Come Together

There has been a whole lot of craziness going on in my life recently. I have started at least twenty posts in my head, but none of them have made it out of my head yet, obviously. I don't even know where to begin. I suppose I could start with a How My Holidays Were post. That seems so mundane, given the momentous changes since Thanksgiving, but I do need to start somewhere. As much as I want to dive in the middle, I know that I will backtrack continuously if I do that. So, now that I've sufficiently justified being a little boring, let's get started. This may take a few posts, but they will be coming regularly, I promise.

For this Thanksgiving, Mama and Dennis invited everyone to their house in Arizona. They specifically asked me to bring Ricardo so that they could meet him. I did think that it was a bit early in the relationship for the meeting of parents, but he and I were already pretty serious, so I asked him if he wanted to come to Arizona with me. He was immediately excited about it. It was adorable, really. He kept telling me things that he wanted to say to them. Now, it is not obvious when you first meet Ricardo, because he isn't fully fluent in English, but he seriously does not stop talking. I talk a lot, and I can't get a word in edgewise with him sometimes.
So he and I drove for twelve hours, from Santa Barbara to Strawberry, Arizona. Which is like smack in the middle of the state. It was a very arduous drive. We got to Mama's at about six or seven in the morning, depending on which time zone you choose, fell into bed and slept until about noon. After the cats greeted us that is. Smokey and Streak both were ecstatic that we had arrived to entertain them. At one point, Smokey jumped up on the foot of the bed. All I could see over Ricardo were her ears. She started slowly walking toward his head, and I could think of nothing else but the theme from Jaws. Right as the song in my head got to the climax, she jumped up on top of Ricardo's hip and yowled. I couldn't have contained myself even if I had wanted to; I busted up laughing. I couldn't stop for about half and hour. After a twelve hour, over-night drive through the desert, that shit was hilarious.
Once we were up and moving again, one thing was immediately apparent: it was cold. Like, colder than I have ever been. I grew up in California and am completely weather-spoiled, but I think it would have been considered cold even by normal-people standards. It hovered around forty during the day, dipping down to around ten at night. Like I said, freakin' cold.
One funny moment was when Mama finally noticed that I'd gotten my nose pierced. It took her a full hour to notice it, and when she finally did, it was great. She stopped mid-sentence and pointed at my nose with her mouth open, followed by an "Oh, my God!" Then she went on about how much it must have hurt an how she thinks I am crazy. Keep in mind, this is coming from the woman who got a tattoo at fifty three, a full year before I got my first one, which she paid for as a graduation present. I love my mom, but she often makes no sense. The best part was when Dennis came out a few minutes later, gave me a hug and then said, "So you got your nose pierced, huh?" I teased Mama about that for a long time.
The next day was Thanksgiving Day and people started showing up around 11:00 AM. We ended up with seventeen people in a double wide trailer. I was just glad that there was a huge deck out back, so there was some crowd control. It was a really good time, lots of food and love and laughing, particularly when Aunt Ann ran smack into the screen door and bounced off of it. Ah, good times.
As per usual, there was alcohol aplenty, and Mama took full advantage of that on Thanksgiving night. Mama is adorable when she's drunk, she gets very affectionate and laughs even more than normal. The next night was all about Dennis though. Normally Dennis is a very calm, easy going guy, but apparently after he's had a few, there is another, hilarious side of Dennis. I was sitting at the smaller table entertaining my cousin Julie's kids (incidentally, what do you call your cousin's kids?), when my other cousin, Alicia, came up and told me that I needed to go outside and check out what Dennis was up to. And man, am I glad she did. The man was on a roll, going on about how he was trying to keep the damn fire going, but this sunuvabitch over here (my Uncle Mark) kept messing up the wood, and when Uncle Mark protested that he was, in fact, nowhere near the fire, Dennis dubbed him The Goddamn Fire Master and informed Uncle Mark that he was being fucking derelict in his duties. Amid this interaction, Dennis would continually inquire if anyone had any Cheetos (there was a mix of snacks set out, but he only liked the Cheetos), and if they did, he would confiscate them as his Porch Usage Fee. If they were out of Cheetos, they could pay in Sun Chips, which Dennis gave to the dogs because "they like the fucking crunchiness in their mouths". But that was just the beginning. After Alicia mention that it was a good thing that her mom (Aunt Ann) had only bounced off the screen door, Dennis got to speechifying, saying "You're goddamn right it's a good thing, I've walked right through those damn doors before. If she'd a broke my fuckin' screen door, The Goddamn Fire Master over here would be getting a fucking invoice" and then he proceeded to dictate said invoice as:

You Goddamn Sunuvabitch,
For one fucking broken screen door, payments are due.
Ten Cheetos, times 5% for harassment.
In addition, provide one bag of fucking Sun Chips for the dogs, since the poor bastards can't come on the deck anymore.
Signed,
Dennis

He was pantomiming writing this out while he was doing it too. It was a masterful performance.
The rest of Thanksgiving was equally great, but in different ways. I got to see members of my family that I hadn't seen in years, some that I hadn't seen since they were toddlers. I also go to visit the Grand Canyon for the first time since I was like seven. It was sad to have to come back to Santa Barbara, which is nowhere near any of my family.

Next up, Christmas and New Year's!

Girl, You Got Those Hands

The other day I picked up a pen to write something down, and I realized something rather startling. In the last year, I have rarely hand-written anything. It struck me as very odd that after nearly twenty years of writing with a pencil or pen all day long, as soon as I graduated from college, I pretty much stopped writing entirely. Don't get me wrong, I still pick up a pen to jot things down, since I can't remember anything unless I write it down, but it's nothing like the amount of writing that I've done on a daily basis for the majority of my life.
On the other hand, I do type much faster than I ever did before. I've even learned to type with both hands (get your mind out of the gutter!). I'm left-handed, but I use my right hand for a lot of things, like throwing, using scissors, and various other things. But there are a few things that my right hand is useless for. Eating for instance. I can barely pick up french fries with my right hand, let alone use some sort of utensil. If I have to cut up a steak, I often sit there with the fork in my left hand and the knife in my right, then switch, then switch back, then switch again. I once broke my left wrist and had to wear a cast that immobilized my whole left hand. That was pretty much the worst month and a half of my life. I couldn't do anything. I was in junior high at the time, and we were required to do P.E., but I had to go sit in the library and write essays about sports. My P.E. teacher was continually pestering me to write more neatly. I would tell her "I'm left-handed", thinking the neon green cast on my left arm would shut her up, but no. She kept on about it. One day, after I said "I'm left-handed" to her again, she said to me "That is not an excuse for this handwriting! It looks like a four year old!" So in response, I brandished my neon green encased arm directly in front of her face and yelled "This is my left hand!" She simply paused and said "Oh." But she left me alone after that.
Where was I?
Oh, yeah. Things I can't do with my right hand. So for a long time, I couldn't get my right hand to go where I wanted it to on the keyboard. I had a typing class in high school but it still just did not work. So for a long time I used my left hand for the whole keyboard. I got pretty fast too, like 50 wpm. I know! People would see me doing that and just stare. But after working at my office job for the past year, spending the majority of every day typing away, my one-handed method wasn't gonna cut it. So I now have my right hand under control and I type like a normal person. If I type excessively, it still hurts my right wrist a lot more than my left one, but that's the only lingering effect. I don't think I could even go back to the left-hand-only method if I wanted to. Crazy, no?

When I See You Cry, It Makes Me Smile

I love trashy reality shows more than anyone else I know. I have watched all of the Flavor of Love and New York shows. Hell, I even watched The Pickup Artist. And I wanted to punch "Mystery" in the face the whole time. But not as much as one of the contestants, Pradeep. He was such a prick!

But by far trashier than all of those combined, was Rock of Love, which featured the one and (thank God) only Bret Michaels on his quest for love. At the end of the show he ended up choosing Pink Haired Girl, whom I favored to win:

But alas, their love did not last. Shocking, I know. If you can't find love while your every moment is being televised, when can you find love?

So what is poor, broken-hearted Bret up to? Well, his quest for love continues! Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you............

Rock of Love 2!

Let's take a closer look, shall we? We begin on the left:

Is that the worst wig you have ever seen? Also, how high does she look? Which, while fitting for the show, maybe this was not the most appropriate time. Another odd thing is how she seems to be not with the rest of the group at all. Perhaps she'll be the next Lacey, all social-outcasty and pyscho. But not if she's this high all the time. OOH! Maybe she'll be the one who gets kicked off right away for being drugged out and then blows the bouncer to get back in and sleeps on the couch before passing out in the middle of her phone sex audition! I hope so.

Next, we have this charmer, who was apparently dragged to this photoshoot by her hair when she was just trying to run out to pick up some groceries after slipping into her Uggs:

I'm not sure what to make of the girl in the back row. Is she naked? I can't tell. And my goodness does the girl in the pink dress look like a cardboard cutout! That is uncanny...

Then we have one of the few ladies who went for the "sultry" look and ended up with the "slutty" look:

I mean, not only is that black dress so tight that it looks like she can't breath, but when you look at her feet, it seriously looks like she's about to topple over!
Is it just me or does the curly haired blonde in the back there look a little bit like Victoria from the last cycle of Top Model? I hope it is and she gets all prickly with Bret.
Hey, Miss Penthouse '98, pull up your shirt, I can totally see your bra!

As for the poor girl in the pink shirt and leggings, honey, you need to stand up straight, you look pregnant like that.

Which brings us to the three girls behind Bret, who will clearly be BFF (!), since they all had the brilliant idea to sexily put their sexy fingers in or near their sexy mouths:

Speaking of which, what the hell is Bret doing with his fingers? Are those...double bullhorns/rock-on signs? Do you think he is having a bull fight/rock-off right in front of him?

Ok, moving right along. We now come to the One Of These Things Is Not Like The Other Ones section:

While the genius producers tried their hardest to obscure her in the back row, I can still see the short, dark-haired, possibly Indian woman's head. Am I crazy, or does she look really old to be on this show? We don't really need to talk about the skunk-haired girl with the crazy pose, but I would like to address the strangely normal looking girl's head. Who is she? Why is she on this show? Did she get lost and blunder onto the set?

The black girl with the mowhawk looks so incredible familiar to me. I swear that she was on the first season:

Now here is the other sultry/slutty sister:

I have to give her props in that she somehow looks even more like a hooker than her counterpart black-dress-wearer.

Yet another girl about whose well-being I am concerned is the blonde girl in the pink dress behind the hooker. Is she asleep? What happened to her head? Was her hair caught in some sort of bleaching mechanism in a tragic accident that she is facing bravely?

Now for the finale. It is readily apparent why these two lovely ladies were allowed to be in the front row. They are by far the best dressed of the bunch:

There are no words.

Number Four Is A Copycat

One of the most obnoxious things about Number Four was that she was a total copycat. I've already talked about how she would follow us into the kitchen and how she didn't take medicine because her friend was a Scientologist. But there was more. Much more.

In general, her slovenly ways were enough to creep us out, but this was amplified by the fact that she stared at us. All the time. If we were doing anything in the same room she was in, she would watch us like we were a tv show. Often this led to her doing the same thing we were doing. If we were reading, she picked up a book. If we got a snack, she got a snack. If we started watching tv and knitting, she grabbed her knitting too.

Oh, and that was a whole nuther kind of weirdness, her knitting. I learned how to knit from my previous roommate Nicole. I never got more advanced than a simple knit stitch, but I can make a pretty scarf for you. So I taught Pamala, Orly, and Number Four how to knit too, with varying degrees of success. Pamala gave up quickly because she can't sit still long enough to knit more than two rows at a time. Orly enjoyed it, but only if she could use oversized needles.

Number Four was a different story altogether. She learned quite well alright. She also purchased the most hideous color combinations of yarn you could imagine, and some you can't. There was a type of yarn she liked in particular that had gradations from one color to another. Most of those were very pretty, shades of blue and green, or pink. Number Four chose one that was brown and orange to make a scarf out of. And then she decided to use very small needles, which, whatever, if she wanted to spend six months making a scarf, that was her business. The problem was this. When she would knit, she would wrap the yarn really really tight around the needles and when she was rubbing the needles against each other to pick up a stitch, the needles would make this creaking noise, almost like a door hinge. It just added a new level of creepiness that she was that tense when using pointy objects.

Then there was the blanket. Oh God, the blanket. I need to take a minute.

The yarn she chose for the blanket was another of the color gradation type, but this time she pick one that changed from purple (again with the purple) to green, with shades of aqua thrown in for added hideousness. She got some sort of knitting needle wire circle contraption that looked like a torture device to make this blanket with, and of course the needles were small. So in addition to the creaking needles, there was this growing nebulous blob of purple shot through with green and aqua that lived under our coffee table. Just lurking under there, it's hideous colors pulsating, waiting to smother us.

Given her affection for horribly clashing colors, you would imagine that Number Four's side of the room would have been a sight to behold, but you would be mistaken. It was incredibly boring and unimaginative in a nearly monochromatic faded blue color scheme. Her sheets were blue. Her comforter was blue plaid. Her "decorations" consisted of a weird blue novelty lamp (think lava lamp but with blue glitter instead of lava) and a poster of Van Gogh's Starry Night. Which, I might add, she only purchased after she saw that Pamala had that exact same poster hanging in the living room. I'm still confused about that. I mean, we already had one poster of Starry Night, and yet she went out and purchased another one. On purpose. She did things like that with frightening regularity.

For example, I had a beta fish when I lived with them that just would not die. This fish was seriously seven years old. And it never ate it's food. I don't know how this thing lived. Anyway, somehow we learned that Number Four had never had a pet before. It always freaks me out when I learn that someone never had a pet as a child. I just don't understand it. So she was asking me all these questions about my fish, and I was telling her how the thing just wouldn't die, which made it really easy to take care of. Wouldn't you know that a few days later, Number Four bought herself a beta fish. She spent about a week trying to come up with a name for this new pet, finally settling on calling it Fish. Yeah.

The most bizarre copycat moment of all though was when she copied a behavior of Orly's. See, Pamala and Orly were like seven year olds sometimes. Orly is disgusted by feet, so Pamala would chase her around barefoot, trying to stick her feet on Orly. Pamala is something of a prude, so Orly would break into the bathroom when Pamala was showering, or wander around topless. One day Number Four was talking to Orly about how it would be really funny if she walked up to Pamala "and just went like this!" and then yanked her top up, flashing Orly from about two feet away. I saw it coming and was able to look away, but Orly had no chance. She got full on flashed by the one person she was grossed out by the most in the world. Did I mention that Number Four was wearing her Circus Pants? When I knew it was safe, I looked back over to check on Orly and she just looked stunned. You could have pushed her over with a feather.

A Little Light Reading

I am not the most technically savvy person around. I can get around in most programs pretty quickly, but when it comes to the actual function of a computer, I am at a loss. I know what things do most of the time; I rarely know why.

This is leading somewhere, I promise.

The office I work in has some sort of webpage-blocking thing that, frankly, baffles me. Some of the things it blocks make total sense, like, say, facebook or game websites. Other make no sense whatsoever, like the fact that ebay is not blocked at all.

Then there is craigslist. Craigslist is only partially blocked. I can look at anything for sale, all the housing listings, and the forums. Where it gets interesting is the personals section. The parts that are blocked make no sense when compared with what is not blocked (Please note that I discovered this trying to read Missed connections, because they are often hilarious).

Things that are blocked:
Casual encounters
Missed connections
Rants and raves

Things that are not blocked:
Women seeking women
Men seeking men

So apparently, my work is totally ok with employees using work computers to hook up with someone, provided that it is a homosexual relationship. The proliferation of extremely graphic pictures that are posted in those sections clearly has no bearing on the blocking program. Neither does the high use of "strong language" in the post titles themselves.

It is a strange, strange internet.