Two Words: Pubic Hair

I brought upon myself one of the most humiliating experiences of my life. Yes, my friend alcohol was responsible for my demise this particular evening.

It started out like any other Thursday night except the president of the bank that I work at was headlining a Katrina relief stand up comedy show. I thought it would be a nice gesture to show up and give my support being that it was for a good cause and all. Additionally, a couple of my coworkers were going and I thought it would be a nice change up from the same old routine for Donny and I. I was instructed to show up no later than 7:15 p.m. or else they would start giving away our seats (it's weird, you have to call ahead and make reservations) and the show was to commence at 8:00 p.m.

I decided that I should probably go for a run after work (seeing as how I can't seem to get my lazy ass out of bed in the morning anymore). Afterwards, I went to the deli, bought a bottle of wine and some fruit, and then headed to my friend's house to get ready. Donny works in butt fucking Egypt and was planning on meeting us there.

As I walked to my friend's house, I felt an all too familiar sensation...turrets.

Now, every person has their own form of turrets and mostly it can be compared to a wild streak. Although I tend to take my temporary turrets to a whole new level (not only embarrassing myself, but all others who are in my company). My turrets occurs if I do not adequately vent the disturbing parts of my personality on a regular basis. I am usually prone to turrets in crowded areas such as a restaurant, bar or while running (see previous posts) and my friend alcohol always increases the number of uncontrollable outbursts and volume.

This time, however, I do even attempt to subdue the symptoms of turrets, which include salivating while staring at an unopen bottle of wine, thinking about how fast the wine can be consumed and if I have enough money in order to buy more alcohol in the instance that one bottle is not enough for two people. These are all warning signs that I am in for a long night.

My friend and I end up drinking the wine (although prior to the evening we were both bitching about how we drink too much) ... and then we both start taking sake bombs. Thank goodness she had that extra alcohol!

Needless to say, I show up to the club sufficiently wasted. Since I was feeling on the wild side, I told the bartender to surprise me. He comes back with a f-ing apple martini. Although this is not the world's biggest surprise of the century, I would have drank horse piss at this point. Around this time, my husband and coworkers show up. I was spilling on myself, thus deciding that martini glasses were retarded and it was best just to chug the remaining alcohol.

The comedy show hasn't even started yet.

After mingling half slurred sentences and making new friends, we all sit down and wait for the excitement to begin.

I remember an Asian comic...and that's about it. Between talking with my friend, taking shots at the bar (with Mr. President) and getting in trouble for screaming about the 1985 Bears, I didn't really catch much. Then I decided that I was funnier than the stand up comedians I was paying to watch (or get myself drunk?).

This is were turrets makes it's ugly debut.

I have the urge to scream something. I twist around in my chair like four year old that is about to shit themselves before I compulsively scream, "PUBIC HAIR!" Yea, that's definitely not the end though. It turns out that, "PUBIC HAIR" becomes the night's anthem for me. I harass every single remaining comic, even going so far as to run up on stage when dared to by one of the comedians while performing. F-ing pubic hair.

At this point, Mr. President is shaking his finger at me and telling me that I "better show up for work tomorrow." He's a stand up comedian, but there's no joke about this (I could tell after the third time he said it). Additionally, I think the stand up comedians have had about enough of my shit and were planning to jump me after the show. Thank God for Mr. President saying, "It's okay. She works for me."

The next day, I still thought that I was funnier than any of those damn comedians...until that is, when my boss strolls into my office and says, "So tell me about pubic hair."

I Hate Tight Clothes

Things I hate today:

1. I hate it when my clothes fit me before I go out to eat, but afterwards feel as though the buttons are going to fly off of my skirt. Ahhh, that feels better. I just undid the top button and I'm letting it all hang out!

2. I hate being constipated. This contributes to foul smelling ass and #1.

3. I hate coffee breath. Will somebody please grab my coworker some gum, water, mints, etc. Oh, and please don't forget the air freshener because his whole office smells like bad coffee breath. I'm serious.

4. I hate the temperature in my office. Why do men insist on "room temperature" being equal to that of a frozen tundra? Due to the continuous cold, my hands and lips have a blue tint, I can hardly type and my words come out in slow motion.

5. I hate alcohol. It pretends to be my friend while I'm hanging out with it, but then stabs me in the back in the morning. The stabbing effects can last well into the day when alcohol and I have a particularly late night/early morning.

6. I hate food. Most people love it, but it causes me feelings of angst, anxiety and hypertension. I'm always thinking, "did I eat too much?," "am I still hungry?," or "how many calories and grams of fat does that fried chicken have?" I especially hate food when mixed with #5. I end up ramming whatever's in sight and let's just say that's usually not celery sticks.

7. I hate the price of gas.

8. I hate having to fart while I am at work. Farts are not meant to linger in people's asses. They are meant to be released into the wild. Problem is, I don't want them to make a big introduction, if you know what I mean.

9. I hate Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen. Seriously girls, put the Marlborough Reds down, take your wardrobe back to the Salvation Army and for the love, please stop wearing sunglasses that are as big as your head! In five years, we will look back on the "bug eyed" trend and cringe as we do now with tapered jeans and jorts (jean shorts).

10. I hate little kids. By the time they reach 10 years of age, they are equipped with cell phones, i-pods and video games that kill police and destroy cities, all in the name of entertainment. Go outside and play catch or something!

I am pessimistic by nature, however I will attempt to conjure up things that I love. Ewe...who says that word?

1. I love my husband! Okay, that one was easy.

2. I love, love, love the drive home from work on Fridays. This is one of the few instances in which I'm actually not in a hurry or driving like a complete psycho. Truth be told, I sing along to Lionel Richie. I'm such a rebel.

3. I love the feeling that I have when I get in a good surf session. There's something about the ocean water that makes my skin tingle and I feel somewhat cleansed after bashing my head into the sand, my board or another surfer.

4. I love to run outside. Talk about clarity. It's completely "me" time. There's no television, radio, computer or any other daily distractions. It's just me and they rhythm of my breathing (unless of course, it's 100 degrees outside and my face feels like it's going to melt off).

5. I love my family. I never realized how hard it would be to live so far away. Although, I do have to admit that when there's crisis going on, I'm glad to be a 1,000 miles out of reach.

6. I love my in-laws. Seriously, I'm not trying to suck up here.

7. I love San Diego! Between surfing, professional advancement, seeing a whole different lifestyle and meeting some great friends, I couldn't ask for more

Okay, I'm disgusted and I can go no further. All this goodwill to mankind shit is making me want to shoot somebody. And my skirt is still too tight to button up completely. I hope everyone having a great weekend and tomorrow is Friday (is it here already or what?).

On second thought, better not.

I was going to write about the things that drive me absolutely crazy about my husband presently, however I decided that he would not want my family and friends reading about his misgivings and more importantly, I do not like being in the dog house. Besides, I'm certain that there is a mountain of dirt he has on me that I would not like to be printed for anyone to look at. That sucks, because it was going to be a pretty funny entry (those of you who know my husband know it would be too!).

Now, you people will just have to be satisfied with tidbits of what is known as a grown up's life or what I like to refer to as "death after college." Actually, I may not be grown up for much longer because guess what?... I am going back to school!!! I finally have something to look forward to besides spreading f-ing tax returns, financial statements and analyzing the worthiness of a borrower's loan request. I am going to be working towards my (drum roll please) Master's in Psychology Counseling (ta-da)!

That's right! In a few years, I will be a licensed Marriage Family Therapist (a little unsettling isn't it?)

I will be keeping my full time employment while I'm going to school, which should take about 1.5 years if I take consecutive courses. Then I'll quit work and finish off my licensing requirements. My husband was, well let's just say he was not extatic about the notion of me going back to school. In fact, if we were dealing with water temperatures and boiling water was a good reaction and cold water was a bad reaction, I would place his take somewhere in the Artic Ocean. Not that he doesn't actually have legitimate concerns.

Take, for instance, the fact that I have never taken a liking to any profession that I've been in. Despite the fact that my only professional experience has been in banking and higher education, I definitely have not found post graduate life to be rewarding. In fact, most of the time I am completely bored out of my mind (hence, blogging during the work day) and I have a hard time talking myself into a five day work week. If you think about it, the weekend sucks too, because there's always five more days after that and five more days after that. This shit supposedly goes on until a person retires. I don't think so, at least not with my current career path!

His concern is that I will tire of this new found profession and we will have wasted $20 g's on nothing. However, I have told him numerous times (like 40) the following facts:

1. My freshman year in college my major was Psychology, but at the time, I was under the impression that I would be able to make a legitimate living after 12 years of education. There was no way I was going to take out that many freakin' loans, which brings me to the next point...

2. The only reason I was a business major was because I thought it was the the only major in which I could do reasonably well and obtain a fairly good job post graduation. I didn't take to the curriculum and most of time, I had no idea what the professor was talking about. Thank goodness for group projects! Yea baby!

3. I actually had been researching graduate programs in the psychology field for almost a year, but failed to mention this to my husband. Reason being that there was no need to. The programs available each had about 126 prerequisites that I would have to fulfill even before applying for admission. Basically, they all sucked ball sack.

4. I have taken the Meyers-Briggs personality test twice and each time have come back with the same results, which are I (introvert), N (intuitive), T (thinking), P (perceptive). Not all that exciting huh? Well, there is a whoping 2% of the population that have this type of personality. I'm a human anomaly! I have totally been wondering the hell was the matter with me all my life! Now I know that the explanation is that I'm just weird! The stranger part is that my mother is also part of the 2%. Anways, the career paths of other abnormal people like myself center around teaching and counseling (which is scary if you think about it).

Recently, my husband has been warming up to the idea of furthering my education. Well, let's just say the water is luke warm now. Hypothetically, say the worst does happen and I finish school and decide that I don't want to become a counselor. I would still have a freakin' master's degree homie! I just want to tell him that I am not part of some mathmatical formula that fits perfectly into his life. I'm completely me; crazy, confident, insecure, kind, bitchy, sympathetic, overwhelming, pessimistic, a free spirit, impulsive, driven, pyscho and a clean freak. I don't think even Enstein himself could come up with an f-ing formula for me.

In unrelated news, I quite possibly did the worst thing a family member could do that is not illegal, immoral or just plain gross. I forgot to call my own brother on his 35th birthday. Who in the hell does that? There is no defense that I can come up with for this one. And actually, this is the second time it's happend. I deserve to be stoned (with rocks, not with plants)!

Viva La Mexico!

Over the Labor Day Weekend, Donny and I took off to Yosemite National Park. It was extremely relaxing to get away from the traffic, the people, the rat race and smog among other things, and into nature. It's been over a year since we've made the effort to plan a camping excursion. There are a couple of reasons why we haven't been making too many treks. For instance, San Diego is located in the most southwestern corner of the United States and you almost inevitably have to drive through Hell A (most of you know it as L.A.) to get to the good parts of California. Additionally, in order to beat the traffic you have to leave between the hours noon and 1:30 p.m. or expect to sit in some MAJOR delays (we're talking hours and hours people).

Mexico, on the other hand, is a hop, skip and jump away, but the border wait coming back from T.J. is hellacious. Just picture a mass of people attempting to play to your sympathetic side by a) washing your car with a rag that has clearly not been cleaned since it was dug out of a dumpster, b) holding a "baby" which is actually a bundle of blankets with a brick in the middle or c) selling an assortment of tacos probably made from a stray dog/cat/insert other animal.

When a couple of friends joined us on a surfing/camping trip to La Fonda, Mexico, we watched a particularly disturbing site on the wait to cross back into the States. We had been slowly moving up to the border patrol agents and until that point, had been in the car for about 1.5 hours.

It is hard to describe the "scenery" that one experiences while waiting to cross the border. People sell everything from water and food to giant sized statues of Mary to an assortment of WWE wrestling masks. The closer you get to the crossing, the more concentrated the efforts to make a sale become. There is also no escape from the bombardment of the different array of people and products, which eminently causes sensory overload. Besides the vendors, the sheer mass of cars waiting to cross the border is overwhelming. Crazy Californian drivers do not hold a candle to the chaos of Mexican drivers. Using your blinker is completely useless and you're better off just to crank the wheel and hope that the person in the dented 1980 Pinto doesn't hit you. There is no such thing as "lanes" either. You just have to hope that the line of cars you're following leads to the USA. We didn't help our cause any to due to the fact that our car reeked B.O., camp fire, booze and dirty clothes. Finally, the gates that would lead us out of the circus came into view.

At the same time, another site caught our attention.

There was a man, who I am assuming was mentally challenged. Whether he was born that way, contracted a disease or the resulting impediments were self inflicted is not known. At first, he was looking into the car windows of everyone waiting to get past the border patrol agents and talking some sort of gibberish. He started knocking on windows and really getting up close and personal. As we started creeping closer, the man proceeded onto another task.

He was attempting to unwrap a 20 pack of Wrigley's Spearmint Gum. This, in and of itself, is not a reason to become concerned. Until that is, he spent 20 minutes just wrestling with the packaging. Like a car wreck, we couldn't take our eyes off of him. Every once and a while he would tear off a little piece of wrapping, which would subsequently stick to his fingers. Then he would drop the gum on the street and violently shake his body in an effort to rid the plastic of his fingers. This whole scene replayed itself like a bone crushing hit on Monday Night Football, which the commentators insist on viewing over and over again.

After nearly 2.5 hours of sitting in a rancid smelling automobile and witnessing some more than unique events, everyone in the car was about to start tearing chunks of their hair out from the lack of physical movement and the bizarre environment. And, of course, we picked the f-ing slowest line, with the border patrol agent with the biggest ego.

FINALLY, we made it out of the Twilight Zone.