My Mother was furious when I told her that I wouldn't be going to San Juan. She even frightened Haven. So apparently I throw away money. Those of you who know me, know that I DO NOT throw away money. Infact sometimes, I squeek when I walk!!!
My parents booked the timeshare for 2 weeks, 1 week for them and 1 week for my friends. Depositing their week for me and my friends. Not good.
So. I must go to San Juan. Or else I will never be able to use the timeshare again. My baby isn't happy. I'm not thrilled. It is hurricane season. Time well wasted.
Michelle can't go. My bff can't go. Boring trip. No fun.
I'm really trying to be positive about this. I tried to play the "I can't afford the plane ticket card." Didn't work. She has only used their private jet timeshare once this summer. So I will have to use that. I'd rather fly commercial. Private = Scary. It sounds like it could really be a nice vaca. It won't be. Again.
Amaya No Good.
Be Home On Wedsneday.
I hate flying.
FU SAN JUAN.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Deal Breakers
I got to thinking this morning about deal breakers and compromises. What would you be willing to give up if you met the man, woman, tranny of your dreams that was all that, then some, and a little bit more? Those things that make you happy, all those little things that eventually add up to the big things that you like in a person, in your life, in a relationship; what would you be willing to compromise on, give up, in order to keep that man, woman, he/she that is the dog's pajamas, the cat's tuxedo, and the milk bone of your world?
So, let's talk deal breakers.
Me? I can't stand cigarette smoke, mostly because it makes me sick and eventually it makes my nose bleed.
I like my alcohol and I can't imagine dating someone who didn't have an occasional drink. Yet, I am strangely amazed when I down a cocktail and my companion doesn't. I would never like it the way my grandfather liked it...As an alcoholic.
I need someone who is open and honest in all aspects of their life, so someone who said, "I don't want to talk about it," or was always shut down or extremely walled up when questions and conversations are happening, well, it's not going to go well between us.
Sex, please, be open and tell me what you like and want. I will do the same. Someone who isn't going to want to smack, play with, grab or occassionally fuck me, well, eventually that's going to get old. Great sex doesn't have to be of the physical kind either. A mindfuck. Those are the best!
Chewing with your mouth open.....
No.
I'm thinking too big.
Let's think smaller.
Unibrows. I will eventually become cross-eyed from looking at it and wonder why the hell your not aware of it. Same with nose hair. And comb-overs. I mean, really, have you not heard the comments and jokes about these things??? Please, tweeze, pluck, plow, shave and generally take care of these things.
Someone who isn't a good kisser. Kissing is very important to me. Essential, really. Yeah. There is something about two pairs of compatable lips coming together for the soft, hard, passionate, breathing in sync, tongues mingling, not too wet, yet not dry, warm taste of each other mixed together that is so.damn.perfect. As i'm typing and thinking my fingers unconsciously touch my mouth and my fingernails go across my lips....weird.
Someone who doesn't think birthdays are a big deal.
Someone who doesn't get excited about the small things. The really, really, really small things that make life, life. A beautiful full moon, sunset, the skyline.
The way something smells.
A great song on the radio.
A really good book
The way something feels, the softness of my hair...the warmth of body.
Someone who doesn't make me laugh. Christ. You know where I would be without the ability to laugh? In Happydale Insane Asylum waiting for my next electric shock therapy treatment.
Someone who can't or doesn't want to talk on the phone for hours at a time. Sure seeing each other is best, but sometimes, with life being life, that isn't possible.
Someone who doesn't have a nice voice. I realize a person can't really control this one, but if I have to spend the rest of my life listening to a person I want to be able to listen to the words coming out of their mouth without thinking, "shut up! shut up! shut up!"
Someone who doesn't say, "bless you" when I sneeze. Remember I sneeze on average three times in a row. I could go at anytime. I need to be blessed!
Someone who complains. All.the.damn.time. Here, here's the pot, piss already.
Someone who doesn't say, "...and you?" That's a biggie. A hugey, actually.
Yeah, it would never work.
My bff does it a lot actually. I'll ask a question via text and he'll respond back with , "You?" Meaningless to some--huge to me!
Honesty. The best aphrodisiac there is.
Communication. The best mindfuck. Poor communication skills: Nothing will last, misunderstanding will happen far to frequently, anger and resentment will soon follow.
Poor self-image: If someone doesn't feel good about themselves and has self-esteem issues it will carry over into all (ALL) aspects of their life.The hottest man (or woman) on the planet will fall to pieces in my eyes if they are constantly putting themself down or worring about what others think about them. (Or constantly pull or tug on their clothes.) We've all had our moments but the right person will get you over this quick! Size, shape, looks, sure they matter, but in the long run do they? No, not really. It's the package, the whole package that I am after.
I'm vain, I like to look good. However, as I've said before, I get up somewhere between 5:30 and 5:32 in the morning to be at work/class at 7:30. Obviously I have the routine down to a science. Obviously a person can look good and put together without spending hours doing so.
I love my heels, skirts, and cleveage baring tops. However, I like my flip-flops, t-shirts, holy jeans and pony-tails just as much. (sometimes more.)
Someone who doesn't say my name. men who don't say my name. AGH!!!! I hate it. And I don't mean during sex, I mean, ever! Drives me crazy. Plus, I often wonder what's behind it. Can't say, can't remember it, dating too many other people and don't want to call me the wrong one, spell it, what?
Good teeth. Obsession. Teeth. I am a teeth, lips, and eyebrow person. Hey, some people are into arms, legs, asses, I'm into nice lips, teeth, and eyebrows.
Another one. Terms of endearment that I can't stand. I know, I know. I should be happy they have a cute nickname of something affectionate to call me, but I don't like two that are immediately coming to mind.
Dear and hun
...skin crawls.
Bad association.
Ugh.Truly, pick any others and it's good.
Talks bad about his mother. Not a good sign. If he calls his mother a bitch, well chances are I will be called on sooner or later and probably for no reason at all.
A bad temper. not going to happen.
The whole intelligence thing. Love of learning and stupid trivia and a desire to keep up with the news is a given, but then again, so is basic spelling. My ex in Ohio was elstupido! I got 1 lurve letter (before he went to jail) and that was filled with words not spelled correctly.
Someone who shooshes me. Amaya don't get shooshed! An ex 'shooshed' me once. Key word in there. It was a completely unconscious moment. I was yammering on about something, he was watching TV and 'shooshed' me. Pause. Laughter. Became an inside joke. However, if it was said seriously it would have been a problem.
Lack of touch in general. No hand holding, no PDA's, no out-of-nowhere- arm, back, neck, arm, body touches. Just place your hand there, rub for a few seconds to recognize me, to tell me you care....it means so, so, SO much to a human being. Touch and to feel connected to another person.
Hmm, I seem to have gotten stuck on all the kinda big things, well, those are essential to me that would eventually ware on me and the dog's tuxedo who started out as the milk bone of my world would eventually turn out to be another crumb in the annals of my dating world.
So, what about you? What would your deal breakers be?
So, let's talk deal breakers.
Me? I can't stand cigarette smoke, mostly because it makes me sick and eventually it makes my nose bleed.
I like my alcohol and I can't imagine dating someone who didn't have an occasional drink. Yet, I am strangely amazed when I down a cocktail and my companion doesn't. I would never like it the way my grandfather liked it...As an alcoholic.
I need someone who is open and honest in all aspects of their life, so someone who said, "I don't want to talk about it," or was always shut down or extremely walled up when questions and conversations are happening, well, it's not going to go well between us.
Sex, please, be open and tell me what you like and want. I will do the same. Someone who isn't going to want to smack, play with, grab or occassionally fuck me, well, eventually that's going to get old. Great sex doesn't have to be of the physical kind either. A mindfuck. Those are the best!
Chewing with your mouth open.....
No.
I'm thinking too big.
Let's think smaller.
Unibrows. I will eventually become cross-eyed from looking at it and wonder why the hell your not aware of it. Same with nose hair. And comb-overs. I mean, really, have you not heard the comments and jokes about these things??? Please, tweeze, pluck, plow, shave and generally take care of these things.
Someone who isn't a good kisser. Kissing is very important to me. Essential, really. Yeah. There is something about two pairs of compatable lips coming together for the soft, hard, passionate, breathing in sync, tongues mingling, not too wet, yet not dry, warm taste of each other mixed together that is so.damn.perfect. As i'm typing and thinking my fingers unconsciously touch my mouth and my fingernails go across my lips....weird.
Someone who doesn't think birthdays are a big deal.
Someone who doesn't get excited about the small things. The really, really, really small things that make life, life. A beautiful full moon, sunset, the skyline.
The way something smells.
A great song on the radio.
A really good book
The way something feels, the softness of my hair...the warmth of body.
Someone who doesn't make me laugh. Christ. You know where I would be without the ability to laugh? In Happydale Insane Asylum waiting for my next electric shock therapy treatment.
Someone who can't or doesn't want to talk on the phone for hours at a time. Sure seeing each other is best, but sometimes, with life being life, that isn't possible.
Someone who doesn't have a nice voice. I realize a person can't really control this one, but if I have to spend the rest of my life listening to a person I want to be able to listen to the words coming out of their mouth without thinking, "shut up! shut up! shut up!"
Someone who doesn't say, "bless you" when I sneeze. Remember I sneeze on average three times in a row. I could go at anytime. I need to be blessed!
Someone who complains. All.the.damn.time. Here, here's the pot, piss already.
Someone who doesn't say, "...and you?" That's a biggie. A hugey, actually.
Yeah, it would never work.
My bff does it a lot actually. I'll ask a question via text and he'll respond back with , "You?" Meaningless to some--huge to me!
Honesty. The best aphrodisiac there is.
Communication. The best mindfuck. Poor communication skills: Nothing will last, misunderstanding will happen far to frequently, anger and resentment will soon follow.
Poor self-image: If someone doesn't feel good about themselves and has self-esteem issues it will carry over into all (ALL) aspects of their life.The hottest man (or woman) on the planet will fall to pieces in my eyes if they are constantly putting themself down or worring about what others think about them. (Or constantly pull or tug on their clothes.) We've all had our moments but the right person will get you over this quick! Size, shape, looks, sure they matter, but in the long run do they? No, not really. It's the package, the whole package that I am after.
I'm vain, I like to look good. However, as I've said before, I get up somewhere between 5:30 and 5:32 in the morning to be at work/class at 7:30. Obviously I have the routine down to a science. Obviously a person can look good and put together without spending hours doing so.
I love my heels, skirts, and cleveage baring tops. However, I like my flip-flops, t-shirts, holy jeans and pony-tails just as much. (sometimes more.)
Someone who doesn't say my name. men who don't say my name. AGH!!!! I hate it. And I don't mean during sex, I mean, ever! Drives me crazy. Plus, I often wonder what's behind it. Can't say, can't remember it, dating too many other people and don't want to call me the wrong one, spell it, what?
Good teeth. Obsession. Teeth. I am a teeth, lips, and eyebrow person. Hey, some people are into arms, legs, asses, I'm into nice lips, teeth, and eyebrows.
Another one. Terms of endearment that I can't stand. I know, I know. I should be happy they have a cute nickname of something affectionate to call me, but I don't like two that are immediately coming to mind.
Dear and hun
...skin crawls.
Bad association.
Ugh.Truly, pick any others and it's good.
Talks bad about his mother. Not a good sign. If he calls his mother a bitch, well chances are I will be called on sooner or later and probably for no reason at all.
A bad temper. not going to happen.
The whole intelligence thing. Love of learning and stupid trivia and a desire to keep up with the news is a given, but then again, so is basic spelling. My ex in Ohio was elstupido! I got 1 lurve letter (before he went to jail) and that was filled with words not spelled correctly.
Someone who shooshes me. Amaya don't get shooshed! An ex 'shooshed' me once. Key word in there. It was a completely unconscious moment. I was yammering on about something, he was watching TV and 'shooshed' me. Pause. Laughter. Became an inside joke. However, if it was said seriously it would have been a problem.
Lack of touch in general. No hand holding, no PDA's, no out-of-nowhere- arm, back, neck, arm, body touches. Just place your hand there, rub for a few seconds to recognize me, to tell me you care....it means so, so, SO much to a human being. Touch and to feel connected to another person.
Hmm, I seem to have gotten stuck on all the kinda big things, well, those are essential to me that would eventually ware on me and the dog's tuxedo who started out as the milk bone of my world would eventually turn out to be another crumb in the annals of my dating world.
So, what about you? What would your deal breakers be?
Question
If a woman with big boobs can get a job at Hooters, where can a woman with one leg get a job?
I-HOP!!
I-HOP!!
In Honor Of
Yesterday's true confessions and staying up all night and talking about boys inspired this post, has to deal with losing one's virginity.
"There's got to be more than this." -Victoria Principal
"The first time I slept with a girl, I didn't know where to put my peter."-Baseball manager, Billy Martin
"I couldn't pee without it hurting for a month." -Loretta Lynn
"Please God, forgive me and let this be over quick"-Amaya Georgia Warner
"There's got to be more than this." -Victoria Principal
"The first time I slept with a girl, I didn't know where to put my peter."-Baseball manager, Billy Martin
"I couldn't pee without it hurting for a month." -Loretta Lynn
"Please God, forgive me and let this be over quick"-Amaya Georgia Warner
Monday, August 27, 2007
My long day
Started with me waking up @ 2 a.m because Seth was smothering me with his 2lb arm. I tossed and turned all night just counting my blessings. Seth is the terror child from hell normally, this past weekend he wasn't so bad. Even this morning when I opted to take him to get McDonald's rather than him making me make pancakes, the kid refused fast food. He won. I made pancakes and they weren't that bad either. Isaiah & Chandler actually agreed that they were good.
We packed lunches for Seth's first day of school which was hard to do because he doesn't like Turkey sandwiches. He opted for Peanut butter & jelly. He dressed himself well in matching clothes but wasn't too fond on going to school. He knows that his daddy is in the hospital and Mommy couldn't deal with taking him to school because she's an emotional wreck right now.
We walked to class and he asked me if he could give me a hug as I was about to leave. I melted. As I was driving my Yukon home I felt the tears welling up. I came home to finish cleaning up my yard from the debris, but I couldn't help but think of Seth all day. He needed the hug as much as I did.
I look at the landscaping damage and I hear people talking about how much damage this tornado did, at the end of the day, nothing else matters as long as we all have breath in our body and we're thankful for the little things....like Seth's hug that made my day.
We packed lunches for Seth's first day of school which was hard to do because he doesn't like Turkey sandwiches. He opted for Peanut butter & jelly. He dressed himself well in matching clothes but wasn't too fond on going to school. He knows that his daddy is in the hospital and Mommy couldn't deal with taking him to school because she's an emotional wreck right now.
We walked to class and he asked me if he could give me a hug as I was about to leave. I melted. As I was driving my Yukon home I felt the tears welling up. I came home to finish cleaning up my yard from the debris, but I couldn't help but think of Seth all day. He needed the hug as much as I did.
I look at the landscaping damage and I hear people talking about how much damage this tornado did, at the end of the day, nothing else matters as long as we all have breath in our body and we're thankful for the little things....like Seth's hug that made my day.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
I'm Thankful!
I have to remind myself that it could have been a lot worse than it actually was!!! Friday evening I went to my first ever Demo derby. It's extremely dangerous and I wouldn't recommend it to anyone. My girlfriend Michelle, her husband, Michael was participating in it. His car caught on fire during his heat and was severly burned. We ended up at the local hospital and then he was transported out to another hospital. When I left on friday with their four year old in tow, I thought that it couldn't be that bad. Saturday morning I decided to go and say hello and make a cameo being the nice girl that I am.
When I got there, Michelle was distraught. Michael's family & Michelle have never really seen eye to eye. His family was treating her poorly and nasty. Michelle had to remind them that she was his wife and it was her decision on weather or not to send him to Washington burn center.
Michael's mother I met up with a few weeks ago at the grocery store--I myself spoke kindly to her while she inturned told Michelle how pale & frail I looked....yep, she's that kind of sweet! What I thought was going to be easy turned out to be hard. Michelle was still in her clothes from Friday night, unshowered and without a car because she flew with Michael. My entire family was there before Michelle's parents....My mother being the nurturer that she is went the mall and picked her up some things for Michelle to change into and brought back some comfort foods from Harris Teeter. Michael's parents never offered her anything.
I'm not good with these things...the only thing I could do was listen to her describe his head the size of a basketball and swollen because of the heat in his body, his legs they had to cut so the heat would escape, and his screams that was heard outside of the hospital. Whats truly devastating is the fact that through all of this...she realizes where he stands in her eyes. And thats a good thing!
After leaving the hospital in a nasty storm,@ 4:00 my gps went out which was odd. While trying to use my cell phone to rearrange my date time with my bff, I couldn't. I thought it was just my crappy phone. As I got closer and closer to home there were trees in the road, power lines almost down, I couldn't keep my car on the road. I was alone as I always am, I began to freak out. I had no idea what was going on. And when I say freak, I was sobbing outloud! I finally made it to my road that leads to my house and there were trees on cars! Trees on houses! I got to my house and @ 4:30 it was complete darkness in Stanley. My downed dogwood trees blocked my driveway so I thought it would be smart to drive in the wet grass--not a good idea because I got stuck! I decided to make a run for it in quarter size hail. I was actually running for my life as debris was flying and tree limbs were cutting my legs. I got to my front door which was locked and I left my keys in my car!!! So I remembered that I still had a garage door opener in my Yukon which saved me. The wind was trying to keep my garage door up as I was trying to close it because everything was flying in my garage. I practically peed my pants when I looked out my window and saw my neighbors new rv flip on it's side. Me. Alone. Big House. Tornado. No Power. Scared. Kitty!
Power came on today @ 1p.m. Soooooooo much damage is done. Trees are everywhere, my pool has a tree in it. My acura looks like a yard ornament. My legs, well they look like I had been in a sword fight.
Check out the news clip. http://www.whsv.com/ Storm damage/Page County/Stanley
It could always be worse!
When I got there, Michelle was distraught. Michael's family & Michelle have never really seen eye to eye. His family was treating her poorly and nasty. Michelle had to remind them that she was his wife and it was her decision on weather or not to send him to Washington burn center.
Michael's mother I met up with a few weeks ago at the grocery store--I myself spoke kindly to her while she inturned told Michelle how pale & frail I looked....yep, she's that kind of sweet! What I thought was going to be easy turned out to be hard. Michelle was still in her clothes from Friday night, unshowered and without a car because she flew with Michael. My entire family was there before Michelle's parents....My mother being the nurturer that she is went the mall and picked her up some things for Michelle to change into and brought back some comfort foods from Harris Teeter. Michael's parents never offered her anything.
I'm not good with these things...the only thing I could do was listen to her describe his head the size of a basketball and swollen because of the heat in his body, his legs they had to cut so the heat would escape, and his screams that was heard outside of the hospital. Whats truly devastating is the fact that through all of this...she realizes where he stands in her eyes. And thats a good thing!
After leaving the hospital in a nasty storm,@ 4:00 my gps went out which was odd. While trying to use my cell phone to rearrange my date time with my bff, I couldn't. I thought it was just my crappy phone. As I got closer and closer to home there were trees in the road, power lines almost down, I couldn't keep my car on the road. I was alone as I always am, I began to freak out. I had no idea what was going on. And when I say freak, I was sobbing outloud! I finally made it to my road that leads to my house and there were trees on cars! Trees on houses! I got to my house and @ 4:30 it was complete darkness in Stanley. My downed dogwood trees blocked my driveway so I thought it would be smart to drive in the wet grass--not a good idea because I got stuck! I decided to make a run for it in quarter size hail. I was actually running for my life as debris was flying and tree limbs were cutting my legs. I got to my front door which was locked and I left my keys in my car!!! So I remembered that I still had a garage door opener in my Yukon which saved me. The wind was trying to keep my garage door up as I was trying to close it because everything was flying in my garage. I practically peed my pants when I looked out my window and saw my neighbors new rv flip on it's side. Me. Alone. Big House. Tornado. No Power. Scared. Kitty!
Power came on today @ 1p.m. Soooooooo much damage is done. Trees are everywhere, my pool has a tree in it. My acura looks like a yard ornament. My legs, well they look like I had been in a sword fight.
Check out the news clip. http://www.whsv.com/ Storm damage/Page County/Stanley
It could always be worse!
Friday, August 24, 2007
Emma
My little princess is in Puerto Rico and I'm going to join her along with my family against my doctor's orders. Her 16 year old brother was beaten up by a 30 yr old man and was hospitalized.
I will see her soon!
I will see her soon!
Animal Cruelty & Michael Vick
It's sickening to think that a man worth over $130,000,000, who was a first round draft pick, is able to commit such horrible crimes. To have a rape cage and allow the male pit bulls to rape the female pit bulls, to drown them or execute the ones that performed poorly and lost. To starve the dogs for days so that they'll be hungry during their fight is so disturbing. Michael Vick allegedly funded BAD NEWZ KENNELS and reportedly banked on it!
Once the feds go after you, the feds who don't play around and always get a conviction, it was only a matter of time until Vick and his super cool posse folded. He's likely to get 1-2 years and a nasty chunk taken out of his bank account. I don't know which would hurt the worst!
IMHO, Michael Vick has always been a sick individual...from flying the bird to the Falcon fans to passing on std's under the alias of "Ronnie Mexico" to young, naive girls. The latest allegations just prove hat the guy is mad!
And so what he did was wrong, it is fucked up, and the majority of the population agrees. There are always going to be those individuals out there who find pleasure/entertainment in things that disgust most people. The thrill of doing something illegal also plays into it.....I guess you cant understand people who do this shit.
I just wished that people felt so strongly about the rights of a child who was raped, molested and murdered by a sexual predator. What about Amber's rights? Or Carly's? Most people have forgotten about these young girls but nobody will soon forget about what Michael Vick did to these dogs.
The Bible states that the people will put the creature before the person..... and they are.
Once the feds go after you, the feds who don't play around and always get a conviction, it was only a matter of time until Vick and his super cool posse folded. He's likely to get 1-2 years and a nasty chunk taken out of his bank account. I don't know which would hurt the worst!
IMHO, Michael Vick has always been a sick individual...from flying the bird to the Falcon fans to passing on std's under the alias of "Ronnie Mexico" to young, naive girls. The latest allegations just prove hat the guy is mad!
And so what he did was wrong, it is fucked up, and the majority of the population agrees. There are always going to be those individuals out there who find pleasure/entertainment in things that disgust most people. The thrill of doing something illegal also plays into it.....I guess you cant understand people who do this shit.
I just wished that people felt so strongly about the rights of a child who was raped, molested and murdered by a sexual predator. What about Amber's rights? Or Carly's? Most people have forgotten about these young girls but nobody will soon forget about what Michael Vick did to these dogs.
The Bible states that the people will put the creature before the person..... and they are.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Don'tcha
Hate Ho's?
Not the Ho'cake variety,
The kind of ho's that are really sluts.
The kind that just take up space and use my air?
The kind that Marisa & I call beauty on a budget who need lessons on applying their makeup so that it doesn't appear that their being casted in the LIVING DEAD sequel.
Those ho's!
Not the Ho'cake variety,
The kind of ho's that are really sluts.
The kind that just take up space and use my air?
The kind that Marisa & I call beauty on a budget who need lessons on applying their makeup so that it doesn't appear that their being casted in the LIVING DEAD sequel.
Those ho's!
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Sultry Summer Soiree
We celebrated my dad's birthday last night under the hot summer sun. Intially it was to be @my casa, because of the remote location that I live, we moved it to my brother & Courtney's and also my parents were in town friday night, we couldn't ruin the surprise!!!
It was a very nice event. The food was great, the weather was fantastic, and most of all he was with his family who loves him and wants to celebrate every waking moment with him.
Cocktails started @ 5,
Dinner was served @ 6,
His friend John, gave a short devotion to him @ 7,
the DJ was up @ 8,
Fireworks @9
The party lasted well into the night. I didn't have an opportunity to take any pictures because my day just started out on the wrong foot, Haven did manage to snap some randoms. It was a fun night. One that we won't soon forget.
It was a very nice event. The food was great, the weather was fantastic, and most of all he was with his family who loves him and wants to celebrate every waking moment with him.
Cocktails started @ 5,
Dinner was served @ 6,
His friend John, gave a short devotion to him @ 7,
the DJ was up @ 8,
Fireworks @9
The party lasted well into the night. I didn't have an opportunity to take any pictures because my day just started out on the wrong foot, Haven did manage to snap some randoms. It was a fun night. One that we won't soon forget.
Friday, August 10, 2007
All unfriended bitches
Yes all 32,625 of you that in the past twelve months have come across this page, every 68.3 of you that each day return, every one of you who have anonymously elected to send me some sort of correspondence to which I may yet most likely have not responded previous:
I do not want to go out on a date with you.
Dear single white male I have never met before – the green twenty-something that you are – interested in whether I prefer Italian or Thai, action films or romantic comedies; I do not want to meet you for dinner and a movie.
Dear optimistic thirty-something – you syrupy idealist, you! – I do not want to join you for a cup of coffee and a game of chess.
Dear lonesome forty-something propositioning me to be your escort at the PGA tournament this weekend – you who have barely crossed the T's and dotted the I's on your divorce papers – should know that you are old enough to have crossed the T's and dotted the I's on my birth certificate. And no, I do not want to meet you for tennis and brunch.
Dear aspiring photographer, I do not want to be photographed for your calendar. Or for your company. Or as a favor for you – dear besieged college art major of the community persuasion – that wishes to shoot me at various angles in order to complete your final project. I do not wish to meet you, he whom it may concern, at the Four Points Sheraton this Thursday to audition for your modeling agency. You must know, dear up-and-coming prospective talent scout, while I recognize that you are searching for models of all ages, races, heights, colors, and creeds, that I am not interested, not even if given my attendance, I will be provided FREE! hair and makeup services; not even, if given my attendance, I will be provided a complimentary digital portfolio of all of my headshots. Because quite honestly Mr. "you've got what I'm looking for" Modeling Big Wig, a collection of headshots is as useful to me as a box of plastic knives at a pudding eating contest.
Dear adult website moderator – you who's default picture showcases your cheap-suited self flanked on either side by a couple of K Street's finest bottled-blonde imminent DUI-threats, I do not want to pose for your dot com. I am not disarmed by your recurrent use of various derivations of the word "tasteful" or your offers to make me – MEEEEEE! (adolescent squeals!) – one of your top twenty-four should I assist you in your pornographic endeavors. Because no, adult website moderator, I do not wish to join the ranks of the women representing your top friends: not the Johnson & Johnson-oiled, large-assed thong wearer posed in a permanent squat in your first slot, nor the muffin-topped brunette whose gut is eating her two-sizes-too-small jeans in the second. Not the bed-sprawled redhead sporting nothing but a strategically placed sheet and low budget camera work in the third or the high-budgeted open-mouthed Asian in the fourth – you know, the one that's trademarked her username even though she's gained less celebrity status than the first-round boots off of this season's American Idol and members of The Big Brother reunion tour combined? Yes well I'd really prefer to not join ranks with her. Oh I mean (pardon me!) Her™. No, not even the Botox bunny in the Venus swimwear string one-piece in the fifth or the Mystic-overdosed undergrad in the sixth, contorted predictably into what I so lovingly refer to as the peace-and-pucker pose.
NOTE: peace-and-pucker pose (n.) is the term given to the culturally-influenced reflex of many adolescent and college-aged females to, in the presence of a camera and usually under the influence of alcohol, display a peace sign (typically held so that the palm is facing towards the body and at a angle) and purse the lips as if one were kissing or puckering.
No, silly Mystic-overdosed college co-ed, I do not wish to join your sorority of peacers and puckerers. I know all to well to leave my stance on international relations at home on a Saturday night and that the "pucker" is preferred by the vain and narcissistic merely because its performance when photographed slenderizes the facial line, exaggerating the cheek bones and casting a forgiving light on the newly temporary indentations. Consider it an instant face lift. Consider it preemptive airbrushing. Or consider, my sweet malleable comrade, commencing upon a serious eating disorder to achieve naturally that skeletal loveliness you crave. Either way honey, you've got to learn that buffalo wings and sexily gaunt cheeks just simply do not mix, so whatever you do: STOP EATING NOW! DON'T FEED THE MODELS!
Oh and closing credits to you adult website moderator: I simply just am not a Girl Gone Wild!
Dear heterosexual transvestite from Bethesda interested in showing me around the underground aspects of DC (to which you have added a wink and a nudge), I am skeptically mortified by your suggestion, and while nothing intrigues me more than the possibility of fulfilling my Invisible Monsters-mused fantasy of tramping around town with a two hundred and fifty pound drag queen and a pocket full of weathered red-shaded lipsticks, the heterosexual nature of your transvestite self causes me to fear for at most my life… and at least my pootie. So no, heterosexual transvestite from Bethesda, I will not be indulging in the underground aspects of metropolitan areas with you.
Dear Ethan, you who are in a relationship and will be visiting the area with your band soon, you who despite your awaiting girlfriend would subsequently like to partake in some "extracurricular activities" while in town and you who feel I am just the girl to do that with; you who have ostensibly been caught cutting and pasting this identical request only to send it also to a friend of one of my best friend's, you sir can snack hard on it. And by it of course I do mean my proverbial cookie; not the biblical one you will not, would not, and could not ever have the pleasure of snacking on. I do hope sir, when you and your band arrive in the area and your unfaithful intentions envelop you, that your itching, burning aspirations towards infidelity manifest themselves two to four weeks later into a little itching and burning of the crotch variety, leaving you dear Ethan - the newly crowned master of antibiotics and preventative ointment - a little less inclined to proposition innocent, unresponsive, and/or happily-taken women online and a little more inclined to be sitting alone in the darkness of your bedroom, sipping Natty Bo through your own tears, frantically punching your venereal symptoms into the browser box at WebMD.
Dear recently and soon-to-be physically uprooted men of MySpace, I do so recognize that you will soon be coming to my area – "my area" according to your definitions, apparently representing a ninty-mile radius from where I in reality live (in a tranquil rural region 120-miles south of Washington) – and I do in fact recognize that you, like many other random males utilizing this site, would like to ultimately meet up. Unfortunately, my dear recently and soon-to-be physically uprooted men of MySpace, there are greater chances of the Pope blessing my snatch than of you and I arranging a date in which I will show up unguarded at some midway all-hours diner holding a neon-colored puff-penned poster board reading WELCOME TO MARYLAND, BOB! No, you possibly homicidal or criminally intentioned, recently and soon-to-be physically uprooted men of MySpace, you simply cannot be pulling such imprudent stunts in today's society.
And please, recently and soon-to-be physically uprooted men of MySpace, when I decline the invite to meet, please do not litter my inbox with one hundred and one questions on the part times, pastimes, night lives, recreational activities, housing options, school systems, legal systems, or local economies available and present in "my area" because seriously sweetheart, I am not the Census (Senseless) Bureau. No, you poor geographically challenged creatures that you are, I am not the Goodwill Ambassador of the Maryland, Virginia, and DC metropolitan region. My name is not synonymous with Frommers, Lonely Planet, or DK eyewitness travel guides. It is not synonymous with Craig's List, Google, Yahoo! Maps, Ask.com, or Map Quest. My name is not tantamount with any number of networking sites, local classified ads, locating services, or famous-maker GPS systems.
But if you really must know my advice on finding the best a city has to offer, you impending new kids on the block you, I'd suggest the ridiculously obsolete ancient art of signing out of your computer, getting off of your ass, picking up a couple of local papers and city maps, getting in your car (or setting out on foot dependent upon the region), and seeing for your damn self what's out there to be had. You too, recently and soon-to-be physically uprooted men of MySpace, will find that new opportunities are waiting to present themselves at any moment – in coffee shops, libraries, universities, dance clubs, places of employment, etc. – but better you than me to figure out what you're into, because honey I'm the last to know, and we needn't keep the mayor at her desk for hours telling you about you're options for a social existence in the tri-state area.
Q: But you ARE the mayor – aren't you?
Of course I'm the mayor!
Yet being the mayor doesn't mean I need to exert an ounce of effort on you, you recently and soon-to-be physically uprooted men of MySpace! Being the mayor means that when I'm not laboring diligently for the salvation of the masses – for the charity of the oppressed and ailing – I am doing what I want, when I want, to whomever I want, as pompously and unapologetically as possible. Being the mayor means that by day I am wearing my hot new Juicy Couture specs, researching advances in behavioral therapy, penning out fundraising proposals and event schematics, and – by night – drinking for free at any number of our local watering holes, signing autographs, and posing for photo ops with my fans, particularly outside of bustling restaurants and on the hood of my car. Yes, being the mayor means that I have a carefully selected group of best friends consisting of urban dance-off winners and equine extraordinaires, and that I respond with gracious waves and air kisses when collective cheers arise as I enter a room, but being the mayor does NOT mean that I have to tell you where there is to go in [enter inane city I know nothing about] because the only answers I'm going to give you are either to a) hell or b) communion.
[points to crotch]
Dear ~*CASH MONEY GANGSTA*~ you whose default picture showcases you in all of your cash money gangster glory, throwing up a gang sign with your right hand and holding a wad of bills in your left, you who finds it necessary to photograph yourself wearing a fur-trimmed North Face down jacket even though it's mid–Augus, this one's for you.
Dear DA DOPEST FRESH AKA THE ORIGINAL NYC GOTTI™ AKA DA REAL PIMP JUICE, you whose default picture is a near-birds eye shot of your lubricated abdominals – yes you, oh great tanned headless torso! – I would have thought you to have been armless had it not been for the sliver of forearm holding your flashing camera phone, positioned ever so perfectly towards the bathroom mirror in your row house. A row house that is – my DOPEST FRESH, my ORIGINAL NYC GOTTI™ – thirty miles out from the city in a Jersey suburb. And well, this one's for you. My dear import addict who wRiT3S lIkE Di$ N Th!nkS d@TS C00L and dear various gentlemen referring to me as mama, mommy, mami, and mamacita, to all of you: grab a Webster's, lay off of the symbols keys, notice I am not (papi!) anywhere in your family tree, put your shirts back on, and remember for god's sake, your upstairs bathroom is not your portrait studio. To all of you cash money gangsters out there, all of you identity-perplexed culturally-defined something or others, lose the money rolls, put it in the bank, go back to college (you are NOT Kanye West), drop the façade, and whatever you do, if nothing else, please don't confuse winter-wear for status symbols. Here let's fair-trade it: you don't wear jackets off-season and I won't tape my degrees and trust fund records to the windows of my Acura. Deal?
Dear randomly-allocated unrelenting men of MySpace, you who hail from all fifty states and major cities of the nation, you who add-request me regardless of how many times I deny you from my friend requests, no number of picture changes or username adjustments are going to better your chances of being added as my friend. Dear randomly-allocated unrelenting men of MySpace, you who will send me the same cut-and-paste message every time I change my user picture, who write me incessantly within minutes of seeing that your sent message has been READ but not responded to, your restraint would be greatly appreciated. Dear randomly-allocated unrelenting men of MySpace, you who claim to see me out around town at various establishments and never approach me, yet write me at two in the morning nonetheless detailing where I was and who I was with; dear creepy guy with the professional modeling shots who utilized my book club as a springboard for inviting me out to drinks, dear Average Joe who insists he attends the same gym as my high school friend but when asked about you, she doesn't know who you are: no thank you times three; SPAN: " yes? mso-spacerun: Please, randomly-allocated unrelenting men of MySpace, do not use ice-breaking tactics such as asking me if I'm Michelle's sister's brother-in-law's cousin, because chances are I'm not. Please know, randomly-allocated unrelenting men of MySpace, you who overcompensate in eagerness what you lack in tact, when you say I probably get this message a lot and I probably won't write you back, you're right. So please, randomly-allocated unrelenting men of MySpace, you who I will not write back, you who I will continue to delete from my friend requests time and time again, you who will fail miserably in your attempts at having a cyber friendship with me, if you do nothing else – nothing else at all – please do not, and I mean EVER send me a giant glitter graphic. The next one of you that does that – cash money gangster, this includes you! – will have his soul eaten by Jesus.
I do not want to go out on a date with you.
Dear single white male I have never met before – the green twenty-something that you are – interested in whether I prefer Italian or Thai, action films or romantic comedies; I do not want to meet you for dinner and a movie.
Dear optimistic thirty-something – you syrupy idealist, you! – I do not want to join you for a cup of coffee and a game of chess.
Dear lonesome forty-something propositioning me to be your escort at the PGA tournament this weekend – you who have barely crossed the T's and dotted the I's on your divorce papers – should know that you are old enough to have crossed the T's and dotted the I's on my birth certificate. And no, I do not want to meet you for tennis and brunch.
Dear aspiring photographer, I do not want to be photographed for your calendar. Or for your company. Or as a favor for you – dear besieged college art major of the community persuasion – that wishes to shoot me at various angles in order to complete your final project. I do not wish to meet you, he whom it may concern, at the Four Points Sheraton this Thursday to audition for your modeling agency. You must know, dear up-and-coming prospective talent scout, while I recognize that you are searching for models of all ages, races, heights, colors, and creeds, that I am not interested, not even if given my attendance, I will be provided FREE! hair and makeup services; not even, if given my attendance, I will be provided a complimentary digital portfolio of all of my headshots. Because quite honestly Mr. "you've got what I'm looking for" Modeling Big Wig, a collection of headshots is as useful to me as a box of plastic knives at a pudding eating contest.
Dear adult website moderator – you who's default picture showcases your cheap-suited self flanked on either side by a couple of K Street's finest bottled-blonde imminent DUI-threats, I do not want to pose for your dot com. I am not disarmed by your recurrent use of various derivations of the word "tasteful" or your offers to make me – MEEEEEE! (adolescent squeals!) – one of your top twenty-four should I assist you in your pornographic endeavors. Because no, adult website moderator, I do not wish to join the ranks of the women representing your top friends: not the Johnson & Johnson-oiled, large-assed thong wearer posed in a permanent squat in your first slot, nor the muffin-topped brunette whose gut is eating her two-sizes-too-small jeans in the second. Not the bed-sprawled redhead sporting nothing but a strategically placed sheet and low budget camera work in the third or the high-budgeted open-mouthed Asian in the fourth – you know, the one that's trademarked her username even though she's gained less celebrity status than the first-round boots off of this season's American Idol and members of The Big Brother reunion tour combined? Yes well I'd really prefer to not join ranks with her. Oh I mean (pardon me!) Her™. No, not even the Botox bunny in the Venus swimwear string one-piece in the fifth or the Mystic-overdosed undergrad in the sixth, contorted predictably into what I so lovingly refer to as the peace-and-pucker pose.
NOTE: peace-and-pucker pose (n.) is the term given to the culturally-influenced reflex of many adolescent and college-aged females to, in the presence of a camera and usually under the influence of alcohol, display a peace sign (typically held so that the palm is facing towards the body and at a angle) and purse the lips as if one were kissing or puckering.
No, silly Mystic-overdosed college co-ed, I do not wish to join your sorority of peacers and puckerers. I know all to well to leave my stance on international relations at home on a Saturday night and that the "pucker" is preferred by the vain and narcissistic merely because its performance when photographed slenderizes the facial line, exaggerating the cheek bones and casting a forgiving light on the newly temporary indentations. Consider it an instant face lift. Consider it preemptive airbrushing. Or consider, my sweet malleable comrade, commencing upon a serious eating disorder to achieve naturally that skeletal loveliness you crave. Either way honey, you've got to learn that buffalo wings and sexily gaunt cheeks just simply do not mix, so whatever you do: STOP EATING NOW! DON'T FEED THE MODELS!
Oh and closing credits to you adult website moderator: I simply just am not a Girl Gone Wild!
Dear heterosexual transvestite from Bethesda interested in showing me around the underground aspects of DC (to which you have added a wink and a nudge), I am skeptically mortified by your suggestion, and while nothing intrigues me more than the possibility of fulfilling my Invisible Monsters-mused fantasy of tramping around town with a two hundred and fifty pound drag queen and a pocket full of weathered red-shaded lipsticks, the heterosexual nature of your transvestite self causes me to fear for at most my life… and at least my pootie. So no, heterosexual transvestite from Bethesda, I will not be indulging in the underground aspects of metropolitan areas with you.
Dear Ethan, you who are in a relationship and will be visiting the area with your band soon, you who despite your awaiting girlfriend would subsequently like to partake in some "extracurricular activities" while in town and you who feel I am just the girl to do that with; you who have ostensibly been caught cutting and pasting this identical request only to send it also to a friend of one of my best friend's, you sir can snack hard on it. And by it of course I do mean my proverbial cookie; not the biblical one you will not, would not, and could not ever have the pleasure of snacking on. I do hope sir, when you and your band arrive in the area and your unfaithful intentions envelop you, that your itching, burning aspirations towards infidelity manifest themselves two to four weeks later into a little itching and burning of the crotch variety, leaving you dear Ethan - the newly crowned master of antibiotics and preventative ointment - a little less inclined to proposition innocent, unresponsive, and/or happily-taken women online and a little more inclined to be sitting alone in the darkness of your bedroom, sipping Natty Bo through your own tears, frantically punching your venereal symptoms into the browser box at WebMD.
Dear recently and soon-to-be physically uprooted men of MySpace, I do so recognize that you will soon be coming to my area – "my area" according to your definitions, apparently representing a ninty-mile radius from where I in reality live (in a tranquil rural region 120-miles south of Washington) – and I do in fact recognize that you, like many other random males utilizing this site, would like to ultimately meet up. Unfortunately, my dear recently and soon-to-be physically uprooted men of MySpace, there are greater chances of the Pope blessing my snatch than of you and I arranging a date in which I will show up unguarded at some midway all-hours diner holding a neon-colored puff-penned poster board reading WELCOME TO MARYLAND, BOB! No, you possibly homicidal or criminally intentioned, recently and soon-to-be physically uprooted men of MySpace, you simply cannot be pulling such imprudent stunts in today's society.
And please, recently and soon-to-be physically uprooted men of MySpace, when I decline the invite to meet, please do not litter my inbox with one hundred and one questions on the part times, pastimes, night lives, recreational activities, housing options, school systems, legal systems, or local economies available and present in "my area" because seriously sweetheart, I am not the Census (Senseless) Bureau. No, you poor geographically challenged creatures that you are, I am not the Goodwill Ambassador of the Maryland, Virginia, and DC metropolitan region. My name is not synonymous with Frommers, Lonely Planet, or DK eyewitness travel guides. It is not synonymous with Craig's List, Google, Yahoo! Maps, Ask.com, or Map Quest. My name is not tantamount with any number of networking sites, local classified ads, locating services, or famous-maker GPS systems.
But if you really must know my advice on finding the best a city has to offer, you impending new kids on the block you, I'd suggest the ridiculously obsolete ancient art of signing out of your computer, getting off of your ass, picking up a couple of local papers and city maps, getting in your car (or setting out on foot dependent upon the region), and seeing for your damn self what's out there to be had. You too, recently and soon-to-be physically uprooted men of MySpace, will find that new opportunities are waiting to present themselves at any moment – in coffee shops, libraries, universities, dance clubs, places of employment, etc. – but better you than me to figure out what you're into, because honey I'm the last to know, and we needn't keep the mayor at her desk for hours telling you about you're options for a social existence in the tri-state area.
Q: But you ARE the mayor – aren't you?
Of course I'm the mayor!
Yet being the mayor doesn't mean I need to exert an ounce of effort on you, you recently and soon-to-be physically uprooted men of MySpace! Being the mayor means that when I'm not laboring diligently for the salvation of the masses – for the charity of the oppressed and ailing – I am doing what I want, when I want, to whomever I want, as pompously and unapologetically as possible. Being the mayor means that by day I am wearing my hot new Juicy Couture specs, researching advances in behavioral therapy, penning out fundraising proposals and event schematics, and – by night – drinking for free at any number of our local watering holes, signing autographs, and posing for photo ops with my fans, particularly outside of bustling restaurants and on the hood of my car. Yes, being the mayor means that I have a carefully selected group of best friends consisting of urban dance-off winners and equine extraordinaires, and that I respond with gracious waves and air kisses when collective cheers arise as I enter a room, but being the mayor does NOT mean that I have to tell you where there is to go in [enter inane city I know nothing about] because the only answers I'm going to give you are either to a) hell or b) communion.
[points to crotch]
Dear ~*CASH MONEY GANGSTA*~ you whose default picture showcases you in all of your cash money gangster glory, throwing up a gang sign with your right hand and holding a wad of bills in your left, you who finds it necessary to photograph yourself wearing a fur-trimmed North Face down jacket even though it's mid–Augus, this one's for you.
Dear DA DOPEST FRESH AKA THE ORIGINAL NYC GOTTI™ AKA DA REAL PIMP JUICE, you whose default picture is a near-birds eye shot of your lubricated abdominals – yes you, oh great tanned headless torso! – I would have thought you to have been armless had it not been for the sliver of forearm holding your flashing camera phone, positioned ever so perfectly towards the bathroom mirror in your row house. A row house that is – my DOPEST FRESH, my ORIGINAL NYC GOTTI™ – thirty miles out from the city in a Jersey suburb. And well, this one's for you. My dear import addict who wRiT3S lIkE Di$ N Th!nkS d@TS C00L and dear various gentlemen referring to me as mama, mommy, mami, and mamacita, to all of you: grab a Webster's, lay off of the symbols keys, notice I am not (papi!) anywhere in your family tree, put your shirts back on, and remember for god's sake, your upstairs bathroom is not your portrait studio. To all of you cash money gangsters out there, all of you identity-perplexed culturally-defined something or others, lose the money rolls, put it in the bank, go back to college (you are NOT Kanye West), drop the façade, and whatever you do, if nothing else, please don't confuse winter-wear for status symbols. Here let's fair-trade it: you don't wear jackets off-season and I won't tape my degrees and trust fund records to the windows of my Acura. Deal?
Dear randomly-allocated unrelenting men of MySpace, you who hail from all fifty states and major cities of the nation, you who add-request me regardless of how many times I deny you from my friend requests, no number of picture changes or username adjustments are going to better your chances of being added as my friend. Dear randomly-allocated unrelenting men of MySpace, you who will send me the same cut-and-paste message every time I change my user picture, who write me incessantly within minutes of seeing that your sent message has been READ but not responded to, your restraint would be greatly appreciated. Dear randomly-allocated unrelenting men of MySpace, you who claim to see me out around town at various establishments and never approach me, yet write me at two in the morning nonetheless detailing where I was and who I was with; dear creepy guy with the professional modeling shots who utilized my book club as a springboard for inviting me out to drinks, dear Average Joe who insists he attends the same gym as my high school friend but when asked about you, she doesn't know who you are: no thank you times three; SPAN: " yes? mso-spacerun: Please, randomly-allocated unrelenting men of MySpace, do not use ice-breaking tactics such as asking me if I'm Michelle's sister's brother-in-law's cousin, because chances are I'm not. Please know, randomly-allocated unrelenting men of MySpace, you who overcompensate in eagerness what you lack in tact, when you say I probably get this message a lot and I probably won't write you back, you're right. So please, randomly-allocated unrelenting men of MySpace, you who I will not write back, you who I will continue to delete from my friend requests time and time again, you who will fail miserably in your attempts at having a cyber friendship with me, if you do nothing else – nothing else at all – please do not, and I mean EVER send me a giant glitter graphic. The next one of you that does that – cash money gangster, this includes you! – will have his soul eaten by Jesus.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Sunday, August 05, 2007
Things That We Can All Do....
.....To be heroic!
Today is my Mommy's birthday. As we were all sitting on the patio sipping on Sangeria we were all in on the same conversation, How blessed we really truly are. And reflecting on all of our blessings it makes me want to do more. Since today is my mother's birthday she always says that '"The silence of good people is worse than the actions of the bad."Everyone knows that nothing else makes me smile more than the ability to make someone else smile :)
So I thought I'd share some secrets with you on how each of you could all be heroic, just like my Mom!
Today is my Mommy's birthday. As we were all sitting on the patio sipping on Sangeria we were all in on the same conversation, How blessed we really truly are. And reflecting on all of our blessings it makes me want to do more. Since today is my mother's birthday she always says that '"The silence of good people is worse than the actions of the bad."Everyone knows that nothing else makes me smile more than the ability to make someone else smile :)
So I thought I'd share some secrets with you on how each of you could all be heroic, just like my Mom!
- Click to feed the hungry. Thats right. Corporate Sponsors will donate a cup of food to people in need. It's that simple. http://www.hungersite.com/
- Save lives with silly string- Marcell Shriver learned that her son Todd, a brave soldier in Iraq used silly string to detect bomb wires strung across the ground in a war zone. Go to walmart and buy $10 in silly string and mail it to: St. Luke's Church 55 Warwick Road, Stratford, NJ 08084
- Donate all of your never to wear again bridal party wear, cocktail dresses to high school girls who otherwise wouldn't be able to afford the chance to be the Belle of the ball. My family has been doing this for the past two years. http://www.glassslipperproject.org/
A heroic thing for me are those rare moments where I've been able to turn the other cheek when someone hurts me instead of seeking revenge.
What are your heroic abilities?
A
Thursday, August 02, 2007
August 17
Is anyone going to the Lil Black Dress Party @ the Clarendon Ballroom? Perez Hilton and Benji & Joel Madden are hosting it. I'm assuming it's girls only?!
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
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