Death Becomes Her

*beebably doobibly boop boop* (I have one of those space aged "touch tone" landline phones now)

"Nope"

*beeeeep bababibleebabidy beeep beeep*

"Ugggggh. I'm fucking dyyyyying"

*beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-

"WHAT?! H.E.L.L.O. What?"

"Alexis, what's for dinner?"

"Dude, are you fucking KIDDING me??????"

"......uhh"

It was at that point when I just wanted to nosedive right off my couch into... (what are those stupid things... I cant even think, I'm still too sick... uhhhhhhh... you know, the THINGS... oh boy...)

Let's start over.  I got sick on Sunday by doing a good deed and making a pilgrimage to the Dyckman part of Manhattan. For anyone who is not familiar with that further-than-Neptune neighborhood, it was about 20 goddamn stops on the subway, 3 fucking train transfers and oh yeah, my personal favorite, a bum decided to panhandle on the car that I was seated in.  Apparently, when he finished his "Feed me because I am too crazy to get a job" routine, he found an AWESOME seat to wait out our next 75 block span of transit- right in front of ME.  Not right in front of me, like, as in 'on the other side of the train', you know, how "normal" people sit down. I shit you not, this guy sat Indian Style (is that un-PC now? I'm not sure...) right at my feet ...and began to meditate. Ironically, I was at the moment reading a Complete Guide To Survival book that caught my fancy a few months back.

                                

Never in a million years would I have thought that that book, which covered REAL life saving techniques, would mean less to me than scrap paper that I would later wipe my ass with.
Tiger attack? *Check.
Falling down a cliff? *Check.
Zombie apocalypse? Un-neccessary seeing as though I WILL survive based on instincts and sheer thirst for blood.
Homeless individual meditating at your feet?
....

Nowhere in that 'lifesaving' manual did it cover this situation that I now faced. What was I to do? Shower him with coins? Escort him to the nearest homeless shelter? Move seats? Not even close. I did what anyone else would have done in that situation. Not a goddamn thing. I had other things on my mind. Plus, not for nothing, but this bum used to panhandle in my old neighborhood and that was almost 5 years ago. He's no spring chicken, in which case, he should have gotten it together by now. Anyhow, the reason for my voyage was to bring food to my brother, who had been sick for a few days. Not once in that entire trek did I think that my brother, the notorious 'cough in midair without covering his fucking mouth' asshole, would have gotten me sooooo sick. Like seriously, I'm dying over here.

I spent the last three days in and out of sleep. My out of sleep moments ranged based on when SSL (which has been permanently demoted to MR 'my roommate') was at work. While awake, I have been dizzy, lightheaded, coughing and a bunch of other shit, but not that 'shit', because it just so happens that this particular cold forbids your body to do so. Get what I'm saying? Good.

I could go on for months and months about how MR failed me this time around. While he continuously replenished my vitamins with organic fruit shakes, obviously he also thought that I was some fucking 1988 cyborge that when jostled around would return to normal function. Am I gonna cook dinner? On what fucking planet does one cook while exhaling a myriad of infectious germs? What asshole would do such a thing? 'Hey! Why don't I make a scrumptious plate of food for you to devour tonite, only to be as sick as death tomorrow morning!" Seriously...

Times like this make me miss living with my parents. Being sick was never too bad when I had them around to take care of me. Someone was there to hold my hair while I puked, hold the tissue while I blew my nose, and cook me food. Now when I get sick as an adult, I am left for dead in my own home because aside from my brother (the asshole who caused this to begin with), none of my immediate family lives anywhere near me. Also, as previously noted, I'm expe- SINKHOLE! Forget what I was just saying. Forget EVERYTHING. That's what I'd love to nosedive into right now.

A fucking SINKHOLE...

SICK STATS 2014 (since becoming ill):

Number of cigarettes smoked: 0

Number of shits taken: 0

Number of times I brushed my teeth or brushed my hair: 0

Number of fucks given: 0

Planet Stretch Marks

After this, I will never type a post about being pregnant again.  There are more facinating things in life than procreating and documenting each and every twist and unexpected turn that it takes.  Case in point...
Why am I currently typing this up in just a pair of (stolen) scrubs?  No, I don't resemble a doctor ambitiously finishing up some files after a long days work.  That is unless it is normal for a doctor to be topless and sweating bullets under her saggy ass boobs.  My top was discarded hours ago when I decided that if SSL could air out his balls without being read the miranda rights, then I could treat my tattas the same.  I mean, shit, they hang so low now that they might as well be mistaken for a nutsack.

For the past few years weeks I have been unbearable to be around and I take full responsibility for my crazy obsession with "losing my cool".  I just want this damn baby to emerge from planet stretch marks already.  Funny how that happened this time around...  I have been thinking about ways to explain those hideous lines as well.  Not being one for tattoos, I am thinking that I can just tell people that I was once in a street gang and when I was getting jumped in, they slashed me up with a boxcutter, creating an abstract version of previous motherhood.  After all, the stretch marks are only on one side of my stomach.  How fucking odd is that?  So so far there are stretch marks, saggy neanderthal boobies, 55 extra pounds that my body is allocating in the most unfemenine spots, so much relaxin (a pregnancy hormone) being poduced by my body that my gait now looks like I am a penguin and an unmanicured jungle bush that I haven't seen since March.  Maybe I should get it braided so that when I go into labor, the doctor will know where my hair ends and the baby's begins.  2 more weeks of this madness and I promise that I will NEVER EVER EVER have another child.

Fuuuuck Sports

I am just sooooooo angry right now.  How do I know this?  Because even listening to Luther Vandross is pissing me off.  He usually calms me down, but right now I'd dig up his grave just to punch him square in his skeleton jaw.

If dealing with a communist phone service today wasn't bad enough, the damn music channel is playing Chubby Checker.  I'd like to twist the cap off of that a-hole, too.  Ugh.  So shithead SSL thinks that I'm a hater over the basketball game.  Well guess what.  Aside from boxing (which is the only reason why I met him), I'm not into watching sports on the television.  Bring me to an actual game and I'll watch it, but don't expect me to sit through the first quarter of the basketball game on TV.  Yeah... I know that every guy gets a hard on when he thinks of the perfect chick and she is into sports, but let me be honest about this whole thing.  In my most humble opinion, females who are into sports:

*Are into them because their fathers always wanted a son and treated their daughters as though they were little boys

*Got into them to impress a guy

*Are also into girls

*And the list goes on...

So sorry that I'm honest and couldn't give less of a shit about the football/basketball game.  At least I'm honest and don't act like those annoying beotches who wear jerseys on game day with their husbands/boyfriends, cheering like they used to play football, too.  I don't expect my male partner to be into shit like baking or any other semi girly hobbies that I like doing and I'm GLAD that he wouldn't be.  Maybe I'm just a simpleton who doesn't get it.  As the perfect female I'm supposed to:

*Cook like your mother
*Clean like a migrant worker
*Have sex like a porn star
*Take care of your kids like Mother Theresa
*Maintain a body like some video vixen
AND ON TOP OF THAT
*Like sports?!?!

Sure.  And when I get a rip in one of my dresses, I'll expect you to sew it back together...  You know what I have to say about your precious sports shit, SSL?

SUCK MY DICK!  ...but don't bother me until after I put this cake in the oven.

So Rad...

In light of my disdain for improvements in technology, I have resigned myself to hooking up a landline phone.  I might as well anyhow since I have recently smashed both of my cellys, which I'd like to add that I did NOT lose any sleep over.  So here I am back in 1993.  I love the fact that when I leave my home, I am untracable.  Nobody can complain or even ask why I didn't "pick up the phone" or "return a text".  No more!  I am forcing anyone who wants to be in my life to actually make a half assed effort to treat me like a human being and not a text messaging robot.  Honestly, it has been nice.  Phone conversations are really a thing of the past and I'm going retro.

Death Of A Cell Phone

Why can't technology be as easy to use as a goddamn Buick?  When I was in high school...  (Well, first of all, let me mention that I am one of the least superficial broads around.  The only thing that I purchase and care about when it comes to brand names is ice cream.  That and high heels.  What do you expect?  I do have a vagina, so the estrogen had to make a cameo somehow.)

So when I was in high school, I got a free Buick.  This beastly fortress of a vehicle was named (by me of course) The Titanic.  ...The Titanic...  While the other little lads in my school had parents who loved them, I was gifted with this monstrosity to shlep around town.  Was I embarrassed?  I'll be honest.  Not really.  I'll take freedom on wheels in any form EXCEPT for an El Camino.  Don't even get me started...  Besides it being free, I think that the best thing about The Titanic was that once you got it up to speed, you could take your foot off the accelerator, rig the steering wheel and hop in the back seat for a nap if you wanted to because the sheer weight of this tank kept the bastard rolling for miles.  I would drive down the highway in the summer with one foot out the window, a cig dangling from my mouth and all the windows down while other more fortunate and cuter chicks cruised by in their Beemers that their parents bought them.  Who cared though?  Unlike the name, my car was indestructible.

Its best feature? Its durability and the punishment that my babe could withstand.  My car was like a fat assed beastly whale of a bride and I was her abusive suitor.  When I got angry I could kick the shit out of her side panels and my puppies wouldn't even leave a dent.  I'd sit on her hood at night and smoke as the sun set, just like a formal date, and she wouldn't even cave under my weight.  Cars these days?  you look at them wrong and they crumble under that horseshit fiberglass they are made of.  People have become accustomed to paying more money for shittier products.  And why am I even bringing this up?

Lets see here...  Because in less than a week, I have broken two cell phones.  (Side note:  If you have Sprint, get rid of them as a carrier ASAP.)  My phones have been bearing the brunt of my freakishly erratic hormonal sessions as of late.  Currently, my phone is on the counter in pieces.  After being disconnected over six times this morning, I had a quick softball flashback and practiced my fast pitch.  Sadly, the phone smashed against what I thought was regular sheet rock, but what was really concrete.  Oops.  Had my phone been constructed like my Buick, this bullshit could have been averted to a more understandable ending between my cell phone and I.  Too bad.  So sad.  I've got to go write some letters...

Can I Still Sue Steve Jobs If He's Dead?

                                                                                   
                                                                (For my sister...)

5am and I cant sleep.  I feel like the air in my lungs has been stolen by the Apple company.  If Steve Jobs were still alive, I'd show up at his front door in my pajamas with a Pick axe and a shovel.  That devious beast had it in his mind to really throw people's lives in a ringer when he created ipods.  I am completely and utterly miserable right this instant.  Nothing could make me feel better right now.  Nothing.  In. The. World.  How did my misery begin?  Quite frankly, if I were to trace it back to the culprit, it was when Steve was born.  But, most recently, it was when he created the ipod, leaving human beings with no other choice but to shamefully discard their cassette tapes and CDs.  Records and record players were still novelty items that gave people a slight edge, but cds were mocked and outdated.  I was the last of my people to conform to the new standards of "cool"...

....In the middle of one of my sessions one day, I was berating my favorite slave, George.  He was a blind schmuck that would do anything to keep me happy.  Working as a Dominatrix had it's perks.  I was never physically violent with George, but always verbally and emotionally manipulative.  This session though, I carried a bit of anger from unknowingly running out of my favorite cereal that morning.  The verbal abuse just wasn't enough and so I decided to take it to another level.  So there I was in mid swing.  My backhand was making its way to George's face and he was cowered over like an abused child after years of punishment. 

"Sophie, NO!"  (he insisted on calling me Sophie, although my Mistress name was Sophia.)

I saw the fear in his eyes; he saw the insanity in mine.  When I get that way, my eyes open a little larger and glaze over.  Nothing really gets me out of my trance, but for some reason, I only hit George once instead of the onslaught of pain that I intended.

"Sophie, what did I do?!  What do you want, Sophie?!"

All that I wanted was to re-up my cereal, but for some reason, I said:

"I want an Ipod!"

So to save the sordid memories that might cause me to drift in an ever further depression and to make a long story short, just know that I got the ipod that day.  I called over the house slave that did the laundry at the dungeon and George gave him the money to go to the store and purchase me an ipod.  I left work that day with an ipod that I kept in the package for the next few weeks.  I didn't have itunes and really didn't know how to manage an ipod, so I just threw it to the side and continued with my cds.  When I finally got the gumption to fill my little space-aged boom box, I sent it to various locations (Los Angeles, Virginia, Iraq, New Hampshire).  When I finally got my ipod back in my paws, there were over 25 thousand songs on it and every genre that you could think of.  My ipod became by best friend.  It pumped me up in the morning, rocked me through the day and soothed me to sleep at night.  If I was in any picture in the past two years, my ipod was in it as well.  Last night?

My ipod erased every single song that was in it.  EVERY SINGLE SONG.  The worst part about it?  I don't have a backup for ANY of it.

I know that this sounds kind of arrogant and rude to the Heavens, but I even considered asking my devoutly religious father to rouse everyone affiliated in his church's prayer chain in the wee hours of the morning just to pray to God that I get back all of my music, unscathed.  ...yes, God, even Black Hole Sun by Soundgarden...

I really feel like I just fell down a spiral-staircase littered with shards of my old CDs glued to each step, pointy side facing up.  I'm being mocked by inanimate objects for Christ's sake! 

Gummy Worms

The funniest thing about falling out of love is that no matter how strong you might have thought it was, when it's truly over, there isn't a hope in hell to ever reclaim it.  For instance, when I was in sixth grade I had a strong love affair with gummy worms.  I'd scrape pennies together just to go up to the store and get my paws on a bag of gummy worms.  Yummy.  Out of all of their eye catching color combos, my favorite had to be the red and clear duo.  Delicious.  So for about maybe half of the school year, I was constantly indulging in this affliction which soon induced a sugar coma. 

I ate sooo many gummy worms that one day I came home (from polishing off another bag of them on the way back from the store) and I went straight to the toilet and threw up the most glorious rainbow of worm guts.  The vomit, which was laced with sugar, tasted similar to what is now known as Redbull.  Had I the insight that I do now, I would have scooped that vomit out of the john and sent it right away for a patent, which would later make me millions of dollars and also place me in the center of a plethora of lawsuits.

Thank god for the gummy worms though.  They were my first true experience with falling out of love.  When once before I would have dug through the trash if it had gummy worms in it, now I can't pass them in the candy isle without remembering the damage that they caused my stomach.  I have no desire to ever eat them these days.  They don't bring me the same joy as they used to.  Honestly, I can't even remember when I last had one.  Plain and simple, they don't matter anymore.  Just like that.  All it took was for me to reach my limit and every single ounce of love that I once had for them has vanished into nothing but disdain.  Kind of like some people in my life...

My Personal Soundtrack

I might as well throw my ipod into a gutter.  I have neglected that poor little lady for the past few months and I'm sure that by now the charger outlet on her grew cobwebs.  I think that the last adult song that I remember humming as of recent was 'Young Hearts Run Free' by Candi Staton.  Aside from that?  You know... the regular... songs from Sesame Street...  There was once a time when I prided in the fact that I had over 25 thousand songs on my ipod to choose from.  Name a genre and I had it.  My ipod should have been surgically attached to my ears.  Not only did I use it to off-put any potential conversationalists on the subway, but I also used it as a therapeutic release.  My day might have been in a shitty way and all that I did was toss my headphones (that I won in a bet) on and thumb the dial.  Even though I'm not big on west coast rap, my decompressor was always NWA.  So what happened to those days?

                                            

Well... for starters, today when SSL and I had a blowout, I caught myself slamming the door and instead of NWA's 'Fuck Da Police', I was simultaneously humming a jolly kid's tune from PBS.  Even while replaying the fight as I strolled down the street, all the scenes played out in my head to the soundtrack of Reading Rainbow.  Where the hell is Dr. Dre when you desperately need him?  (Oh, wait!  *NOTE TO READER: When I say Dr. Dre, I am referring to an 80's/90's circa Dr. Dre.  No way in hell would I want the headphone extortionist that has come to be.  Don't even get me started...)

It's so bad now with the kid songs that I'm caught humming them on the train.  No, I'm not singing the words, but I'll have you know that there's not a single kid song on the planet that when hummed could ever be mistaken for a rock, rap or even an r n' b song.  No way in hell.  Try it.  Hum 'The Wheels On The Bus'.  Now EVEN if you don't have kids and never heard that song before, you know damn well that that song is intended to sooth and intoxicate a 5 year old's eardrums.  So with that in mind, imagine the looks that I get from strangers on the train when I'm absentmindedly humming a tinkly little mindblowing tune that my kid and I were playing to earlier in the day.  It's uhh... something new that I have never experienced.

So anyhow, apparently my beau has been having the same issues.  SSL boxes and tonight he has a fight.  In about an hour and a half he will be fighting some guy from Ohio.  Now, I'm no psychic, but I'm soooo dead on predicting who would win a fight solely based on the song that they come out to the ring on.  I don't want to give away too much, but for instance, anyone trying to channel Rocky in their song is going to lose.  Also, (no offense God) anyone who comes out to gospel music (Zab Judah) is going to lose.  Who wins?  That's a secret, Silly.   

Turns out, I have no clue what song SSL is coming out to.  The red flag though didn't wave away in the wind until I get a message from him a few minutes ago saying:

"Damn I have that Caillou song in my head.  That little kid's song.  Who the hell gets ready for a fight singing Caillou?"

...Oh boy.  Do you have ANY clue what he is singing right now before he goes in the ring and fights against another grown ass man?  Wrap your mind around these intimidating lyrics:

I'm just a kid who's four, each day I grow some more, I like exploring I'm Caillou,
So many things to do, each day is something new, I'll share them with you I'm Caillou.
My world is turning, changing each day..with mommy and daddy and finding my way.
Growing up is not so tough, except when I've had enough but there's lots of fun stuff I'm Caillou, Caillou, Caillou, I'm Caillou. That's me!

                                                                       ...Shit.

Talking In Your Sleep

So my friend said to me that I don't keep up with my blog because I'm too concerned with motherhood nowadays.  Just for the record, that is NOT a fact.  The truth of the matter is that I tend to hibernate during the blustery winters in the northeast.  How can I get jazzed up about life when it gets dark around here an hour after I'm done eating breakfast?  Don't get me wrong.  I love it when it's dark during the summer.  That's my favorite time to cause trouble.  But dark at 4pm and minus 85 degrees?  Hit me over the face with a wrench.  So until SSL agrees to relocate with me to a much warmer climate, I have resigned to the fact that I will be putting on about 48 pounds, will grow out my leg hair as extra insurance to keep me warm and I might possibly even develop rickets as a result to the lack of vitamin D.  He doesn't care...

And to finish what my friend said after, that I should write about motherhood...  Uggggggh...  I wouldn't even read a blog like that.  The truth of the matter is this: aside from shitting, puking, crying and sleeping, my little monster doesn't do much.  You want an inner glimpse in this shift of life though?  Here you go...

 

Last night.  Well, actually, 3am this morning.  I'm dreaming about Adam Rodriguez picking me up on his motorcycle.  Even though all of the gossip reports claim that he has a two inch pecker, in my dream, he's packing.  How can I tell?  The jeans that he is wearing to showcase his amazingly plump arse.  Muahaha.  So we ride out of the city and end up on this mysteriously desolate road.  On the side, where the speed limit sign is posted, someone spray painted a happy face over the numbers.  What on earth could that mean?  Adam glanced behind and said

"Hold on, baby."

So I grabbed him tighter.  Ohhhhh Adam.  Later in the dream, when we were done riding.  My dream cut to a new scene (why do dreams do that) and we were laughing and running from a seafood restaurant with a bag full of lobsters that we stole to let free into the ocean.  Behind us, the restaurant staff was in pursuit.  Then, all of a sudden, as we were almost to the docks, the restaurant staff, dressed in chef uniforms and maitre'd suits morphed into a pack of French Bulldogs dressed like jesters.  They barked and wagged their stumpy tails while they ran to catch up with Adam and I.

(Cut to next scene)

I'm giggling, Adam is doing an impersonation of the time when he accidentally came home drunk and walked in on his mother in the shower and telling me about how his childhood dream was to become an acrobat.  I marvel at the odds that I had the same exact childhood dream, which has also found a way to infiltrate my current adulthood dreams.  Things are perfect.  The sun starts to go down, creating what photographers refer to as the 'magic hour' when even the ugliest skin tag of a person looks like a Greek God in the light set off by the angle of the sun.  Adam comes close to me as if he is about to kiss me and while he's doing that, I'm re jogging my memory about the information that I read about him in the tabloids. 

Six feet tall?  *Check
Was once a stockbroker before he became an actor?  *Check
Puerto Rican and Cuban?  *Check
Aries?  OH MY GOD!  That's a horrible match for me!  ARIES?!?!  What was I thinking?!

And that is when it happens.  My new life as a mother moment.  I spring awake to sounds of my kid screaming bloody murder and yelling in gibberish baby talk that makes absolutely no sense to anyone sober.  All I can think of is: Was he having the same dream?!  ...Impossible...

I jump over SSL (because even though I sleep better on the left side of the bed, his beauty sleep is more effective when he sleeps closer to the rising sun) and go over to my kid's bed/crib thing.  I'm expecting to see him up and flailing around since he was yelling so vehemently.  You know what I see?  The little monster is fucking sleeping!  3am!  OF COURSE HE'S SLEEPING AT 3am!  My kid inherited this talking in his sleep hobby from my side of the gene pool and he does it quite often.  He talks, laughs, yells, cries, talks some more, all while he is asleep.  Do you know how insanely crazy it is to look down with bloodshot eyes at a 5 month old having a rational sounding conversation when he is asleep?  I stir him awake just to make sure that he is ok and not having a nightmare and he looks at me with the most angry, groggy eyed face, almost as if to say:

"Mom, what the hell are you doing???  Do you know what time it is?  Are you crazy?  I'm sleeping!  IT'S 3am, WOMAN!!!!"

So there...  A glimpse of motherhood.  

Splash Factor

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Strip Clubs That Serve Shrimp

Recently I was on a little drive with my sister explaining why I thought that eating at a strip club (a conversation between SSL and I that turned into a fight) was horrendously disgusting.  I just can't get over it.  For example, why would I play grab-ass with a stripper during a lapdance and then eat a nice dinner with those same hands?  Strip clubs are dark for two reasons.

REASON NUMBER ONE:  To mask all of the bullet holes, cellulite, stretch marks, scars, ugly broads, and to conserve on the electric bill, duhhh.

REASON NUMBER TWO:  Because they are FULL of germs.  The germs in a strip club are large enough to be seen by the naked eye.  Sometimes they are even mistaken as customers.  One word: As the French say, "Yuck".

Sure, I go to strip clubs, so why should I feel this way?  Well, I'm not going there for the amazing shrimp or wings (ahem ahem, motherfucker), that's for sure.  I tend to fancy strip clubs that have pool tables.  (Here's a fact.)  *Strip clubs have the best music, usually the cheapest billiards and continuous live entertainment.  Also, besides the broads dancing, I don't have to deal with any other chicks.  It's just men.  I'm not opposed to that at all. 

What I do have a problem with is this.  Unless you are at a stripclub that's BYOB (thank you Philadelphia), you are being served overpriced, watered down drinks.  Then, to top that off, you might look down the bar one night and (holy shit) see your boyfriend stuffing his face with the "amazing" shrimp and wings that they serve there.  So not only are you too damn sober to look past the fact that he's even licking his fingers clean, but some asshole accidentally flipped on the main light switch while getting a lapdance and you realize that you might as well be laying in a goddamn BFI dumpster.

And that was only the beginning of our conversation...

WTF Was That About?

Sooooo...  I'm fertile myrtle.  SSL looked at me again and voila, I'm pregnant.  Again.  Big deal.  Aside from the uber-cool fact that I'm going to have Irish Twins, I'm pretty jazzed up about decorating the nursery and dressing them in matching clothing.  It's going to be so fun going on play dates with other mommies!  Oh my God; and the sleepovers and crafts!  I'm soooo excited!

I bet you suckers fell for that...  Jesus.  Yes, I'm pregnant again, but let's be real here.  I guess that it's fate.  FYI: breastfeeding is NOT a form of birth control.  Uggggh....

Mannn, this shithead just called me and i lost my entire train of thought...  ....  ....  ....  Uhhh....  ....

Ah yes!  The kid.  Being the nomadic- ugh, Jordan Knight is on TV.  Who the hell booked that?  That's a pure crackheaded move.  He drives me nuts.  Don't even get me started.  You know, I just don't understand why some musical artists keep trying to ...make it.  new kids On The Block is over.  Your solo career nosedived.  Your boyfriend gives you atrocious fashion advice.  Why am I looking at you right now on the television?  Where the hell did you come from?!  Go back to Mass...

So...  Baby number two...  I can't do this.  Focusing on anything right now is pointless.  And why the hell is Adele on Cosmo this month?  Am I the only one on this planet who isn't wetting my pants over her vocals?  And WHY is she doing that side 'I'm hot shit' pose for the camera?
 
                                                   

Females who try to angle themselves like that must be conscious of their asymmetrical faces.  My face?  It's fat.  A straight on shot of me?  Impossibly imperfect!  I'm the asshole in the group who poses like I'm 12.  catch me off guard and I'll resemble someone lost in ...well, just lost.  But if I'm in a group and someone rallies the brood for some snapshots, the girls usually do their automatic, 'i'm not really a slut, but look how sexy I am' poses and I'm the only asshole that you want to completely photoshop out of the 'hot girl' picture because my head looks so heavy, which is only exaggerated even more because I always have it tilted slightly in pictures.  Why?  I'm guessing that while everyone else wants to look slutty-sexy in their pictures, I just want to look like a nice and innocent person.  Not really a come hither pose, but more like a drink the kool aid and join us stance...

Is this dingleberry KIDDING me?!  SSL just texts me to ask if the subway is running or suspended.  So I say "Well how the hell do you want me to do that?" So he goes "the internet".  Give me a moment.

...What in the hell are smart phones for?!  Don't they have the internet on them?  I don't get it.  When he is busy taking a dump on the john, he youtubes Kevin Hart and Chapelle on his phone, takes about an hour and doesn't think twice about it.  The damn subway has issues and he asks me to check on the computer what's going on.  Did I miss something?  Is there some HUGE difference between the internet on his phone than the computer????  Oh...  Crap...  The subway isn't working. 

...Good thing that I'm not due until July.

Action Figures And DVDs

Well....  Since our kid is still drooling and shitting in diapers, SSL and I have not (as neurotic parents say) "baby-proofed" our place.  I could have a bunch of samurai swords laying around and rest easy knowing that my little monster can't yet reach  them.  While he is still confined to the places that I put him, a world where everything is padlocked and disinfected has not conjured it's way into my brain. 

Recently though, my sister, who has a four year old, came to visit us.  The day before their arrival I cleaned and hid inappropriate shit.  I couldn't imagine what exactly influences the sponge like brain of a four year old, so I put up the normal shit.  All of my vitamin bottles were sealed extra tight and put out of reach in the back of the counter.  My machete and switchblade were placed on top of a shelving unit, thank God, because while I was doing that, I found some of SSL's random DVDs that needed to be put away too.  I was in a hurry to vacuum so I just threw the DVDs in our bedroom.  They landed right on top of a Tupperware container and since I was so amazed that I had such great aim, I guess that I lost my train of thought...

So in walks my family.  We are just hanging out and bullshitting, talking about a bunch of nothing.  My sister's kid, being the precocious, DVD loving four year old, goes through all of my DVDs in the living room.  When that was over, he kind of fiddled around with some action figures that I had laying around.  Just like him though, I'd get bored and search for more treasure.  So he walks into my bedroom and the reflection from the back of a random DVD catches his eye.  Like a magnet, he walks over to the DVD, and as he is flipping it over, I saw and yelled out

"Casey, NOOOOOO!!!!!"

Too late, he sees it, makes a funny face, and (bless his heart) says

"This isn't for me..."

So my sister (his mother), sees my reaction and wonders what the hell he just saw.  She walks over, picks up the DVD, turns it over and sees this:

...Apparently I was so amazed that I landed the DVD on the Tupperware from across the room, that I forgot why I was putting it in my bedroom in the first place... 

                         So much for being aunt of the year.

My Trigger Finger Has Better Things To Do

(He's yelling from downstairs)

"Alexis!"

(Pretend like you don't hear him)

"ALEXIS!"

(Maybe he will think you are gone)

"AAAAALLLLLLEEEEEXXXXXIIIIIISSSSS!!!!!!!!"

(He's running out of energy.  Good.  ...Oh shit.  What's that?  Is that the dog?  It can't be the dog.  We euthanized her last week.  Crap.  It's him.  He's walking up the stairs.  Ok.  Plan B.  Pretend like you are sleeping.  Not light sleep either.  Make it seem like you are in a coma.)


(Knock Knock Knock)

"Alexis?"

(Don't move!)

"Alexis!"

(Stop breathing!  You're giving yourself away!)

"ALEXIS!"

(Great.  Here he comes.)

This is the point when I pretend like I'm awakening from a deep slumber so that I don't make it too obvious that I was pretending.  My eyes are little slits, my voice is muffled and I move at the pace of a zombie.

"...What?...  What do you want?"

And now comes the question.  The question that I've been trying to avoid.  The question that is the beginning of the rest of a horrible day.  In 1...  2...

"Can you take a picture of me?'

The misery.  I don't want to name any names.  For the sake of anonymity let's just call him... "Brad".  So I know this guy named ...Brad.  Brad is nice enough, but is going through a phase right now where he is utilizing one of those lame dating websites.  I just don't understand them.  Why not just get out and meet people?  Dating websites...  Don't even get me started.  Anyhow, for the website, each person that is affiliated with it needs to have a profile picture.  The profile picture being a sweet orderve that tickles the viewer's fancy and gets them amped up for the main entree.  The point of the picture is to use it as bait.  It's supposed to show how loving, outgoing, funny, intelligent, sexy, admired, witty and (most of all) how great you are in the sack.  Based on one picture, people are supposed to judge whether they would talk to you in real life or not.  Whatever. 

My whole contention here is this.  Brad is the WORST person to take a picture of.  Is he ugly?  No.  Actually, he has a pretty symmetrical face and takes nice pictures.  Brad's problem is that he treats everyone like they are professional photographers. 

"How should I look?  Is this a flattering angle?  Does the lighting illuminate my face in an angelic yet saucy fashion?  Should I stick my ass out more?  Girls these days love asses on guys.  How about my outfit?  Should I change it?  Is this good?  Maybe I should put my hand in my pocket.  Oh wait.  I was watching TV yesterday and it said that if your palm is facing out, then it looks like you are a giving and open person.  Now how could I project that in the photo with my heart?" 

I want to shoot myself.  Plain and simple.  The worst part comes after EVERY SINGLE PHOTO.  Brad is one of those people who can't just pose and let someone click away.  He's one of those neurotic bastards who has to see EVERY SINGLE PHOTO right when it's taken.  A process that could easily take less than 5 minutes surpasses an entire hour.  You would think that one would be thrilled with the results, but no.  After every photo-op with Brad, I get the same response.  He claims that he looks terrible and damns the websites that he uses.  He damns the camera, he damns his receding hairline and he damns me for not having a photographer's eye at capturing the essence of his true inner beauty...

"Well can you, Alexis?"

"Huh?  Can I what?"

"Can you take a quick picture of me?"

(Just off me right now)


"...Sure."

Back In Action

So I uhhh...  Apparently...  Ok.  This is only hearsay...  I was in the bathroom at a local bar and while I was taking a dump, I looked to my left and on the bathroom stall it read "Alexis swears too much".  Right in front of my eyes!  What am I saying... That was a lie.  Although I crave nothing more intensely than a stiff drink, I was not at a bar reading that.  (sad face)

I was told that though.  I was told that I swear too much by one of my readers.  And come to think about it, I was also told that by one of my family members.  Just to clear the uhhh... smoke, I swear mostly when I'm in the moment or being too lazy to come up with other words.  Right now I'm feeling a little bit of both, so to prove to them that I don't swear all the time, I'll type a blog without a single curse in it.  Let me clear my schedule.  This is going to take an entire day...

So what really ruffles my feathers that makes me really want to swear?  What recent event could I talk about that is bound to have me agitated?  Ah yes.  This new phone...

Although I'm a spry little beast that should get carded by the cops during school hours for being out and about while looking so doggone young, I have the soul of a 60 year old.  On top of that I have the technological skills of the most primitive person on earth.  I belong in one of those undiscovered villages deep in the jungle.  Capturing and biting the heads off of animals so that I can eat for the day sounds far easier than navigating through a computer.  Forget the computer.  I can't even navigate through this new phone.

Here's a nice little fast fact.  Alexis doesn't like cell phones.  Why are these personal low jacks so important to everyone?  Uggggggh.  I just can't stand them.  Amongst my friends I am known for having the oldest model cell phones in the most mangled conditions.  It takes me forever just to learn how to turn my phone on.  My last little baby made it through two and a half years strong.  When my charger broke though and the representatives at the kiosk informed me that they no longer made my model, I was forced into ...an upgrade.  And that is the point when I said "no thanks".

Having my phone charger break on me was a godsend.  Finally I had a reason to not be in contact with anyone.  Finally I didn't have to answer the "why didn't you answer my call/call me back" questions.  Finally I was free to just live.  It was perfect.  I'll be frank.  For the three days that I was without a phone, I felt like a new person.  My stress level went down, I looked ten years younger and I slept better.  I was over the moon.  SSL though had other plans for me.

I'm having this mind blowing time warp back to when cell phones didn't exist and every block had a pay phone on it when SSL walks into the apartment with a brand new phone for me.  Compared to my  ancient (yet very advanced for me) flip phone, this thing looks like a uhhh remote control for a rocket ship.  What on earth are all these buttons for and how does touch screen work for someone with fat fingers like me?  I don't get it.  The gadget drives me nuts.  While I'm still reminding SSL that the the CIA is getting everyone's finger prints from the touch screens, I long for the three days that I was out of touch.  I don't do technology. 

There.  I did it.  Not a single swear.  Don't call to congratulate me.  My brain is out of commission and my phone is off.  Suckers!

My Own Little Strike...

I refuse to make any more blogs until I figure out this celly.  SSL insists that I use a more up to date telephone and that's fine and all, but I really don't know how to use it.  If I cannot add photos to my blogs, then I will keep my thoughts to myself. 

-A retard with a phone

Are Those Boobs Or Moobs?

There it is again!  Uggggh...  I just want to hire someone to come over to my house and pull my hair out for me.  Who is this 'Jesse' person on this Dominos commercial?!?  For the love of God, can anyone tell me if it is a she or he?  It's like a scene from one of my nightmares, always in continuous rotation.  The Dominos commercial from Hell, out to ruin Alexis' life.  Just the other day I was busy... doing... something productive and just so happened to forget to turn the television off.  I'm alone in the house, I hear this voice and I jump.

(shudder) "Oh.  It's you again.  (angry eye-squint) Jesse..."

An electrifying jolt jogs it's fancy little legs down my spine when I hear this ...thing's voice.  And the most time consuming, brain cell wasting question of all:

                       Is this a boy or girl? 

I told my younger sister that she should give the Dominos tracker a nice little run (since I don't eat pizza during the month of September) for it's money.  What I wish I could say through her, plastered in the middle of Times Square, right on that electric billboard is:

"Jesse, what an amazing pizza.  You really hit the mark when I said extra cheese.  Just a question for you though.  Either you are a pudgy, prepubescent male with the voice of a choir boy or you are one of those androgynous lesbians that scare the shit out of me after I find out their gender when they hit on me at the mall.  I'm gonna put my money on you swinging an underdeveloped nut sack rather than having daymares of you (when I'm not even sleeping) each time your commercial runs across my television screen.  At any rate, keep up the good work."  Thumbs up from Alexis in NY.

Toe Story

Finally my toe is healing.  What am I talking about?  I'm talking about a near death experience that I had with the door to my apartment building.  As I was leaving the building with the new addition in tow, I managed a balancing act that resulted in one of THE WORST end of summer specials.  The door to my building is around 300 pounds, so opening it takes an entire workout.  I literally have to put my back into it.  Needless to say, when I am furious I really don't need to put any energy in it at all.  Had I have known that, my toenail would not have been ripped right off in one swoop.  It happened so fast that I didn't feel a thing... until I looked down. 

(And I don't want to be a narcissistic douche or anything, but the same way a model loves her face is the way I love my feet.  When Prince penned 'Adore', he read my mind.  That song epitomises my thoughts on these paws.) 

This tragedy had to be known by each and every person that crossed my path, starting with my grandparents (since I was already on my way to their house).  By the end of the day I expected cards in the mail, Get Well balloons, pretty much nothing short of a telethon fundraiser in my name.  So as I get ready to really polish this martyr role, I put on my forlorn face, pout my lips, act like my foot is weighed down with concrete and I dragged it across the floor to show my grandfather.  In my most pathetic, 'Oliver' voice I say "look what happened, grandpa"  (Cue the Russian choir) and show him the mangled toe.

That's just skin.

And what happens?  That old man takes his motherfucking shoes off exposing fungus ridden toenails and starts his toe story with: "When I was in Vietnam..." 

Are you fucking kidding me?!?  I could have had my toe blown off that morning with a shotgun and then had the stump dipped in battery acid and STILL it wouldn't have anything on someone who starts their toe experience (EVEN if it was just a splinter) with the fucking word "Vi-et-NAM".  

So for everyone under the age of 93, yes, my poor little toe is healing fine.

It's A Boy

So I had the baby.  My thoughts on the experience?  I'll keep them to myself.  His thoughts on being a part of this world?

...yeah.

i am the smartest man alive

oh fuznut. i can post from my phone??? i really am a technological retard. ...if only my sausage fingers werent so large...

I Have Become A 'Cat Lady'

Charlie, my cat that I found off the streets is on drugs.  No other explanation could make sense...

Yesterday in the 96 degree heat, I found myself searching store after store for some kitten chow.  Apparently I was the one who caused her to be so sickly with the adult cat food that I was feeding her.  Who knew that kittens off the street needed extra care?  I guess that I looked at her like a crack baby; happy that they had any loving at all.  That doesn't mean that I kicked her around and locked her up in an attic.  I just didn't baby her like I should have.  So yesterday I risked getting heat stroke, walked to the end of the earth and back, to find only adult cat food.  What the fuck?

With no other option (besides slitting my wrists and having her suckle off of them), I get the food.  And how does this broad repay me?  She comes home later that day looking stoned out of her mind!  What the hell type of clique did she find?  Here I am contemplating whether her palate would prefer a salmon or chicken aftertaste and meanwhile she is busy getting jumped into some degenerate cat gang.  I feel like such a punk.  My own cat manipulated me into moving her into a normal home and endlessly supplying her with food.  I was nothing more than a mark for her.  She is eating me out of my cupboards and then sleeping all day.  Her active time?  Late at nite when I'm sleeping, she goes outside and "hangs out with friends".  What's next?  I'm going to find her stealing money out of my wallet?  The goddman TV is going to end up missing?



Belly Or Backshots?

*Just so you know, this is the second time writing this shit.  Blogger decided to erase the first one...

...So um, like I was saying, some shit shouldn't be said.  It just shouldn't.

 Ie:  "When you were on top of me (during intercourse) it felt like I was getting stomped out."  -SSL

Not the nicest thing to say to someone who is 38 weeks pregnant, seeing as though most broads stop having sex when they are in their first and second trimesters.  But, maybe he is taking on the feminine role and being cautious of le bebe.  Quick question.  What the hell did he think was going to happen?  First of all, I gained 40 pounds, all of which are in my belly.  Secondly, the fucking kid is the size of a mini linebacker and just waiting to emerge from the abyss.  And thirdly, it's called BACKSHOTS, dickhead.  But...  I can see where that would pose a problem if you are just not into the person anymore.  In THAT case, just man up and say it and stop wasting my time.  No feelings lost, you know?

This shit is conjured up in my head and the next thing I know, I'm pacing the apartment thinking "crushing your stomach?...  Felt like I was stomping you out?...  What the fuck???  Since when did I gain THAT much weight?"  Then, I realized that my new kitty, Charlie needed the fan on her because she was overheating.  So I bent down, braced myself on the fan to unplug and move it, and the fucking thing collapsed under me while I fell on top of it.  ...All 170 pounds of me.

Jesus Came To My Vaginal Exam

*I'm sweating balls right now.  (And that has nothing to do with my post.  It's just hotter than a witches cizzunt today.  "It's so damn hot.  Milk was a bad choice...") 

Today at the doctor's office I had to have a vaginal exam.  I don't know how people do it, but the last thing that I want to have happen is someone besides my lover fishing around in my vagina.  It's fucking disgusting and although it's a must at the doctor's office when you are 39 weeks pregnant, I'm vehemently against it.  Women always say that after all of the fiddling around in your crotch by tons of doctors when you are pregnant, that you just get "used to it" and it doesn't bother you after a while.  My opinion about these females?  Besides them being HEIFERS, I think that no matter how many doctors examine my vagina, I will NEVER get used to someone that I don't know in my motherfucking crotch.  Who the fuck are these broads anyhow and what back alley block did they grow up on?  It bugs me that guys don't have to go through the same type of invasive body manhandling that I do. 

I'm not a lesbo, so having a female gynecologist is out of the question for me.  I just can't have a female touch ANY part of my crotch.  ...Or boobs.  Because of that, my doctors are always males.  It's just more natural.  Except for today.  Today was (...shudder).

So I go to the doctor.  My pulse is normal, my weight is 172- which is now the new norm apparently, and my temp is great.  Then, I go to the bathroom to piss in a cup, steal a bunch of those alcohol wipes (my insurance pays for it) and bring my urine back to the nurse.  From there I am escorted to the exam room and she then instructs me to disrobe from the waist down.  And that is when I started to freak out.  I can't stand any of this shit that they do for prenatal care.  If it isn't getting pints and pints of blood sucked out of your veins, leaving you drowsy, it's having them probe your belly and vag.  It's disgusting and I freak out EVERY TIME.  And how do they do the vag exam to see if a lady like myself is dilated?  With a finger!  Disgusting.  So the nurse is in the corner, the doctor inserts his finger and I automatically go into "oh shit" mode and tense up.  My hands fly up and then seize in a bent-in-half type of T-Rex style as my body swishes from every possible angle to escape the discomfort.  Then, while his finger is still checking my cervix, my legs (which are extremely strong) squeeze together in hopes that they break his arm off.  Maybe it was my face that was distorted for a normally calm and uneventful occasion, or maybe it was the utter bedlam that triggered the nurse to laugh.  As his arm was trapped in my leg-vice, my doctor yelled: 

"ALEXIS!  STOP SQUEEZING MY FINGER!"

And I wanted to yell at him back, but what came out was this prehistoric "EWWWAHHH!!!!"

So finally, he reclaimed his arm/finger and finished the sonogram.  As I was getting dressed, I looked at my sonogram screen and had to take a picture.  I'm perplexed.  Is that Jesus in a sports coat, rocking a mullet or a Paul Mccartney from The Beetles? 

Charlie

Right about now I hate this stupid girl on tv.  She has a cat.  She's happy.  The world is revolving; never missing a beat.  Besides that, the movie sucks.  ...just like my life.

My cat Charlie is dying and I can't do anything to help her out.  She pukes, poops and cries.  I don't know what I did wrong, but my little critter is on the brink of death and all that I can do is watch and wait.  She's just a baby.  My little baby kitty...

I don't ever want another pet.

I'm A Sucker For Puss

My heart has been torn into two pieces.  I'm still not sure what to do.  Keep it or kick it to the curb?  Seeing as though it's 4am and I'm cleaning up it's shit off of just washed clothing, I'm inclined to actually skin it, but (oh God...) sometimes assholes don't have the heart to be douchebags.  The dilema of being me...  Believe it or not, this little critter has dug it's claws into my heart, but I know that once SSL finds out that this cat shat all over his clothing, he might cry.  Even his Bruce Lee shirt got a nice spray of fecal matter on it...

Maybe this is a sign.  I just looked out my bedroom window and the cat (which I named Charlie) is at the front door waiting to come inside her newly acquired home.  I was the shithead who said "hi" to her in passing and she was the jerk who followed me all the way home.  What was I supposed to do?!  It was raining outside.  After three cans of tuna fish, I went to the corner store and bought her normal cat food.  Since then, she hasn't shat once.  That is until 4am.  I almost added to the mess by throwing up on top of the shit.  Makes me wonder how I am ever going to change my own kid's diaper.

I can't stand cats.  I REALLY realllllllly don't like them, but what the hell.  All of a sudden I have become (ugh) the surrogate mother for this ...feline.  Because I don't do litter boxes, I find myself digging through bushes at all hours of the nite, calling her name out of my bedroom window and walking the streets making cat noises just to bring her back home.  She's nocturnal and my largest fear is that since she likes to go outside and play in the middle of the nite, she's going to get involved with the wrong crowd and ...who knows... become addicted to catnip and get pregnant?  Oh my God.  I have to go and find her RIGHT NOW!

The Saddest Story Ever Told

I debated waiting until SSL fell asleep last nite to watch as he calmly breathed in and out, off somewhere in slumber land.  I was going to lay next to him propped up with my head in my hand and a peaceful smile on my face.  My little cherubic angel...  Then, I would slowly get up and tower over him on the bed, bring back my foot oh so slightly and KICK HIM IN HIS GODDAMN BUBBLEHEAD!

Have you ever come back from the barber with the worst haircut in the world and each time you catch your reflection you just want nothing more than to reach up to the heavens and scream bloody murder?  At 9 o'clock last nite I was falling to the floor, scraping my knees and reaching up with gnarled fingers for mystic lightning bolts that I would sever SSL's head with.  Oh, and FYI, I was also naked when this occurred.  I was sooooo angry that my eyeballs were on the verge of popping out of their sockets and veins were pulsating around my face and neck...

It all began last week when I went to my Obstetrician to check on ze bebe.  Each time I go to the doctor, some dumb shit happens that makes me say in my head "I'm never coming back to this crack shack again.  Never."  Over time though I have developed a twinge of Stockholm syndrome, so rationalizing why I stay on track with my prenatal appointments gets easier and easier.  -So I'm in the room waiting for my doctor.  To calm myself (I'm a hypochondriac) I am listening to AC/DC on my ipod.  After ten light years, in walks this pudgy, middle aged Asian guy with a full head of hair.  My doctor.  We go through the usual bullshit including me thinking that I'm going to get test results back saying that I have eight minutes left to live or that even though nothing looks strange, (surprise) my arm is going to fall off.  After a bunch of crazy facial expressions and reassurances, my doctor fucks up my life by saying:

"Ok, Alexis.  I need to do a vaginal exam.  There's a drape for you.  I'll be right back."

"Wait- What?!  Vag exam?!  But Dr. Blah blah blaaaaaahhhhh...  I can't.  I haven't shaved in over a month!  Oh my God.  I'm not ready for this!"

Then to make my misery understood by all angles, I whimpered like a pathetic fool.  It worked.  The doctor stopped right in his tracks, pivoted on his right foot and said:

"You think that I'm happy about this, Alexis?!" -and he walked out...

FAST FORWARD TO LAST NITE-

The trip to my doctor left me with night sweats and flashbacks that I'm attributing this new facial twitch to.  I had an episode worse than the tantrum of a three year old.  Having enough, I told SSL last nite to shave me.  Only I can shape my crotch up with perfection, so in lieu of presenting him with an impossible fete, I just said "take it all off".
                                       5 hours later...

My little lady down there looked like a patchwork of random wisps of hair.  How the fuck did he not see all of this extra hair?  Seriously.  As I looked in the mirror, my face melted in sheer horror.  In front of my was the worst fucking haircut that I have ever received on my head or my crotch.  I had to hold back all of my anger, which might have been the reason why I was so tuckered out and went to bed early.  Before that though I had to "blind shave" the rest of my crotch, almost cutting my fingers right off.  Just typing about this makes me angry all over again.  When I finally emerged from washing the remnants of his shit show off I took my naked ass over to him, got my nightly lotioning (he does that for me) and stared down at him with so much fury in my eyes that they started to tear up to stop burning.  So now?

SSL hates when I do things nude.  He is more modest than I am.  I don't give a rat's ass at this point though.  I have resigned myself to my original stance on the nudity subject.  Sure, I'll wear a t-shirt to cover up my tits.  But he can kiss me wearing pants or underwear goodfuckingbye.  Since the haircut, I have been making him mentally vomit by walking around bottomless.  On the couch, at the fridge, reading in bed, lunging at his throat with a knife...  He's lucky this shit is illegal in public, otherwise I'd be outside showing everyone what the hell type of chop job he did.  Like my motherfucking crotch was some kind of goddamn joke for him to fuck up royally.  That sonofamotherfucker!  He better fucking hope that I never get the chance to go near his balls with some clippers.  I'll do those fuckers a solid and really show him how it feels to look like a damn sideshow attraction.