsing.

"What now?!"

"I just thought that was your way of admitting that you'd done that."

"So you're mad, because you've imagined me spending imaginary money on imaginary underwear." I could not believe how insane this had become.

"It sounds stupid when you say it like that..."

And now I'm mad at him! I seriously hate it when men get their periods and act so fucking hormonal.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
UPDATE: 

Monday, April 9, 2012

More like a curse in my opinion.

Instead of doing important things, like doing any form of work OF ANY KIND, I spend most of my time watching television. I know I'm not the only one. This means that I also watch a lot of commercials and movie trailers. One movie trailer has grabbed my attention.

The Lucky One


It's a movie based on a book, by Nicholas Sparks who writes books that make you cry out of your vagina, so I've been told. I'm not passing judgement. I haven't read any of his books. Or seen any of the several movies based on his books.

But I do have a problem with a line Zac Efron's character says in the trailer.

"You deserve to be kissed, every day, every hour, every minute." Not the first time I've heard those words being uttered in an effort to be romantic. But every time, I can't help thinking... that would be seriously inconvenient.
*kiss* Babe, would you please *kiss* pass the toilet paper?

Friday, March 30, 2012

That's what I get for paying off my car loan.

(First off, I need to preface this story by saying THIS IS NOT AN AD FOR KMART! I was not paid to write this, I was not given free products, I was not compensated in any shape or form whatsoever. In fact, I'm not even going to say Kmart again in this post.)

A certain gorgeous celebrity recently launched a clothing line at S-mart. (You know the slogan, "Shop Smart, Shop S-Mart.) They're adorned by shotgun patterns, and the occasional chainsaw. I had heard about the clothing line, it's weapon theme, and decided to check out the clothes online.  They're tough, slightly violent, and oh my gawd hot! One pair of jeans in particular caught my eye. I needed them, wanted, lusted for, hell I coveted the sin out of those jeans. So earlier today, I decided to go to S-mart and buy them.

However, I only knew the location of one S-mart here in Albuquerque, and I hadn't been in that part of town for years. I was more than a little shaky about it's exact location. There were roughly five intersections I thought it might be. And they were all relatively close to each other. I hopped in my car, and started looking for the store.

First intersection? No S-mart
Second intersection? No S-mart
Third intersection? No S-mart
Nearing the forth intersection.... What the hell is that sound? Is that coming from MY car? Is that my engine scraping along the asphalt?

Unfortunately, yes, that sound was coming from my car. But no, that scraping noise wasn't my engine. I have no idea what it was. Some metal thing that's suppose to be bolted to and covering some moving part to prevent it from being broken by rocks. Is that an under carriage? Why can't I think of the words "under carriage" without immediately thinking of testicles? All I know, from pulling over and crawling under my car, is that it's suppose to be held up by four bolts. It was only being held up by one.

Now, covered in engine grease and dirt, I decide that S-mart is not happening today. Even if I found it, as if driving around with a sparking car was a good idea, I wouldn't want to try on the jeans with my hands covered in black muck. I don't know if that sludge is even going to wash out of the old crappy jeans I was wearing. I wasn't going to risk it on a pair of new, sexy, gun-slingin' jeans.

I pulled the car in the opposite direction and headed home. I got about 15 feet when the mystery piece of metal fell off. NOTHING has ever made me feel more like trash, than having to pull over again, and walk in the middle of the busy road to pick up a piece of my car. I've lived in trailers, I've eaten possum, there have been times when I couldn't afford to shop at even the local .99 cent store. I seriously thought about leaving that hunk of metal in the middle of the honking cars. But no, I don't want Al Gore to think that I don't care about the planet. I humiliated myself, played human Frogger through traffic, picked up my litter, and threw it in the trunk of my car.

The most annoying thing, however, was that on my way home, I saw a BRAND NEW S-mart just a few blocks away from my house.

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

But he accepts my insurance!

Text conversation I had with a friend (who will go unnamed, as she has kids who would be horribly embarrassed)

Jane: Is it a bad sign when your doctor prescribes you a medication only stocked by a pharmacy in the non-English speaking side of town?

Friend: What?!

Jane: I think I'm taking meds made out of donkey sperm.

Friend: Oh my god! Hahahahahahaha! I almost peed myself, that was so funny.

Jane: Good, I've been trying to make you pee yourself for years. Someday. It'll happen someday. I'm hoping it'll be because I made you laugh that hard. But it could be fear related. You never know, and I don't want to commit myself to a plan.

Friend: Gotcha.

Jane: The pharmacist just came out to tell me that my handwriting is amazing. Apparently his hobby is analyzing handwriting, and mine shows that I am quite the artist.

Friend: Do not take those donkey pills.

Jane: But they were prescribed. By a Doctor. I can't not take them when a doctor told me to. Even if they are just capsules filled with donkey semen.

Friend: Find a new doctor.

Sunday, March 4, 2012

Mr J would look stupid in a mustache anyway...

Not a Dodge Charger
Mr J's been thinking about buying a new car. I don't know if he's actually planning on purchasing a vehicle, or if he just enjoys looking at car stats online. Either way, he's been talking a lot about the Dodge Charger.

I don't even know what one looks like, but I've been told it's suppose to be quite the pimpin' car.

The other day, I pointed out, what I thought was a "pimpin'" car. "Is that a Dodge Charger?" I asked.
"No, that's a Dodge Magnum." Mr J informed me.

I told him, "You should get that, it looks cool."

Mr J disagreed, "I can't get that. It's a station wagon. We're not driving to Wally World with Audrey and Rusty."

"Vacation reference, nice touch. But really, you should get the Magnum. You can tell people you like your cars like you like your condoms!" I persuaded.

Mr J just looked at me, like people weren't going to fall for that.

So I told him, "It'll be great! You buy the Magnum, grow a mustache, start wearing Hawaiian shirts, solving mysteries and next thing you know you'll have a helicopter!"

"Hmmm... Wait! That's Magnum, P.I. I'm not going to reenact Magnum, P.I. Plus he didn't even get to fly the helicopter. That was T.C." He was so thrilled to be able to prove me wrong.

"Sorry, I guess it's been too long since I've since that bit on Robot Chicken." I conceded.

"What?"

"Yeah, I've never seen Magnum, P.I. But I did see the sketch they did on Robot Chicken about the show."

"How have you never seen Magnum, P.I.? What's wrong with you?" Mr J was incensed.

"Uh... I'm 8 years younger than you. It stopped airing when I was 4."



So I looked it up. It actually stopped airing when I was 2. We're not getting that car.

Here's that Robot Chicken sketch.

My car has a micro penis... or a super big clitoris.

Wash me!
About two weeks ago, I found a Nerf Dart under my car. I figured it belonged to one of the neighbor's children. I know how much it totally sucks to lose a toy, so like always, when I find a lost toy, I move it to somewhere I think the kid will be able to spot it easily. At my last apartment, I would put the toy on the steps leading up to the apartment building we all share, or dangling from a tree, two feet from the sidewalk, by a bright colorful ribbon. But since I've moved to a townhouse, I don't have a shared staircase or sidewalk. I have no idea where these kids live, just that they were playing around the parking lot. So I thought the logical spot would be to move the dart from beneath my car to on my car. Surely the child would see it next time they played, grab it and all would be right with the world. It's been almost two weeks. The dart's still there. And now I kinda like it. It's like my car has a belly button now, and it's an outie!

Saturday, March 3, 2012

No, really, I lost three pounds...

Conversation I had with Mr J after working out, and after waiting for him to get out of the shower so I could shower:

Jane: I just weighed myself, and I lost 3 pounds!

Mr J: That's great hunny!

Jane: I LOST THREE POUNDS!!!

Mr J: Great job!

Jane: I LOST THREE POUNDS!!!!

Mr J: I heard you the first time! Go shower!

Jane: I LOST THREE POUNDS AND THERE'S A SPIDER IN THE BATHROOM!!!!

Mr J: What?!

Jane: I LOST THREE POUNDS AND THERE'S A SPIDER IN THE BATHROOM!!!!

Mr J: Where? Where is it? STOP SCREAMING!

Jane: On the shower curtain, kill it! I lost three pounds.

Mr J: (kills the spider and disposes of the corpse) There, go shower.

Jane: Are you aware that you showered with a spider?

Mr J: I am now.

Jane: Did he molest you? Show me on the doll where the spider touched you.

Mr J: Where did you get a doll? You didn't even leave the bathroom?!

Jane: I have dolls stashed all over the house for emergencies like this.

Mr J: What?

Jane: Quick deflecting. We need to call a specialist. You've just been violated by a spider, we need to get you into counselling immediately.

Mr J: (leaving the room) You're so lucky you're cute.

Jane: I LOST THREE POUNDS!

Monday, February 27, 2012

Big Brother is monitoring my flow

I downloaded an app that tracks my period. It sends me texts the day before my period so I can remember to shove some necessary products in my purse and not ruin someone's perfectly white couch. (Who the hell thinks that a white couch is a good idea? It is going to get ruined, maybe not by me this time, but by SOMEONE.)

At first, the app was pretty cool, it asked me a few questions, and then, other than the 28-day-mark text, it left me alone. As the months went by, it updated itself. With each new update, it asked me a few more questions. It wanted me to confirm that my period had indeed started the day it predicted. Then last month, it sent me a few more texts, "24 hours until your period begins"..... "18 hours until your period begins"..... "8 hours until your period begins".... "30 minutes until your period begins".

And slap me with a fish, it was absolutely right! This app predicted, to the exact minute, when my uterus would start expelling the uterine lining and failed-to-be-fertilized-egg.

Then last week, it sent me another text. "The flower is blooming." What the hell does that mean, I thought to myself. So I opened the app, and investigated. It means I'm ovulating. This app knows what's going on in my body before I do, and is now telling me in cryptic code. No need for pregnancy test anymore, if I do accidentally get pregnant, I'm sure I'll get a text, "The bird is in the nest."

I just wish it would let me know if I'm getting a cold. "The leaves are turning orange."
If that cold is going to turn into a sinus infection. "The duck doesn't leave it's pond in the winter."
If that infection is traveling up to my brain and going to kill me. "Wind is the color of joy, and sorrow."

Saturday, February 18, 2012

Something fun to do at your next party!

I rarely host parties at my home. The more people there, the more likely someone will steal my couch. And DAMMIT, I CAN'T AFFORD ANOTHER TO LOSE ANOTHER COUCH! So why risk it?

But when I do, I like to play secret games with my guests. Games they don't even know they are playing. Like removing the soap from the bathroom, and seeing how many people use the bathroom but don't ask for soap! Now I know who all my gross friends are and who I will NEVER SHAKE HANDS WITH AGAIN! A similar version can be done by removing the toilet paper, guests go in for a few minutes and then come out without their socks.

Has any one else noticed how obsessed I am with bathrooms?

Friday, February 17, 2012

Mr J took me out of the dating market as a favor to the rest of the WORLD.

Valentine's Day has come and gone, leaving millions of women everywhere pissed at their partners.

But all of this romance has gotten me thinking of all of the things I have learned from my vast experience of dating.

  • Don't date someone just because you like how precisely they apply their eyeliner. Especially if his foundation application is sloppy.
  • If you fantasize about licking the stubble on their head, kissing them is going to be a let down.
  • ALWAYS ask out the "10"s, they have no idea how hot they are, and usually say yes!
  • No one is as ugly as they think they are. You are your own worst critic.
  • If your date's car's backseat is full of "laundry" they are living in that car.
  • Inviting you over to play Yahtzee, is code for booty.
  • If, when asked "How old are you?" your date responses "How old do you want me to be?", your date is not over the age of 17.
  • 99% of your one-night stands think that you two really connected and think that you should immediately get engaged. 80% are already in a relationship with someone else.
  • The worst way to tell a guy that the sex was bad and will not be repeated, is to tell him you think you're a lesbian, immediately after the act, before he's even had a chance to get dressed.
  • Never have a picnic with grocery store-made sushi, you will get sick.
  • The more expensive the flowers, the more likely your date is allergic to them.
  • Trying to scare away your suitor by lying and saying you have a kid, are moving to L.A. to get a job in the porn industry, are in love with your roommate and are allergic to the suitor's body chemistry, will not work. It only make their co-dependent obsession with you STRONGER. Either tell them you want to break up, or marry them and wade in your misery forever. (Either way, they're gonna break your legs.)
May these tips help the singles out there dodge these dating landmines.

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

Oompa Loompas need love too, Batman

Do any of the villains Batman catches, and then turns over to the police, ever not plead insanity? It seems that they all end up in the easily escapable Arkham Asylum, so they must have plead insanity for their crimes. Maybe in the Batman universe it's assumed that anyone would have to have one oompa loompa short of chocolate factory to even consider committing a crime?

Should Oompa Loompa be capitalized? I don't think it's a pronoun, but I'm getting conflicting information on the internet. Should just the first "O" be capitalized, both the first "O" and the "L", or just the "L"? Should there be a dash ("-") in between oompa Loompa (Oompa-loompa)?

Why am I fixating on oompa-Loompas when this post was suppose to be about Batman villians?

These are the questions that keep me up at night.

Anyway.... Happy Valentine's Day.

Here's a copy of the e-card I made for Mr J.

Monday, February 13, 2012

All I'm asking is for a little gay erotica

Jared Fogle (the Subway Guy) needs a porn alter ego. I have searched and searched and come up empty handed. Let me tell you, when looking for subway, the sandwich restaurant, porn, you come across a lot of Japanese men molesting/raping schoolgirls on subway cars videos. And until I'm a quadrapalegic, that's not really my thing. When you search for sandwich porn, you get a lot of threesome videos. Sometimes they also take place on a subway car. Once I found a video of two guys eating a sandwich while double teaming a girl on a subway car, but that wasn't what I was looking for.

Dammit, the world needs Jared Fogle seducing Michael Phelps, and/or Apolo Ohno. I can see it now, Jared enters the green room on the set of a Subway commercial the three men are filming. Jared is wearing his old size 5XL pants, holding them up at the waist band. When suddenly he drops them, revealing that he's not wearing any underwear. Michael and Apollo are shocked at the size of his footlong penis. Jared smiles at them and winking, purrs, "5 dollars."...

I want to start questioning what vigorous activity REALLY helped Jared lose that wait. If the pink-haired eSurance cartoon chick is popping up in hentai websites, then why haven't any picked up Jared? It has to be some form of discrimantion, and I won't stand for it!

Please sign my petition in the form of leaving a comment, and help me demand that Jared be brought to into the adult entertainment world!

*I should note that I was able to find a heterosexual fanfiction involving Jared, but it was softcore at the most. And while very cleverly written, I was left unsatisfied and wanting more.

Sunday, February 12, 2012

Not dead or a quadriplegia yet


Did Suicidal Jane finally commit suicide? Get real. I've just been supremely busy. Here's with what:

I went to school, and finished! I am now a Toni & Guy trained, and MAC Cosmetic trained professional makeup artist. I have my own small company (Detective Agency Makeup), and have been designing and applying makeup for a few local fashion shoots here in Albuquerque. Exciting, right?

I've been designing websites for myself (Detective Agency Makeup), Opera Mom (Minnich Music) and a local school outreach program (who would not appreciate being linked to such an offensive blog).

Well if that wasn't enough for you, I've also been cheating on you. I've been writing somewhere else. Somewhere private and off-line. I've been trudging through, I mean working on my novel, the one about the vampire with bulimia.

But I've missed you, and I'm back. And boy do I have some things to write to you all about. True they're mostly porn related, but what do you think I've been doing while procrastinating writing about vampire puke and making already gorgeous models more gorgeous? I've been thinking up more deranged porn that doesn't exist but TOTALLY SHOULD!

So more to come. But just to give you something to think about until then, think about this. If I suddenly became a quadriplegic, due to some freak accident or something, I would totally go into the porn business. After all, the money could be good, and I wouldn't feel it anyway.... gotta pay the bills somehow, and maybe I could hit two fetishes at once and sleep all the way through it.

See? Every cloud has a silver lining.