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Jul 11

I still hate Twilight and I’m not sorry.

Posted on Sunday, July 11, 2010 in Someone please pay me to bitch.

So I recently turned 30 years old, and in honor of my birthday (or so I thought at the time), a friend I haven’t seen in many years whom I’d reconnected with on Facebook, flew out from Chicago to visit. I had been really looking forward to her visit, as I have not made many new friends yet in our new town and was feeling lonely and unable to be with family, this visit appeared to be, on the surface, a real treat. My husband was excited that I was excited and we were both really looking forward to her company, me because I needed a female friend, he because he needed me to get the fuck out of his face for five minutes. As the day of her arrival approached, I made various plans about what we would do, what it would be like, etc…basically setting my expectations maybe slightly higher than they should have been, based on the simple fact that I hadn’t seen this woman for over 8 years. I worked hard at cleaning the house and creating a nice atmosphere for my dear old high school buddy. I even bought her a little gift that I had been eyeing with her in mind, wrapped it nicely and wrote out a little note of appreciation of her visit.

The big day arrives. Her flight doesn’t arrive until 9pm, so I have all day to be excited and anxious. At no time in that whole day did I rethink over the past 16 years of knowing her–all of the times she let me down, walked all over me, demanded things of me that no friend has any right to demand of family, let alone a friend, treated me and others around us like expendable characters in her never-ending, completely self-involved “All Melissa, all of the time” show in her mind. Come to think of it now, I am comfortable saying that I hated the bitch. I hated the bitch so much that when I flew back to Chicago to shoot one of our mutual friend’s wedding, I avoided her like the plague and immediately lost the phone number she passed to me through a guest at the wedding via my boyfriend (who is now my husband). I hated that bitch so much that even though I’d heard that she’d been divorced and had two kids and had plenty of life-changing experiences, I had no interest in reigniting our friendship. Not once did I think any of this (had I, I might have just told my husband to turn the car around, let’s save our time and money, honey!).

My husband drops me at the arrivals gate, so I can run in and find Melissa, while he loops the parking areas so we don’t have to pay for parking–(hey, airport parking is a total bitch and complete waste of time under all circumstances). I walk through the doors to see my friend, waving frantically, moving at me at a slow shuffle run. Words like “I’ve missed you so much! I can’t believe I’m here” were aplenty. O.K. so far, so good. We go to look for her bag that is just coming off the conveyor belt, and before I know it, I’ve been snapped into a horrible photo opp of her and I–me in my pajama’s practically, not really at all prepared for photos–and before I know it, it’s been announced to the whole world via Facebook that she and I have reunited and that I now look like an middle-aged lady with horrible (or no) style, a tired face and, as was so eloquently pointed out to me in a repeated & louder than hell fashion–I, gasp!, have GRAY HAIR. Forget about the fact that the whole baggage claim area is going to need chiropractic assistance after craning to see my shout-worthy GRAY HAIR, forget that one of the worst pictures in existence is now floating around on the world wide web….it’s great, right? It’s fine! This is a wonderful reunion that I couldn’t wait for…..right.

My husband swoops in as we exit the airport, and I am relieved to just be near him again—NORMALCY…someone safe, someone who denies my gray hairs, no matter how many times I point them out in every type of light possible…anyways, needless to say, the meeting of these two worlds, the world of my past and the world of my future, did not go so well…

As we head toward the airport exit, my husband and I try to make awkward conversation with someone who has their nose completely buried in their cellphone–texting someone–anyone. I felt like the square parents with their nasty teenaged sourpuss of a kid in the backseat. This incessant texting was to become a pattern throughout the trip. It became such a huge annoyance to my husband that he started texting me anytime she was texting other people so that we could talk to each other and ignore her back (no, we’re not in 5th grade anymore, but it sure does feel like it…!). She would go into a texting coma several times over the next couple of hours and days. I can only imagine the texts were a mixture of “OMG, LMFAO, she has gray hair!”, “OMG LMFAO, I’m in New Mexico!”,” OMG LMFAO, I miss you so much, I can’t wait to get home, LOL, TTYL,”….OMG, LMFAO, I’m pathetic!” Ok, so that last one would never cross her mind, let alone fly out of her fingers onto her keypad, but hey, whatever, it’s my story, so it stays.

We get home, I tried to point out a couple of times where she might find the Sandia Mountains, and various landmarks along the way..all answered by some variation of the words “uh huh, hmmm and ok”. (At this point, my hopes have fallen quite a bit, and I’m contemplating throwing her phone out the window on I-25) When we get home, my husband sets off blowing up her inflatable mattress while I try to talk with her about what the week will bring and how much we have to catch up on…everyone is pretty tired by this point, so we all dress in our pjs, my husband takes off to read for a bit in bed before sleep, assuming that she and I would want to stay up and talk a bit before bed. I’ll admit that I kinda thought this too. At some point while I’m taking care of the dogs, making her bed and getting ready for bed, she gets on the phone. I sit in the chair near her and wait for her to get off, assuming that this would be a short call. I waited, and waited… I soon realized that this was not a “I made it, I’m safe, I’m tired, talk to you later” call, it was an “OMG, he DID NOT say that! OMG, tell me more…tell me what you were wearing, what you said, and then tell me what he said..and then tell me what anyone else you told this story to said…OMG!” conversation. I’m not kidding you. All the while I’m sitting there yawning, twiddling my thumbs like a dumb ass. At some point during this conversation, I got up and went into the bedroom, for what I’m not sure. My husband assumed that since I’d been gone so long, we’d had our initial catching up chat and I was coming in to go to bed. Not so. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to go to bed, but didn’t want to be rude (no, going to bed without saying good night to this thoughtless bitch would have been too rude for me), but I didn’t know how much longer I could stay awake and I was pretty sure my impulse to punch her in the face couldn’t be held off much longer either. Finally, after an ETERNITY, she reluctantly gets off the phone. She then begins to tell me this long drawn out story involving she, him, them, who-ever-the-hell-else-who-cared-to-be-involved. At this point I assumed she was telling me the unbelievably crazy story she’d just spent 35 minutes or so listening to in order to explain her blunt rudeness. Nope. When I asked if her friend was calm enough to go to bed and get some rest, she said “oh, this happened last week–that was someone else on the phone.” What the hell? I went to bed just shaking my head. Duh.

I'm pretty sure this is her "I'm peeing in the pool" face.

I'm pretty sure this is her "I'm peeing in the pool" face.

The next day was my birthday, and I had decided before getting out of bed that I would start this day fresh. Let bygones be bygones…except for the fact that what was to come next was a nonstop cellphone party for this friend and all of her friends (you know the ones she sees all of the fucking time when she’s not over a thousand miles away visiting a new place and an old friend..) What kills me is that at one point, because it was my birthday, I was responding to a birthday text from a friend, and she was in the middle of telling me a long story about how this guy or that guy likes her but won’t date her, and she’s like “um, am I interrupting you?” Bitch, please! Mind you, this is her second day, and it dawns on me that I’d been wishing she would go home since about 9:30 the night before. My husband was very sweet and made sure that despite this rude cow’s presence, I had a nice birthday. And despite that rude cow, I did. It was a pool party, like when I was kid, with balloons and pizza and presents. The whole sha-bang. Thanks, honey!

Let’s see, since I realize now that I am kind of rampaging and not getting to my point, I’ll try to hit the highlights:

  • We paid for a great many of her meals without her offering to chip in (my husband wanted to hit her)
  • She told endless stories about the guy who is the love of her life, the guy she’s in love with (because somehow the two are different), the guy she has a crush on and the guy she has no feelings for but answers his booty call when he breaks up with his girlfriends
  • She made a few more comments meant to be direct blows at my self-esteem, as if turning 30 hadn’t left me feeling fragile enough
  • She went on and on about how there are tons and tons of guys in love with her, but none of them would date her because she’s too good for them (right!)
  • I was so desperate to figure out how to entertain her (a glob of human flesh with no interests outside of FB and texting) that I suggested we go see…(I cringe…) Twilight, knowing that she was a ridiculously huge fan. As was expected, the movies was crap, and all of the people who were there to see it were morons, and I am only sort of glad that I now know that I was speaking correctly in my last blog about how stupid this Twilight stuff is. Literally the movie was over and I was wondering why there was no climax to this movie and why everyone around me was crying or sniffling or some combination of the two
  • She continued to post awful pictures of me on FB and send them to her friends which is just not cool
  • She picked her zits until they bled and then later turned to bruises, then presumably rubbed her nasty face & hands all over the sheets and comforter and anything else she touched
  • She left her clothes around everywhere, never made her bed (which just happens to be in the middle of the living room) and left empty coffee cups on the table, literally feet from the trash can
  • She spouted on and on about how she’s now an evangelist about Jesus, OMG, I just love Jesus.
  • She helped herself to anything and everything in our cupboards–in constant forage mode, much like a locust
  • She squatted on my computer so much that my husband got into the routine of actually cutting off the internet to my computer so she could no longer surf Facebook and PlentyofFish.com (a website devoted to connecting skinny dudes who like fat chicks with fat chicks who like skinny dudes, apparently)

When it was finally time to discuss what time she needed to be at the airport to return home, she suggested 2 hours beforehand, and before she could even finish getting the words out, my husband says without looking at me “That sounds good!”….lol, poor guy, he’s been very understanding. I let the fact slide that being at our particular airport two hours early is silly because they are very efficient and security is quick no matter the time of day. Needless to say, I was as eager as he to be done with this ordeal. The night before she was to leave, my husband and I are lying in bed, playing on our iPads, relaxing, just praying for the morning to come soon so we can be rid of her awfulness, I’m feeling mistakenly confident that the situation can’t get worse and that the worst has passed. I then hear the doomed, and in hindsight, dreaded ‘ding’ notification that I have a text message. Confused at who would be sending me a text this late, I go to look at the message. It’s from her. The message says (mind you I am quoting word for word, hence the horrifying grammar and spelling) “hope u dont care but im lookn at the hood pics…FUCKN AWESOME! why r u not doing this for a living???” Upon reading this, I’m a little confused because no one has seen these photos, the bride, my friend, hasn’t posted them on FB, and I haven’t posted them anywhere either. The only place she could have possibly seen them is….on….my….computer….. Surely she didn’t. Surely she didn’t get on my computer without asking. Surely she didn’t start looking through my personal files….surely. Right? I text back nervously “Where are you seeing these?” She responds “on your computer duh… i check my fb and saw “hood wedding” i was like oh…good.” I’m panicked at this point because I feel totally and completely violated. The wedding file was on my desktop….OOOOOoooohhh shit. This bitch has the nerve to treat me like shit all week, eat on our dime all week, basically toot her own horn all week and act like she’d rather be in our shitty ass hometown from whence she came all week???? Oh hell no. My husband became alerted to my panic and starts angrily getting out of bed as I finish stuttering out what horrible deed she has just committed, presumably to go knock the living shit out of this ungrateful bitch. I stopped him, telling him not to go, knowing I had to do something, feeling for the second time during her visit that I’m not sure what to do, but know that something must be done, but I don’t want to be the one to do it…blaaaarg….dammit you nosy worthless human being! I felt completely powerless and, well, for lack of a better word, little. I just wanted it all to go away. This was, to me, the ultimate betrayal, you really can’t go back on that one. I don’t really remember what I said as I entered the office to put an end to this bullshit, but she got the message, very clearly. She was up and out of my chair like a flash. Nighty-night, shitstick.

I’m not sure where we stand now, and to be honest, I wouldn’t care to ever see or hear from her again. After dropping her at the airport and enduring the chilly goodbye, we threw a mini party in the car on the way  home, just happy to be free of her non-stop “Aren’t-I-Great” party. It’s exhausting, really. We get home and head up the stairs feeling utterly liberated. As I begin the clean up after her destructive departing, I notice that the gift I thoughtfully chose for her was in the very place she left it after tossing it aside thoughtlessly the night I gave it to her. Even knowing what I now knew, about what a thoroughly nasty person she is, I was sad and a little offended. She also left behind a pair of shorts and a pair of holey underwear. What sweet memories I have of those parachute panties when my husband accidentally picked them up, not even thinking that anyone would lay their dirty unmentionables out on the patio for just anyone to see, assuming it was a swimsuit since everything else out there was swimming apparel of some sort. I’ve never seen him move so fast to drop the panties and run to the sink, just in case a communicable disease lingered. This is pure class, for sure. In the guest bathroom, I found all of the towels in a ball on the floor (because at our hotel, that is our policy apparently) and in the trash dangling precariously on the edge, ready to topple out at any moment, was a USED MAXI PAD, not wrapped in kleenex or even somewhat concealed in any fashion. Apparently even her used maxi pads are gifts to be honored and cherished. It’s being dipped in gold as we speak.

Apr 22

Low-rise jeans (and stupid bitches who wear them)

Posted on Wednesday, April 22, 2009 in Bitch slap of the day

I’m starting a new thing, as of today. It’s a mini rant, a tiny little bitch slap to all of the stupid fucking things I see in my day.

Subject for today: Low-rise jeans

As I was returning from the restroom today at work, I caught a glimpse of a plump, dark-haired girl heading up the stairs. As we moved closer (I was already on the second story, heading towards the stairs she was ascending), I realized that she wasn’t actually as plump as her jeans made her appear, she was just making the classic mistake (that many a woman have made since the creation of these little assholes) of wearing what I would quite literally call women’s worst enemy: the low-rise jean. She displayed all of the classic symptoms of a girl who wears low-rise jeans one size too small including: tugging her pants up after each step was defeated, flashing butt-crack during the defeat of said steps, and the ashamed once-over of the area to ascertain who may have witnessed this tugging/butt-crack flashing action. Oh, and let’s not forget the most noticeable symptom: the muffin-top.muffintop1

I’m just going to take one quick moment to point out two things that nag at me every time I see this choice of wardrobe:

  • Low-rise jeans were created for the anorexic models who grace us with their presence in every media magazine from here to Tahiti, not real girls with love handles and dumpy butts and, lets face it, ass cracks. Rule 1 of becoming a model, if you didn’t previously know this, is surgically replacing your ass crack with dimples which were designed to inspire maximum male masturbation sessions all across the world and a world-wide female scramble to the nearest mall equipped with an Abercrombie & Fitch store.
  • There is no excuse for a muffin top…I understand that a lot of girls don’t want to have to admit to themselves that they actually wear a size larger, but wouldn’t you rather be able to hide the size of your jeans inside your pants, rather than advertise your muffin-top love handles to the world? Bigger jeans = no muffin-tops. Yeah!

That’s all.

Apr 21

Sometimes I want to kick my own ass.

Posted on Tuesday, April 21, 2009 in Legitimate concerns

Do you ever find yourself doing things that you know you shouldn’t do, that could cause some serious long-term damage, hurt people and yourself, yet you can’t stop doing it? I’m not talking about drug addiction or alcohol abuse because well, lets face it, those people are just lazy assholes who don’t like themselves and think that any sort of substance they put in their body to alter their personality will make other people like them and in turn, trick themselves into believing that they are actually pretty cool and not annoying as hell to deal with for everyone else riding on the sobriety bus.

No, alcohol is not my problem (but sometimes I wish it was!). I’m actually afflicted with self-sabotage and hurting-the-ones-I-love syndrome. I have mentioned before that I am a slightly (read: totally) insecure person and I can’t for the life of me figure out why my fiance not only loves me, but says I’m sexy, he thinks I’m gorgeous, wants to marry me and have babies with me. Don’t misunderstand, I’m not trying to insult his taste or his opinion in any way, but I grew up with a brother who felt like shit and wasn’t happy until everyone around him, which was only me at the time, felt like shit too. I quickly learned that not only was I fat, I was stupid, fat & ugly! Yes, I’m the complete package here folks! Well, when you’re 10, and you’ve always idolized your big brother, you tend to believe pretty much everything he says (I mean, he was able to convince me to eat a worm….you get the idea) regardless of its validity. Accompany that with the occasional (frequent) ass beatings he gave me, the public humiliations he put me through and the number of friends he chased off for me, by the time I was 15, I’m scum.

Fast forward to today, I’m 28 years old. I have a career, a home, two dogs, I’ve finally got long hair again, and maybe my face isn’t so disappointing, and well, not to boast, but men and women alike have told me I have a great rear end. My fiance tells me everyday, sometimes (usually) more than once, that he thinks I’m beautiful, that I’m the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen, but none of this stops me from thinking that if he were to run across someone (anyone else anatomically correct, to be perfectly truthful) else, he would drop me in a half of a heartbeat. And thinking this is one thing, but actually accusing him of it is another thing entirely and it is known to happen around our house just about everyday. An85-heartbreakkid1d I know I’m doing it, and I can hear the words, but I can’t stop my mouth from saying them, and they spill out like poison. And while I know he loves me, and (for now) he’s entirely patient with me, he is only human and can withstand only so much irrational thinking followed by completely irrational behaviour. I can see how much it confuses and hurts him, but that doesn’t stop me. He has said that he wishes I could see myself the way he sees me for just a second so that then I would know how he feels, and yet I still can’t believe that he will be faithful and loyal to me for our entire life spans. Part of this comes courtesy of my brother and the other part is compliments of good ol’ mom and dad. Their marriage was full of neglect, lies, cheating and last but not least, a nasty divorce to wash it all down. High school sweet hearts, actually, middle school sweethearts, together since the age of 13. And to this day, I’m still convinced they love each other, but once all of that nastiness (him: neglect, her: cheating & lies) has passed through a marriage, it’s past the point of no return. I don’t want that to happen to us, so much so that it seems I’m going to wreck it before it ever gets the opportunity to pass down that road.

I’m such a piece of shit, and I hate it. I need a reality check, and fast, because I don’t want to hurt my best friend, my partner, my everything. He deserves better, and that’s the truth if I don’t shape up and realize that he chose me for a reason, he loves me, and I have to trust that. I need an electrode to be placed in my head, set to shock the bazooty out of my brains anytime an insecure or jealous thought dares cross the ocean of my mind. I feel like I have an alternate personality who always prevails in every battle. I need a handler, I need to be trained. Maybe I need to be hypnotized into having some self confidence.

If you need to find me,  check in the self-help section of the public library where I will be planted until I find the solution to this problem.