Contact

Since it’s the sabbath I decided to drink my caffeine cold to honor my Mormon upbringing. That’s mostly a lie, I was just too lazy to make coffee.I grabbed a can of Diet Dr Pepper out of the fridge, a handful of Girl Scout Cookies and settled on the couch to catch up on some TV. I opened the can, lifted it to my lips and took a sip. I instantly spat out the liquid. It wasn’t the sweet tasting soda I was expecting, it was a can of beer. I can’t justify a beer this early in the day, but I certainly don’t want to waste it. I guess if it tastes OK with cookies…Calm down mom, I don’t need the beer and cookie calories together. I’ll make Ben drink it.

My dog is a giant bitch. She, like me, is having a difficult week and has decided to take it out on my apartment–first the pasta incident and now the carpet. My dog that never, ever pees in the house peed last night right IN FRONT OF ME! She squatted by the plants and pissed on my carpet while staring me straight in the eyes. And it didn’t help that people were over. I have never wanted to haul her ass off to the pound like I did that minute. But I won’t.

If I didn’t get rid of her when she ate my grandmother’s antique chair, or when she ate an entire stash of my neighbor’s weed, I certainly won’t get rid of her now. Though, empty threats still feel good.

Maddie pointed out that maybe I shouldn’t tease her with Girl Scout cookies. She’s got a point, but did I mention that she PEED ON MY CARPET!! I can’t wait to see what she’s got in store for me this weekend. Perhaps chewing my legs off while I sleep? I’ll be sure not to wear my vanilla scented lotion at night, just in case.

Or maybe she will learn how to text message on my iPhone and send every single ex-boyfriend a drunken text message. Oh wait, that will be me after I drink an entire bottle of vodka to numb the pain that will undoubtedly follow being rendered legless by an angry pug.

Just when I thought I was done writing about dating, the most significant heartbreak of my life occurs.

One of my longtime favorite bands, The Mother Hips, played at The Urban Lounge last weekend.  A man I dated in 2002 first introduced me to this alt-country band when he played me the song “Sarah Bellum.” I’ve been obsessed with them ever since.

I hadn’t seen them play in a couple of years, so when I noticed the band was coming to town I knew I had to go.  I talked two friends into going, promising they would be attending the concert of a lifetime.  Apparently, I’m a big fat liar.  How was I to know my once beloved band had lost their mojo?

The highlight of my evening came before the concert even began.  I was hurrying out of the bathroom when I ran smack into the back of the lead singer Tim Bluhm. I nearly fell over and he kindly helped me back on my feet.  I was too tongue-tied and embarrassed at my klutz-like behavior to thank him, and before I knew it he was on his way to the stage to ruin my life.

I miss the old days—where my rock star idols were still rock stars and not middle-aged men with salt and pepper hair, rocking out to a twelve-minute guitar solo.  I only slightly exaggerate.  It’s entirely possible the solo was only ten minutes.  Either way I felt like I was attending a Phish concert, not the high-energy concerts I remember The Mother Hips once playing.  I’m finally OK with my own aging, but I shouldn’t be expected to watch my idols age as well.  Isn’t music supposed to be timeless?

They did play some old favorites: “Red Tandy” and “Magazine,” but the songs sounded nothing like they did at previous concerts. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for a band discovering a new sound, but typically I like the new sound not to suck.

The crowd was full of loyal fans—a few that I recognized from the days where I attended every single concert the band played at the dearly departed Zephyr Club.  I couldn’t help but wonder how many of them were as dissatisfied with the performance as I was.

As we slipped out before an encore I ran into an old friend. When he asked why I was leaving, I mentioned something about the band being the biggest disappointment of my life; he assured me they were much better the night before.  Leave it to me to pick the worst night to attend.  I wanted to hear alt-country, not alt-crappy.

Determined to prove to friends, and myself the band really was good, I went home and made a Mother Hips play list to die for.  I burned each friend a copy, hoping to show the band really was a talented one–just one having an off night.

I think with the demise of The Zephyr Club came the demise of The Mother Hips.  Earlier that day my four-year-old niece, Hannah, told me that sometimes your heart just breaks.  And you know what?  She was right.

My internet-hooker friend George came to visit over the weekend, I tried my best to rally and spend some quality time drinking with him at the bar.

Sadly, my “best” is total crap. His last night in town was spent at Red Rock having dinner with a couple of my girlfriends. I wanted to be home and in bed by 10:30 p.m. because apparently I have turned into my grandmother.

As we walked into the restaurant I saw a guy I briefly dated having dinner. I haven’t seen him since I told him via email I didn’t think we should date anymore. Yes, I really AM that girl. Shut up, I had my reasons. And good ones at that, for example he likes NASCAR, which we all know I strongly detest. In addition, he had a tendency to use words on my ‘do not say’ list. The two I couldn’t deal with were: “LOL” and “faggot.” Both words make me cringe to the point of nausea. I tried to get past it, but I couldn’t. The thought of sticking my tongue into a mouth that used either word was more than I could handle.

I know what some of you are thinking, “No wonder she is single, she’s way too picky.” Well guess what, I am picky and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. I refuse to date someone I don’t respect and I can’t respect anyone who uses the “f” word in regular speak. I just can’t, no matter how much fun and nice the person is.

We enjoyed our dinner and I tried not to obsess over it, but I couldn’t help but wonder why I bother dating at all.

A good night of rest is key to my survival, and mostly the survival of others. I get grumpy, FINE grumpier, when I’m tired.

I got shit for sleep last night, and that bitch I live with is to blame. My dog somehow found a way to open my lower kitchen cabinet without opposable thumbs. Here she found a giant Costco sized bag of dried cheese tortellini pasta, and proceeded to eat half the bag. When I got home at midnight I found the mess. Too tired to yell, I just cleaned up, let her out and went to bed.

Around 2:00 a.m. she woke me up and needed to be let out. In a zombie state I stumbled down the stairs and let her outside. She took care of business and I went back to bed.

Then again around 3:30 a.m. we made the same trip. And then again at 4:45 a.m.! Finally at 5:30 a.m. when she woke me up for the last time I lost it. I yelled at her, and then cried because I was simply exhausted, proving I should never, ever be a parent. Or a dog owner.

In fact, I decided I was a cat person. I can overlook my extreme allergy. Who cares if I can’t breathe and 90% of my body will be covered in hives? Not me. I want an animal trained to use a litter box.

Now I just have to go home and tell this cute face I’m breaking up with her. Luckily for her my follow through is total crap.

I got a few emails after my last post telling me what a crappy sister I am, which is funny because that’s not really mean. I’ve done worse things to my brothers. Far worse.

I’m an older sister, if I’m not going to make them tough, who will?

Ben had it easy, compared to my brother Jeff–who, by the way, totally deserved it 94% of the time. Well he probably didn’t deserve the bruises Matt and I left, but we were smart kids and knew what a pain in the ass he would end up being for us.

I was five when my parents brought Jeff home from the hospital, and Matt was four. The world as we knew it ended that warm July day. This new baby got all the attention. Suddenly my mom didn’t have time to listen to my tales of witches living inside my bedroom walls, or the extra time to make sure every single grain of Rice Krispies cereal in my bowl matched. Off-colored pieces were certainly going to be the death of me.

All her spare time was devoted to the care of this baby. This baby who did nothing but eat and shit, which was totally boring.

I convinced Matt that our parents would take Jeff back to the hospital if he were defective. I knew this because she did it with my favorite hula-hoop. Who cares if the pink sparkles rubbed off on the furniture—it just make the couch prettier.

Our plan was to make Jeff cry all the time. I heard my dad complain about crying babies once so I knew he hated it. Over the next three weeks Matt and I pinched Jeff every chance we got. He had bruises everywhere and howled constantly.

Sadly, the plan backfired when my parents spent more time with him than before. Trying to soothe a miserable baby is apparently quite time consuming. It also required taking him to the doctor more often to determine the cause of the bruising.

In the end my parents kept Jeff, and I spent the rest of our childhood finding other ways to torture him. Though now, I can’t help but wonder if my constant bruising is the universe’s way of telling me I was a shitty sister.

As a child I was absolutely terrified of drifters jumping off the train that ran through our small country town. I was convinced they would climb through my window and murder me in my sleep. I’m not entirely sure where this fear came from, either a babysitter let me watch scary movies, or my parents put LSD in my bedtime snacks. The jury is still out on that one.

After weeks of forcing myself to stay awake into the wee hours of the night, I finally came up with a solution: my baby brother Ben. Every night when it was time for bed I begged my mom to let Ben sleep in my room. She thought I was being nurturing and wanted to spend time with my baby brother. She was dead wrong. I was seven years old—I didn’t care about anything, but my own survival.

Once baby Ben fell asleep I scooted him over to the very edge of my bed, where he was closest to the window. I thought the sound of Ben being murdered first would wake me up, therefore giving me enough time to escape.

Now, occasionally when I hear the sounds of a train I’m thankful Ben was not murdered in cold blood on my bed. I still sleep with the same Care Bear pillowcase, and would really hate to have bloodstains on it. In addition, sometimes I like having him around–you know for fixing my car and hanging shelves.

The Yuppie invited me to an Easter party last night. (Un)fortunately I had plans and couldn’t attend. The party was a bunny hunt where the women were requested to dress like bunnies. I figured this is why he invited me; I am, after all, a Delta Rabbit. Then I got a second look at the invitation:

“Everyone, in the spirit of a good hunt please bring a single friend or friends… it is a hunt after all.”

Oh. My. God. He wasn’t inviting me because he wanted my company. He was inviting me to get rid of me! There’s something a tad disturbing when the man you used to date is trying to hook you up with other people. I’ve seen the episode of “Sex in the City” where Samantha takes the guy she’s trying to get rid of to a similar party, so I know what he’s up to. The Yuppie is so fired. If he wants back into my life he’s going to have to persuade me with a LOT of chocolate, cheese and wine.

Letting Daisy out this morning I was stopped by two sweet looking old lakes. Except they weren’t sweet, they were Jehovah’s Witnesses, which is damn near devil status. My dog is absolutely worthless. She barks when people she knows come into the house, but outside when approached by strangers she is completely well behaved. Bitch!

She walked up to them and waited to be pet, because she is a worthless traitor dog. It was too late, I couldn’t get away at this point. Daisy was sniffing their giant old lady purses hoping to find one full of bacon treats.

Devil Woman: “We’d like to invite you to a event we’re holding tonight in honor of Jesus.”

Me: “No thanks, I’m not a big fan of Jesus.”

DW: “That’s OK. Come tonight and I guarantee you you’ll leave with a better understanding of our Lord, Jesus.”

Me: “No really, Jesus and I broke up years ago when I prayed for a sister and got a brother instead. Me and Jesus are soooo over.”

Silence.

Me: “And then there was the time I prayed to Jesus for a pony. Instead I got a stupid kitten, that I was allergic to.”

DW: “Here’s the flier, we hope to see you tonight.”

As the women walked away I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of Jesus expects single women to give up Saturday nights. I like the Mormon Jesus better; he only asks you give him Sunday afternoons.

Find an employer that give employees Good Friday off.