Monkey Poo

Ok, I'm officially a drama queen. I got an A on that test that I was freaking out about. I guess I'll never learn. Since I do this EVERY time I take a test. And now, I'm sick. And, it's the kind of sick where I'll wake up in the middle of the night and I'll be like, how come my mom never hugs me anymore? What year is it? Where is my cat?! I haven't seen my cat in weeks! And then the next morning, I'll see Jack (my cat--the one who still has his whole tail) and I'll be like...oh...there he is. It's awful. Supposedly, tea with honey helps. So, I've started an IV of mint tea with honey. But I'm still sick as fuck. What's up, God? What is up with that?

This week at EMT class, we learned how to put people on backboards and carry them around. Now I have a strong desire to spider-strap strangers that I see at the market to a long, stiff board. And, I bought a blood pressure cuff so that I can practice. Except I take my own BP so often that I now have little bruises on my arms. It's just I'm so competitive. I'm like, 140! This can't be right.

Since I'm not feeling so well, I thought I'd end this blog early and go eat a sandwich to cheer myself up and probably some of you (if you need cheering, that is, which I hope you don't, but if you do, eat your own sandwich. And if that doesn't work: eat a cheeseburger. If that doesn't work, I suggest taking a samba class. If that doesn't work, go roller skating. If that doesn't work, ride a camel at a water park. If that doesn't work, there's something really wrong with you).

Test Anxiety

Ugh. I have a sick feeling in my stomach. Because I just took a test. And even though I usually do well on tests, I always, always, always, feel like I didn't do well. But what's with people who get an 80 question test and are done in 15 minutes? I don't even think I could read all the questions in fifteen minutes, let alone obsess over them and go into a cold sweat, as is my ritual. God, I hate tests. And, I hate that I hate them. Why can't I be one of those carefree people who comes in on test day with, like, a strawberry cream cheese bagel in my hand and sit and eat while I chatter with my friends about tonight's sure-to-be-fantastic episode of Grey's Anatomy? Why must I be the girl who insists on getting to school at least an hour early so I can study more--the girl who races to her car after she's turned in her exam only to sit there for twenty minutes checking answers? I am in a self-made prison, a prison of power-point lecture notes and critical thinking crossword puzzles and the 206 bones in the body and blood pressure cuffs and rumors about bad teachers and about the unlikelihood of ever getting into the nursing program and my own fears of what will happen if I don't get in and what am I going to do if that happens and what a waste and oh my god and I think I better stop at McDonalds so I can drown my sorrows in a 10 piece nugget and I'm getting fatter and my dad doesn't like me anymore and I'm ashamed of myself.

But don't worry about me. This will pass. I'm pretty sure I got a B, anyway. ...At least a B. I mean, hopefully a B. Dear God, please let it be a B (or better)!

No one saw this coming

My cat, whose name is Giuseppe, but who we all refer to as "big kitty" went to the vet yesterday. He's had this disgusting growth on his tail for quite some time now. Here's a sample of many conversations I've had with my mom since I discovered the growth over a year ago:

Me: Hey mom, when I pet big kitty's tail, I feel this disgusting knobby thing near the middle of it. It feels like he got his tail slammed in a door and now his tail is swelling up.

My Mom: Oh, that's nothing. You're crazy. There's nothing there.

This conversation probably happened 30 or so times over the past year. And then on Wednesday, my mom says, all self-righteous:

"I'm sure I'm the only one who cares enough to have noticed, but big kitty has a growth on his tail. He needs medical attention, so I'm taking him to the vet tomorrow."

But, the sad news is that big kitty went to the vet and it turns out that they have to cut his tail off! Next Thursday is the big day.



He has no idea...

"...So I guess this means I'm out of the book club."

Tonight, Lost is back. I've seen every episode since the premiere and I plan to stick with it until the bitter end. Is it bad that these days my happiness is determined solely by how many things I've got set up to tape on my DVR? I don't think so. I think it's regular. On the schedule for tonight:

1. Lost. I'm still debating whether or not to tape the hour long last season re-cap lead-in show. I have, after all, been studying my Lost flash cards and playing my homemade Lost board game ever since the season 4 finale.

2. Top Chef: New York. Tonight, not only do I get to see some bad ass chefing, restaurant-wars-style--I also get to see the inaugural Top Chef hookup! And this one is juicy, because the two that make out both have significant others at home! Don't you just love watching people's lives crash down around them?

3. The New Adventures of Old Christine. The title of tonight's episode is "What Happens in Vegas is Disgusting in Vegas." What's that smell? Oh yeah, it's hi-jinks.

4. The Real World: Brooklyn. This season's cast are so...mature. One of them is even a dolphin trainer! A dolphin trainer with a huge penis...as the main focus of last week's episode was a flare-up between virgin Mormon Chet and his obsession with JD's magnum-sized condoms. The mystery remains: who put the condom-clad banana in the fish tank? Like I said: mature.

5. Criminal Minds.

Spencer Reid is my ideal man.

That's the way I like it.

Reasons I am happy today:

New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president. New president.

Oh! And: I heard Lapeer is getting a Sonic.

Just take a deep breath

Sometimes when I act like a brat or a jerk, I have this thought: someday, this person (that I'm being a jerk to, or acting like a brat around) is going to be dead or they're going to have cancer or have something terrible happen to them and I will be sorry I was such a jerk. It makes me feel guilty--for being a jerk, for thinking about them dying, for failing at my daily resolution to be a better person--but it doesn't make me stop. Why? Why can't I stop having opinions about things, or why can't I keep my opinions to myself? Why, when someone is gushing about a movie we just saw do I have to rain on their parade by saying, "yeah, it was alright"? All I know is that I probably shouldn't be allowed out of the house on Sundays. And I probably should not go to packed movies, where some stranger sits right next to me when there are clearly other seats available. And I probably should not be forced to listen to said stranger talking loudly and saying "awww...oh no!" every time the kid on screen gets electrocuted or beaten up. I probably should not put myself in situations like these, because inevitably I wind up walking through a dirty parking lot at dusk in the middle of winter, watching the sun set over Steak n' Shake and thinking about the little girl I saw in the mall, the lost little girl with no shoes on and a face red from crying and the frantic lady in scrubs trying to help her find her mommy. And for some reason, I feel pretty sad, but instead of just being sad, or just keeping my mouth shut, which is what I ought to do, I'm just a jerk. And then I think: someday the person I'm being a jerk to is going to die and I'm going to regret my bad behavior. And then I feel guilty.

A few of my favorite things about winter...

When the outside and the inside of your car gets iced up, so you have to scrape while you drive just to be able to see. I love that.

Always having wet feet is a plus.

Salty-pants. I just think they look better.

The possibility that if you forget your gloves, you may have to have a finger amputated. Gives me a rush...

Never seeing the sun.

You are MY Golden Globe winner, Dexter.

I think the title says it all. Michael C. Hall is perfect. Dexter, the TV show, is perfect. Dexter, the character, is perfect. And the Hollywood Foreign Press have their heads up their asses.

Why I Want to be Just Like Mary-Kate Olsen: A High School Graduation Speech as given by Head Cheerleader Joleen McQueen

Hey you guys! First off, I’d just like to say ‘we did it!’ Yeah! And I think we all deserve a round of applause. How bout it? Principal Hansen asked me to come up and give a speech because he knows just how much you all look up to me, and I just want to say that I’m really honored. It’s just that in these difficult times, we all need someone to kind of, aspire to be, ya know? And you all probably are probably thinking, ‘Joleen McQueen is perfect—who the hell does she look up to, God?’ Oh...am I allowed to say hell? Sorry...

Anyway, the thing is, I do have a roll model, and it’s Mary-Kate Olsen. And I know that you’re probably thinking, ‘Why would Joleen McQueen look up to Mary-Kate Olsen? She like, throws up everything she eats.’ And yeah, she does have anorexia, and it is kind of unfortunate that that came out just as I was about to give this speech, but her anorexia is not what I’m here to talk about. I’m here to talk about her spirit, ya know? Yeah! And I think that deserves a round of applause.

I mean, she’s got so many qualities that all of us, young women and young men, can look up to. She’s beautiful, she’s thin, she’s got great hair, she’s got big blue eyes and clear skin. Yeah, so maybe she’s anorexic, but who isn’t these days? I mean, they say that anorexia is about control, having control over what you eat when you don’t feel like you have control over anything else. But for Mary-Kate, it really was just about being thin. And now she is thin! And she’s getting help for her disease. And I think we should all support her in that, ya know? Yeah! And as we’re heading out into the world, I just think that you guys should try to decide who you all want to be just like. Because disease or no disease, I want to be just like Mary-Kate Olsen. Because being thin and rich is what counts. And I’m the most popular girl in school now and I never, like, want to, like, take a step down from that, ya know? So, ask yourselves, who do I want to be? And I hope your answer is Mary-Kate Olsen, because that’s my answer, and if it’s your answer too, then we, like, totally have something in common.

Danger Mall

I have visited my sister many times, and we usually can’t think of much to do, so we often end up at the mall. It’s a fantastic place, the mall. It doesn’t make me nervous, like it does my friend Josh. He can’t take crowds. I like the crowds. The mall makes me feel like anything is possible. It also makes me feel like I’m normal. I think: Hey, I woke up today and had the same idea as thousands of other people. Look at us all, shopping for things we probably don’t need, but that will make us feel good, maybe for a moment, maybe forever. Probably not forever, but maybe. Possibility. That’s the mall to me.

There are two places in the mall I usually gravitate toward—the frozen yogurt stand and the pet shop. Is it odd that neither of these places has anything to do with clothes or with looking good? In fact, they have quite the opposite effect. Yogurt (I don’t care how fat-free it supposedly is…fat free doesn’t mean much when you eat as much of the stuff as I do) makes you a fat, sticky mess and pets make you hairy and smelly. Fat, hairy, sticky, smelly. That’s me in a nutshell.

I usually can’t bring myself to suggest going to the yogurt stand. I’m afraid Gina (my sister) will say that I’m too fat to have frozen yogurt, fat free or no. Or I’m afraid that even if she doesn’t say it, she’ll be thinking it. This isn’t fair to Gina. She’s not that type of girl. I don’t think she thinks I’m fat. But I think I’m fat. And, the mall makes me feel fatter even though I’m probably one of the least fat people there (the mall really attracts the fatties, huh?). So, I settle for looking longingly at the fro-yo stand. Oh, the suffering. If I’m lucky, someone else will mention frozen yogurt, probably the skinniest and most stylish girl in our group. When this happens, I’m jumping up and down on the inside, but on the outside, I am nonchalant, like I could take it or leave it. “Fro-yo?” I say. “Um…well, maybe…I mean, I’m not that hungry, but I guess I could get some.” I’m hesitant enough to be convincing. The skinny is convinced it was all her idea when in actuality it was probably some sort of otherworldly power of suggestion emanating from my brain that made her want the stuff. It’s all my fault.

Then there’s the pet store. It’s overpriced, and I know that I could not even afford to buy a feeder fish there, but I love to look at all the little guys in their sad little cages and imagine taking them home with me and letting them sleep in my bed. I could have a kitten that would fall asleep on my tummy while I listen to a Neil Young album. I don’t even have a Neil Young album. I don’t even have a record player. I don’t even have my own apartment, and if I did, it would not be an apartment that allows pets. And I am not the type of girl who would ever sneak in a pet, even if it was just a harmless little kitten. I would be afraid my landlord would see my kitten perched on the windowsill and that he or she would then promptly evict me in a fit of rage. Then I would never be able to rent another apartment because I would have a bad reference. So, instead of renting my own place, I’d crash on friends’ couches. Pretty soon I’d pick the wrong friend’s couch to crash on and I would start smoking pot every afternoon. At first I’d feel exhilarated, then just groggy. Soon I’d start to be hungry for the hard stuff, and I’d do cocaine, then heroine. I’d sleep around, have a bastard child, and lose all my money. Then I would be homeless and crack-addicted and I’d have to put my baby in foster care. I’d become a prostitute, then get thrown in jail for trying to pick up an undercover cop. I’d rot in jail for months, all the while writing sad letters to my baby that say things like “don’t worry punkin—mama comin home soon.” I’d make friends with my cell-mate Betty (she has a bastard kid she never sees, too) and we’d become lovers. Then I’d be loosed from jail not only a still drug-addicted out-of-work hustler, but also in the midst of a sexual identity crisis. My baby will have been adopted by then and I’ll sink down into a depression the likes of which I’ve never known and can’t understand. I will have lost the support of all my friends and family (even the drug addicted ones!). When even my hooker friends can’t stand to look at me anymore, I’ll hitchhike to the one place that used to make me feel whole—the overpass above I-90. But the guy who stops to give me a ride will have an evil heart. He’ll pull into the parking lot of an old burned out church and rape me right there on the imitation leather seat of his pickup truck. Then he’ll kick me out of the car right there in that church parking lot, where I’ll kneel down and cry. I’ll send an anguished scream up to the sky. “Why me, God? Why me?” Then I’ll dust myself off and walk another five miles ‘til I hit the overpass above I-90. I’ll climb up on the cement ledge and watch the cars fly by down below, mesmerized for a moment by the blurry lights the way I used to feel sometimes when I was on crack. Then I’ll whisper “take carry of my baby, dear lord” before plummeting into traffic below. It won’t be until after I jump that I realize how many other lives I’m endangering by choosing this method of suicide. That’ll be the real nail in the coffin. I really just can’t do anything right. So…harmless kitten my ass. That’s why I can’t have a pet.

You know, there is such a thing as being TOO healthy. That's what killed Bruce Lee.

I spent the day at the mall, alone
KB Toys is going out of business
Or, as I like to say: bid-niss
I saw a movie at the mall
A couple brought their little twins into the movie
The twins cried and shook their rattles
I got the biggest popcorn combo they had
I was this close to getting two drinks
I love those names they give to the combos:
"Perfect Co-stars!" "A Midsummer Night's Butter."
Adorable
Yesterday, we ate at Olga's
I thought our waiter was overbearing
And, I felt pressured to order quickly
I don't like Olga's
What if I don't feel like having my dinner wrapped in a pita?
My dad thinks I should adopt a "clean-eating" plan
He says I'm not allowed to drink from the faucet anymore
He says I should go on a juice fast for 21 days
It is now the year 2009
I guess I should have some goals, some plans
What's scary is that every year I have the same goals and plans
And if you think about it, you'll understand why that's scary
What if I only ate turnips for a year?
Then I could write a memoir about it
I could call it: "Turn UP"
That's a good title
I start EMT class in two days
I don't know what door to go in
I emailed my teacher
My email said: "Hey, yo, what door?"
I am going to learn about vehicle extrication
That means, getting someone out of their car after an accident
Like, using the Jaws of Life
My favorite film is Jaws
Sometimes when my dad comes home and the house is dark he yells out: "Hooopah! Hooopah!"
Because that's how Captain Quint says it
I love my dad
But some people find him intimidating
He doesn't understand why
I said, "Maybe it's because of your buzz cut, stocky build, and olive-toned skin."
I don't find my dad intimidating
Except when he is screaming at the top of his lungs and threatening me with a knife
I'm just kidding, he doesn't do that