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Feb. 12th, 2010

Angel of Death

Jesus, Etc.

I can't get that Wilco song out of my head. The lyrics are so amazing...

And now I'm blogging for the first time this fucking shit-ass year, because I'm supposed to be writing a grant proposal and I can't take it right now. Can. Not. Do it.

I'm now sorta friends with two exes, Baldy of the Red and Baldy Show, and the ugly but smart dude whose nom de guerre I can't even recall. One of them loaned me some cash to make it through the month, the other referred me for a pretty good job opening (who knows if I'll get it, but it's nice to have a personal recommendation to a VP). Elf on the Shelf is still an annoying drunk-ass fool--when he drinks too much, which is regularly. When he's approaching sober he's quite nice, if still a massive loser who's never going to amount to much. Oddly enough, my aunt's company hired his manic roommate as our SoCal sales rep. I'm counting on his coked-up ass to get out there and drum up some business for us so I can have extra income from that company while I struggle along on the peanuts I get from piecework ghosting for a grantwriter in Fort Fuckworth, my hometown.

A friend of a friend of mine (my friend lives in Chicago, his friend lives in Tucson) came to SD last weekend and brought a guy friend with her; they both met a mutual friend of theirs who now lives in Buffalo but spends her Februaries in SD. We all went out to brunch and had a grand old time. When I met the Tucson guy friend, he said, in that tone you'll know well if you too are a redhead, "Ooo! You're a ginger!." I said, "Better a Ginger than a Marianne."

Turns out he's a swinger who wants to add me to his harem. Um. No thanks. First of all, that is sooooo not my thing. Second of all, he lives in Tucson and I have such horrible allergies there, as soon as they de-pressurized the airplane cabin my eyes cloud over and my face fills, balloon-like, with snot and splotchiness. Plus, GROSS! Is he serious? Then he invited me to some Valentine's Day event at some bar in Tucson. You've got to be kidding me. There's nothing as romantic as fucking a disgusting swinger on Valentine's Day in Tucson.

Anyway. I'm discouraged, disheartened, dirt-poor, and have no idea how I'm going to pay my rent next month. I was just chatting with a friend in Germany who cannot believe my life. He says, "In Germany you get free healthcare no matter who you are, and if you don't have a job, you get assistance with your rent and food." "Ah," I remarked, "but you have to put up with all the FUCKING GERMANS!" He hasn't worked in 18 months and hasn't a care in the world. He's not even looking for a job until spring.

I have an interview Monday with Nordstrom's Lingerie department. It's commission only and I'm a horrible salesperson. But it's a good company to work for, and it's really the only thing in town that's hiring right now. I have no fucking idea what I will be able to wear to work if I do get the job. My aunt loaned me a suit for the interview, but my fucking ass is so fat these days the only thing that I can fit into is stretch pants and giant sweaters that make me look preggo instead of fat.

Kentucky Boy got a promotion today. He's never going to leave Chicago, and I'm going to be stuck with this horrible alkie pot-growing Elf out here in San Diego forever. Nothing like a nice long-term relationship that evolves out of complacency to make a girl feel good about life. And earlier in the week I almost had Kentucky Boy convinced to move out here and live with me. What can I say? I'm bummed. But not so bummed I can face the thought of dealing with the 18 feet of snow they get every year in Chicago. FUCK.

I recently informed one of the lawyers I used to work with in Fort Fuckworth that he and those other sons of bitches at the firm killed me years ago and I haven't been worth a shit since. I told him to enjoy his cushy life of medical care and cabernet. My secret revenge is that he and his equally fucked-up wifey were the unflattered subjects of a short story I wrote once.

Fort Fuckworth is full of perverts. Not in the fun sense of perversion. Perverted justice, perverted logic, perverted religion, perverted economics, perverted forestry, perverted rivers, perverted trees, perverted roads and smoke and dust. If you're still stuck there, get out before you lose yourself in the fog.

On that cheerful note, back to the grant. Which, by the way, is for the benefit of perverted Fort Fuckworthers, so kiss my ass in gratitude, won't you? Thanks.

Jan. 1st, 2010

Angel of Death

Elf Staying on the Shelf

The Elf, as it turns out, is one of those great hippie alcoholics we all benefitted from in high school. The kind who always had the best weed and was always ready to have a drink with anyone at any time.

Nice guy. Sent him a buzz-off text. Actually, I said he was right about my emotional unreceptiveness (he came over wasted trying to get in my pants--luckily, as this type of drunk normally is, he was easy to fend off and passed out quickly on my living room rug), and that I am in a bad place to get in a relationship right now. He accepted it as his due course, and it was one of the simplest pre-breakups I have ever administered.

There were two today, both simple. The other was with the idiot from Oceanslime. What a load off. I told him that I'd done some major thinking, it being new year's and all, and that I just wasn't ready for a relationship given the events of the past year. He was fine with that.

Meanwhile, back in acupuncture-land, I got the best massage of my life from the AcuViking after a long session of burning herbs and tiny needles. I must be ovulating, because it was all I could do not to jump up, knock him over onto his own massage table (which would have been difficult considering he is 6'2" and a former linebacker), and ravish him. Okay, it wasn't that hard to keep from doing. I was so relaxed it took me ten solid minutes of concentration to be able to sit up. He kissed my forehead and then my lips when I left. It's my ideal when a big hulk of a man is capable of such sweetness and gentleness. Yet at the same time he is strong enough to rub, shake, and beat the knots out of my every muscle. And he is willing to do so. And he is incredibly knowledgeable about it.

My purple darlings, my only complaint is that I don't see him often enough. I think he's a long lost member of my soul tribe. His being a Viking descendant like me is surely a part of it. We discussed herring and salted oatmeal with much gusto. He gives perfect hugs--not too squushed and overbearing, not distant and uncomfortable, juuuuuust right.

And the best news is he said my energy reserves are now about half-full, rather than being those of a feeble elderly woman like last time he treated me. I told him pigging out must agree with me. He encouraged me to eat lots. Seriously, ladies, does it get any better than that? A tall, big but not fat, emotional but not gushy, intellectual but not cut off from reality, food-lovin' massage certified forehead kisser who exudes no discernibly strange odors? I've struck gold. Now if I can just get him to call me. Maybe if I will it...

I sent him a note telling him how fascinating he is and gave him some of my poems to read. The poems are always the real test. Hardly anyone has time for poetry, especially my poetry. If he doesn't read them or has nothing interesting to say about them...I'll be sad. But I'll probably keep chasing him in my totally inscrutable way, because for Christ's sake, the guy is amazing.

Dec. 27th, 2009

Angel of Death

Elf on my Shelf

It so happens that on Xmas morning, I realized the Elf had left all his eggs over at my house from the previous day's baking emergency. He had been talking all evening about how he was going to make himself this great Xmas breakfast of eggs and bacon and toast. So I texted him that I had all his eggs and did he need them? He did. He came over and picked up his eggs and helped me get all the platters of cookies into the car along with my dog and her crate. What a nice boy. With a dimple in his right cheek.

Xmas was everything Xmas should be but never was in my own past. At least not since my mom died. Food, friends, family, booze, presents, doggies playing chase with each other, sunshine on the patio, sneaking cigs as I walk my dog, a fire in the fireplace at night. Wonderful. Perfect. Happy in a way I never thought I would be lucky enough to experience.

Dec. 24th, 2009

Angel of Death

(no subject)

I just barely got my fresh homemade cookies into the hands of the corporate lawyer and got him hustled off to his Xmas eve movie with a friend before my wonderful Elf arrived to help, for the third day in a row, with the baking. (This would be the stranger new in town from the East Coast.) So far no rape, theft, nor murder. In fact he brought me butter, eggs, some Van Morrison concert recordings, and a wonderful little piece of original artwork. And he brought chicken jerky treats for Sophie. Yeah, he loves me.

"Armando" responded to my poetry by telling me which his favorite was (the only one that had anything to do with love, of course), and sending me another chapter of his ridiculous book. Mmm hmm. So he's relegated to dinner partner status until he catches on that I'm not going to put out and stops calling me. Yes, it's true. I'm an evil conniving hustling woman. And I have absolutely no scruples about it. After all, men have been fucking over women since day One of humanity. I think in the overall scheme of things, a few damn dinners is small consolation and more than justified.

Hm. The idiot from Oside called and left me a voicemail. Guess I should listen to it and see what ridiculous bullshit he's going to come up with. Ah. He's working for a New Year's date. Well, so are Corporate Lawyer and the Elf. So far the Elf is winning just from sheer helpfulness and nice-guyness. He's got the least money and is yet the most generous. Now that is a guy I will buy dinner for rather than waiting for him to buy me dinner. Corporate Lawyer is a close second, although he has yet to display any real goodness of heart. I guess he did take a picture of Sophie and me today, but I figured that was just so he could show his friends the younger woman he's spending time with. Am I wrong to be so cynical? Probably not. I mean let's be honest with ourselves here.

Anyway. It's Xmas eve and I'm alone with my dog. Listening to Bela Fleck do the Twelve Days of Xmas on his banjo on public radio. I wish I had some scotch because I have had way more than my share of wine this week and it's beginning to gross me out. Yet I want a slight buzz before bed. Is that so terrible a thing to want on this most holy of nights?

Oh, lest I forget, the Elf also brought me a Richard Brautigan book that he said reminded him of me, and a book of eerie Japanese postcards. He's the second man in as many years to say that my writing reminds him of Brautigan, so I guess it's high time I read him. I started the book and so far it's a lot of nonsense, and not necessarily in a good way. I like some of his sentences and the brevity of his chapters, but so far I'm not seeing the whole picture. We'll see what happens by the end of the book.

The Elf is a Nervous Nellie like me. Unlike me, he has not yet sought treatment for it and thinks he does not need medication. Meanwhile, he's sucking down Tums and Pepto at the rate I did at my worst--all that adrenaline makes one sick to one's stomach constantly--and missing a lot of sleep and all that shit. I told him to go down to Mexico and get himself some black-market Prozac. I hope he does. Prozac, like Guiness, is good for you.

Well, my purple darlings, my auntie just called and wants me to come over to the house super-early for breakfast and present-opening, which means I've got to be up at the butt-crack of dawn packing the seven or eight platters of cookies into the car, along with Sophie's dog crate and Sophie herself. Then we'll open presents, then I'll pick up my brother from the airport, he'll open his presents, and then we'll settle down for a nice huge dinner of ham, turkey, green bean casserole, sweet potato souffle, mincemeat pie, and my soon-to-be world famous pots du creme tart with sugar cookie crust and fresh vanilla whipped cream. Mmmm. In fact, screw the dinner, I'm just going to start with dessert.

Happy holidays, and I'll see you at the gym. I'll be the one looking regretful and bloated, but jolly nonetheless.

Dec. 22nd, 2009

Angel of Death

Tuesday is for Baking

"Armando" is writing a book on diet and exercise called "Use It or Lose It." He wants me to read the first chapter. Yes, this is what the world needs; another exercise book--this one written not by an expert, but by an engineer who, like all engineers, has figured out the ONE RIGHT WAY to do EVERYTHING and wants to make sure everyone else gets the benefit of his wisdom.

Call me crazy but I smell another narcissist. I sent him some of my poetry as a litmus test. If he tries to understand it/me, I will continue to entertain the possibility of dating him. If he doesn't, fuck him, he can go narcissify some other poor broad. In other words, if he complies with my own narcissism, he's ok.

The corporate lawyer called wanting me to go to a Meetup--until I told him my aunt and uncle were going to come, too. Then, suddenly, he had something else he remembered he had to be doing. To his credit, he called back later, having decided to brave it after all, but we'd all decided to wait until my brother arrives to see the movie featured in the Meetup. Poor lawyer. I'm sure I change my mind way too much for him. He invited Sophie and me to come to the dog beach tomorrow. If it's as cold as today I'm going to suggest we go bathe in hot fondue cheese instead.

He's really working it trying to get laid. I don't really feel like fucking right now though. What can I say? I'm just not a fucker these days. Plus he seems like another cheapskate--I've had enough of them. Give me a poor man generous of spirit over a rich man stingy of wallet any day of the week. He said he doesn't picture me as a baker, but as a career-woman dressed in a pinstriped suit. I told him he obviously doesn't know me very well yet.

I invited a total stranger to my house to help me bake cookies today. What can I say; I'm lonely. And lazy. He was lonely too--just moved here from the east coast and doesn't quite understand the sheer insanity of the populace here yet. It was actually kind of fun. We smoked cigarettes on the balcony, fucked up several attempts at rolling out sugar cookies, drank a bottle of cheap red wine, and talked about our dead dads and our horrific step-parents over the years. We both drive foreign-made station wagons, love that our dogs help assuage our depression, and were English majors who now can't find jobs to save our lives. Neither of us want kids and neither of us have two nickels to rub together. Guess he's not so much of a stranger after all.

I forgot how nice it is to hang out with someone the same age as me--who doesn't have kids. Not that there's anything wrong with others having kids, but it was nice not to feel like the fucking freak of the universe for a few hours. I also forgot how easy it is to make a new friend. In college none of us would have thought anything of inviting somebody random back to the quad or to the dorm or to the cafeteria, because at that stage we are all looking to expand our horizons and make new and interesting friends. Then I guess we all just get too smart, too scared, and too "adult" for such impulsiveness.

Hell, I've lived through all kinds of bullshit, unhappiness, and dastardism. The absolute worst that could happen to me if I talk to a stranger is rape, theft, or murder. But the real likelihood of those things happening is very small. Rape and theft I would survive, if not happily, through the now-common coping mechanisms I already have in place and those I have used in the past to great success. Murder I obviously wouldn't survive, but I asked him if he was a murderer and he said no.

When it gets right down to it, there's not much in life to be afraid of. I mean, real fear, not the anxious stuff that is my usual stock-in-trade.

My day of fun ended on a high note. My dear Kentucky boy called from Chicago. He was in bed and sounded all nice and snuggly. Gods, do I miss him. It so sucks that he wants kids and I don't. He is as close to perfect for me as I've ever known. I wish we could spend Xmas together, and New Year's, and President's Day, and Valentine's Day, and Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday and Friday and Saturday and Sunday.

Well, off to snuggle my fuzzy muppet dog. She is the best substitute for True Love I've ever found. If only she could learn how to discuss Nabokov with me in the evenings and make me breakfast in bed on special occasions...

Dec. 20th, 2009

Angel of Death

Pathologies of Dating

Over pizza with the idiot from O-side (which turned out to be worth the trouble), I realized what his problem is. He's a pathological liar. Every opinion he proferred that I disagreed with he turned into agreement with me however he could. He told me he was Jewish, then said his sister is a Christian fundie..."oh, I uh, I converted to Judaism in junior high because all my friends were Jewish."

He stated he is not a rapist. Um. Ok. Really glad you put that out there.

When I told him my ex was a narcissist, he immediately said his was, too. He said he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth but that he just isn't motivated by money and that's why he is now living paycheck-to-paycheck in a trailer in Oceanslime.

He can't seem to remember how many ex-wives he has. First it was one, the narcissist. Then it was two, the mother of his children and the narcissist. Then it was three, the mother of one of his children, the mother of his other children, and the narcissist. It's getting crowded in here!

Once he got back to his splendiferous trailer in O-slime, he emailed me that my wise counsel had softened his conservative heart and he had bought a box of donuts for a homeless woman and told her they were from a girl he knows. I'm not sure where he got that lame-ass story, but it sounds like something the Hallmark channel would dream up.

Thank the gods I have my dog. One, she's a girl, so I can trust her. Two, she's a dog, so I can just let her do dog things and know she'll be happy. Three, she's the cutest thing that ever lived, so I get sorta dumb and happy every time I look at her. In fact, I'm going to go snuggle her and look in her totally unassuming eyes for a while to get some perspective on all this insanity.
Angel of Death

Riddle Me This

Why is it I never hear from the men I most want to hear from? The idiot from O-side called 1800 times yesterday to make sure I wasn't mad at him, and because I'm hungry and penniless, I accepted an afternoon pizza offer from him today. I've been trying to get my hands on some pizza ever since last night when I smelled it cooking at the restaurant next door. I called Acu-Man and did not hear back.

I really, really, really wanted to hear back. This guy isn't the best looking, richest, or sexiest man I've ever known, but he is by leaps and bounds the most interesting and the most in tune with my experience and mentality. So of course that means he will probably never call again and I'll never know why. Oh well. No use crying over spilled ginseng.

I went out with some corporate lackey lawyer last night--a really nice guy if a bit too old for me and a bit too worried that he is the same height as me. We went to an Irish pub in Ocean Beach and listened to a Beatles cover band and people-watched. I had called him to ask him to buy me pizza but he'd already eaten and then I couldn't say I didn't want to go out with him because then he would have known I'm only interested in the food his money can buy. He called me today to ask me to brunch, but I couldn't face the thought of so many mimosas. We saw a brother and sister duo having a great time last night and it made me miss my own brother like mad. Can't wait to see him Friday!

He said he enjoys debating me and the fact that I can argue my point w/o getting upset. I said it's more in my nature to offend than to be offended.

He might be a nice friend to have for a while. Maybe. Who knows. He was very obvious about his desire to get laid last night but didn't seem to take it personally when I completely ignored that particular subject, choosing instead to debate whether a woman dressing sluttily has any realization that she does not need to do so because men are already ready to take her home no questions asked even if she's wearing a cardboard box, we delved into women's self-esteem issues, power, rape...and true to my plans this dampened his ardor. Just call me Scheherazade. Or however the fuck you spell that unspellable name. At any rate it kept me from having to share that I am currently releasing a disturbingly huge flow of dark clotty blood from my vagina and have no wish to have a first fuck through all that mess.

Anyway, this morning when he called he thanked me for sharing all my fabulous feminine insights with him.

Hah. I'm sort of amazed. He's certainly not giving up easily, so that's a good sign. Maybe.

Dec. 18th, 2009

Angel of Death


I was supposed to go out with "Armando" tonight but I called and cancelled due to cramps and exhaustion.

Today my acupuncturist told me I have the "jing" of a feeble woman in her late sixties. I was not surprised. He stuck some burning herbs on me and some needles in me and I felt like taking a nap. He told me to drink more water and not to eat raw vegetables. I'm pretty sure I have cancer. I made some mac and cheese and slept for two hours. I think I remember inviting my acupuncturist to Christmas dinner as I was sitting in his office after the treatment, barely able to stay awake. Hm.

The other day I went out to lunch with my ex, formerly known as Superdate (or Baldy). He told me he has a fantasy about me using a strap-on to butt-fuck him. He told me most of his orgasms with his current girlfriend (and soon-to-be babymomma) have resulted from fantasies about me. My dog is scared of him.

Last night I met up with a young guy who informed me that disincarnate beings have been trying to kill him since he was a young child. My diagnosis would be slightly different. He's clearly gay, was raised by an abusive alcoholic father and enabling religious zealot mother, and explains away his night terrors and hallucinations thusly. He lectured me on Carlos Castaneda until I felt a panic attack coming on, and so I excused myself from his presence forevermore.

Tomorrow I'm supposed to go to the park with some idiot from O-side. I think he'll be getting the cancellation notice as well. He annoys the shit out of me, and it's just not worth the free dessert from Extraordinary Desserts...or is it? I guess we'll see what tomorrow brings.

Meanwhile, I am struggling over whether or not to go next door for an overpriced plate of Italian cookies. Or hell, I could run down to Little Italy for that matter. But no, leaving the house just seems like soooooo much work. And it's cold out there. It's like 50 degrees. Fuck that noise, man. Time for a good, old-fashioned bed-in.

Dec. 17th, 2009

Angel of Death

Dr. Feelgood

Today I had coffee with a trumpeter-turned-acupuncturist. He liked my shoes (apparently boys like Chuck Taylors--been getting lots of compliments on them lately--a sign that I am no longer dating La Jolla asswipes).

He's writing his doctoral dissertation on the use of acupuncture to treat emotional and anxiety disorders. And I get to be one of his guinea pigs! Sometimes it pays to be insane.

He's really, really, really neat. A big giant teddy bear of a guy with a long ponytail and beautiful bright green eyes, Irish freckles on his wrists, and a pentacle pendant on a chain around his neck. I asked him about it--"Are you a pagan or a Wiccan or something?" "No, I do five-element acupuncture so I love the five-point star." Bummer, I was kind of thinking of getting back to my Wiccan roots.

Soft-spoken, gentle, mellow without appearing stoned. He's like a big Viking who decided to become a druid instead of going to war.

We're also going to exchange novel manuscripts and give each other editing notes. Yes, that's right, he writes, too. And teaches acupuncture in addition to practicing it. And writes jazz music--real jazz. Real jazz! He, like me, thinks "smooth jazz" is too overproduced to be authentic. He, like me, was raised without religion. He, like me, loves ethnic food adventures. He, like me, is a little bit of a hermit. He, like me, prefers interesting people to bimbos.

Reader(s), I have high hopes for this friendship. He exudes a sense of warmth and safety I have only found in a very few men. He has funny stories about treating men who have calf and butt implants. He is a trained cook. He thinks I'm lovely and inspiring. And he's going to poke me with big fat needles and make me bleed and bruise, just like my old acupuncturist used to do. It's the only treatment I've ever experienced that was so horrible yet so incredibly and immediately effective. Maybe in a year I will be free of the chains of this disorder! Imagine it! Free at last!

Hope is a thing with feathers...which is why I should never again date a man who kills birds.

Dec. 15th, 2009

Angel of Death

The Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze

I am a moron. Not all the time and not about everything. About men, I am a moron.

It's because I want someone dashing. Someone handsome and charming and mischievous. And I will often convince myself that those traits are enough without brains, emotional intelligence, or at least the good sense yer mama gave ya.

Or I will mistake dominance for dashing and derring-do.

Oh Robin Hood, man of fantasy. I was so in love with Robin Hood when I was a little girl. (This would be the cartoon version in which Robin and Marian were portrayed as foxes.) He had it all. He was romantic. He helped the poor. He had a huge problem with authority figures. He was lithe and acrobatic and won more fights through brain than brawn. He took in strays, he had plenty of booze for the friar, and he knew how to treat a vixen.

So this is where my adult vision of romance comes from? A fucking cartoon fox? Jeebus. I'm in trouble deep. I'll be better off dressing up my dog as Robin Hood (she won't know she's cross-dressing) and teaching her how to shoot a bow and arrow. She'll show that dastardly usurper to the throne who's boss (remember the prince who was a lion without a mane and would suck his thumb?), and she'll always be loyal and give me belly after a long day's work.

I think I'd be in much better shape romantically speaking if I had been allowed to watch TV as a kid. At least then I'd be happy with these useless, idiotic, complaining lardasses they show on sitcoms as husbands and fathers. My expectations would be sufficiently low that I would think some nice SoCal bro or Chicago Chad was the catch of all catches.

I wonder if I'd want kids if I'd watched TV as a child? Think of all the socialization I missed. Think of all the cult-like brainwashing I was unfortunately exempted from. Maybe if I'd caught "Small Wonder" when it originally aired, I'd think making babies was as easy as having a robot doll. Or Eight is Enough or the Cosby Show or the Brady Bunch...all those kids everywhere and every problem so easy it could be solved in 23 minutes.

I wonder if anyone's done a survey on why those of us who don't want kids don't want them. I will bet you dollars to donuts (where the hell did that phrase come from, anyway?) it's from a lack of TV. Or whatever the cultural equivalent of TV is in the area being surveyed. TV, church, dominant patriarch, social groups. I grew up without TV, without church, with a dominant matriarch (my Irish grandma ruled with an iron fist--not even a velvet glove to soften it), and lived in the middle of a fucking cornfield so my social groups consisted mainly of imaginary beings.

Well, gotta go. My dog is growling at the mirror again. Girl, I know just how you feel.

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