Truck Nuts: Part One

So my boyfriend is obsessed with nuts--truck nuts. He saw them on a Ford Focus one day driving down the highway and he was hooked. Ever since, he's been trying to convince me why it would be "really badass" to get some truck nuts, attach them to a belt and strap them to our neutered Doberman, Paco.

Now, Paco is 7 years old, floppy ears--we think he's part Weimeraner. Though, I'm not convinced he's not part elephant...brings to mind elephantitis, since I'm unforgivingly obsessed with word play.

Which brings me back to truck nuts.

Tonight, whilst we waited for our cookie-sheet full of tater tots to finish cooking, we had yet another conversation about the merits of strapping truck nuts to our dog.

Russ keeps trying to get me to go see remakes of movies that never should be touched due to their purity of awesomeness (i.e. Nightmare on Elm Street, True Grit...) and I keep telling him no. I refuse. Even the new Tron movie is not on my list. The first one was enough, not going to the "new, non-remake, yet sequel of Tron."

But Russell insists. So I make a deal with him: I'll go see that CGI bullshit on-a-stick of he drives me to the movies.

HISTORY: Russell is 39 years old and has never had a driver's license. Growing up in New Orleans, never saw the need....this is a big deal for him to take a driver's test in Vermont and drive period, let alone in upcoming winter weather.

He agrees and says, "DEAL! I'll drive you to the movies on a date to see True Grit or Tron 2...but only if Paco can get some truck nuts."

Cocky fucker.

When I ask the relevance of the truck nuts to our movie date/transportation deal, he cites Paco's need for a boost in self-esteem, and that all the other dogs will respect him more if he has, and I quote, "YUGE danglers."

Why do I even bother.

skinny bitch.

a friend: "So when are you and Russ getting married?"

ME: "Oh, I dunno, probably never. Too complicated..."

a friend: "haha, good, you SOOO can't wear white..."

ME: (LOL) "I know, I haven't even saved money for my wedding day, let alone my hoo-ha..."

a friend: "oh, I meant more like white makes you look really fat and let's be honest, you haven't worked out in a while..."

ME: "..............."

Can't believe I'm watching the Bacholorette.

I haven't posted on this thing is some time, mah bad.
But things around the cottage have been in an uproar and I've been tending to work, relationship and family (not mine) hysteria.

Funny thing, I've been told that my posts are abrasive and scary. In fact, last week, one of my classmates told me that a lot of people think I'm scary. I of course laughed maniacally at her.

Thing is: I find it BEYOND ridiculous that grown ass people are scared of someone like me. I've always spoken my mind, and never ever hold back. I'm 32 and won't apologize for that. I do think I can be opinionated and strong-willed, and totally stubborn. But I really do believe that it's others' hang-up if they are afraid of me. Especially when those folks don't take the time to get to know me or my heart before making judgments.

That said, I seriously can't believe I'm watching the Bachelorette right now. This show is so dumb. But I can't help myself. I do love the ridiculous.

reality t.v. , namely American Idol, affects me...dammit.

First of all, I use the word "reality" very very loosely here. Reality television is not real, it's just one big audition for a narcissistic career in some form of celebrity. And of course I love it.

So I'm watching American Idol right now, which I have actually never done before. I've watched the "holy crap, that was horrible, what were they thinking" auditions they put on YouTube. But never the actual show in its entirety. This is mainly because I hate Paula Abdul with the fire of a thousand suns. I have never forgiven her for that "Hush, Hush" video with Keanu Reeves. But now that she's gone, and Ellen Degeneres is in, I'm more inclined to put myself through this shit.

It's the beginning part where they hold auditions and it's actually kind of awesome. They're in Atlanta, and if nothing else redeems this show for me, Mary J. Blige is guest-hosting. Now, if you don't know me (like REALLY know me), then you'll not know of my absolute love of Mary J. Blige. I adore that woman and everything she sings. Her music lifted me up during a shady ass time in my life a few years back, and I will buy anything and everything she ever puts out. Even if it's a Burger King commemorative cup. I will buy the SHIT out of that cup.

So the last girl I watched tonight before I had to go check on dinner was Vanessa from some taint-town in Tennessee. I can say that--I'm from Edmond, Oklahoma. Shit's tiny. Look it up.

OK, so Vanessa. She was super cute and actually had a fantastic voice. It's country and very twangy. If you close your eyes, she's a cross between Reba and Patsy Cline. And those are MAH GIRLS. Vanessa is the quintessential small-town girl trying to make something of herself and get out of aforementioned taint-town in Tennessee. It's a pretty standard story, but she hit a chord with me because she sang Old Crow Medicine Show's, "Wagon Wheel." That's one of my favorite songs of all time. Old Crow is the DEAL.

Spoiler Alert: In spite of my spiny exterior, I do have a soft spot for a good, heartwarming story and I cry. YES, I FUCKING CRY. *angry fist*

Point is, I am feeling myself slowly busting down some of that hard candy shell I've built up around me since Katrina and I kinda like it. I'm not giving American Idol the credit for that bust-out; that'd be really embarrassing.

I'm just acknowledging it after hearing the simple song of a country girl from taint-town Tennessee.

I have bad habits and don't care what you think about them.

I am very aware of my many bad habits. I'm thinking it's time to start writing about some of them and reactions folks have that I often just don't understand and simultaneously resent. Why now? Because today at the 7-11, I was critiqued on my slurpee-pouring method by the pizza delivery chick from next door and almost dumped my cherry-cola-monster frozen delight on her cantankerous head. It'll take a few posts to get to them all, so I'll just address one today. Really, the slurpee thing was number one, but I didn't announce it, so I'll start with an official number one down below.

#1: I put syrup on hot pockets.

This habit is cringe-worthy, according to many of my friends and my mother (the same woman who won't leave the Oklahoma State Fair without a deep-friend Twinkie.)
I find the syrup/hot pocket combo really delicious, and it has lead to my putting syrup on other foods where clearly syrup is not understood nor welcome. Like samosas. And cheeseburgers. Don't judge me, that shit is good.

I first bathed my food in this non-essential, socially unacceptable (not in my world, but whatever) condiment on my chicken fajita lean pocket sophomore year of college when my roommate, who was bulimic, drank the ketchup bottle after a frat party, then tossed it up on my lacrosse equipment travel bag full of uniforms and gear. I didn't eat ketchup again for 2 years and just used syrup instead. It was either that or the only other condiment in the apartment-duck sauce. And that's just wrong.

call me crazy....just not to my face

Recently, I had a conversation with someone who told me I expect too much of my friends. We got to this topic because I was frustrated with another friend who had just basically fallen off-planet when she moved away and only communicated via Facebook, and only about once every couple of months. Prior to now, she and I spoke a few times/week about everything from school to relationships to how to pack a good, solid bowl without getting that shit in our teeth. I tend to suck too hard. It's my cross to bear.

So this bitch, er, "friend," told me that I need to stop expecting everyone to drop everything when I'm sad and get over myself. She went on to tell me that she often feels like she'll never be a good enough friend to me because I expect too much. So here's where it gets fuzzy. And by fuzzy, I mean, my pulse races and I feel a might stabby.

I don't think it's too much to ask that when things go awry on one's life, I have someone who is available emotionally through the good, bad and especially the ugly. I'd like to be able to pick up a phone and comfortably (trust) tell a friend how shitty my day/week/month/life is and vent a bit. I don't think it's too much to ask to take an emotional deuce on someone other than my boyfriend. He's not licensed to therapize me and he's ill-equipped for the crazy sometimes.

My main defense of the "don't be a dick just listen when I need you to" theory is this: I would/will/often do do (heh) the same for you. I am the most available person ever when it comes to folks I care about having a shit-fit over drinks, coffee or shopping. I never screen calls (no call waiting or caller ID, but still) and am always willing to get kicked in the nuts by your life for a few hours, as it gives said nuts a refreshing break from my crazy and presents them with a new brand.

So fuck you, fair weather theorists, "shit's too real, must make up a reason not to talk to you" people. Everyone seems to think that because I'm outspoken, gregarious and strong-willed that I don't have bad days. I'm not stupid, do (contrary to popular belief) have feelings and a soul, and need someone in my life to handle the ridiculous shit I run into occasionally. I don't ask for much-just someone who uses the word "friend" and means it all the time, not just when it's safe. I shouldn't have to beg for life support.

mac book and bacon...a love story

I've spent the past month or so searching for gainful employment, and hopefully something that will satisfy the practicum portion of my Master's degree. And I've been met with roadblocks and insulting salary offers. Now, one would think that any salary is a good salary at this stage in the game, and considering the economic times. I disagree.
I've worked my ass off at an excessively expensive university, paid my dues at pickle-pack jobs like bartending, waitressing, dog-grooming, sign-making, computer design, copy writing and testing mattresses. Yes, testing mattresses. If only my love life would have been included, cuz I'd be retired by now.
And after Katrina, I had to regroup and gather my emotionally and physically demolished sensibilities to carry on searching for my priorities. And one of those priorities, I decided one night over 3 or so pints of Guinness at Finns, was to move out of New Orleans and pursue a Master's degree and take a turn toward new career choices and better money.
I'm qualified, motivated, excited to the point of hyper about new opportunities, have really great hair and I smell really good right now.
I should put that on my resume....I wonder if "sweet rack" is also an appropriate qualification?
I digress. I'm no sure where this is going really, I suppose I'm just really frustrated applying for jobs at organizations, mostly non-profit, I know I'd be perfect for but the money isn't there for it to make sense to move. I do happen to love my present internship position at the Vermont Partnership for Fairness and Diversity, but it's unpaid & a little scattered and I'm looking for more....I've already asked Russ to move out of New Orleans, and he's on board to fight the good fight, looking for new jobs. But it's proving not only difficult for me to find a great PAYING communications/writing/PR gig, but also for him to find a fulfilling graphics design gig that will put that light back in his eyes ...He's been working a 3rd shift crap job all year so that I can focus on school and I'd like for him to find something great and exciting. I'll be in love with and proud of him, no matter what he does for a living. I guess I'm all over the place but this has been cluttering my brain all year. I am hopeful we'll find something up here in New England but it's looking a bit grim at the moment.....