Apparently, the last time my mom’s dad ran anywhere, was from the car in the driveway into the house to see me for the first time after I was born. Which I think is just a DARLING story.
I'm the book that beat the speed-reader, and I'm the card the dealers won't touch. And it's just not true I'm a man-eater; all the same, we should probably go dutch.
The things you pick up as you go.
Awww, I keep getting featured on pretty boho girl blogs:
This is very, very sweet, and I am very, very appreciative!
This must mean one of two things: Either my photography skills have gotten much, much better, or I ended up growing out of my awkward duckling phase. I’ll take either.
Somewhere out there, there is a man who could give me this child.
And I don’t mean a father, I mean an agent or guardian or white-slavery trader.
…I am kidding, obviously. I hope you caught onto that.
theoddestthingsheseversaid a real woman, inner and outer beauty pouring from one bright young thing.
Meet http://myalternateuniverseissleep.tumblr.com, one of the kindest people I have ever had the distinct pleasure and fortune of meeting online. And also has a great sense of humor.
Tit for tat, my friend!
Consisted of meeting for Ladies Who Lun-…Drink…at 2 PM and consuming a steak, molten chocolate lava cake, and two absolutely DIVINE margaritas.
I then went shopping, and was momentarily transported back to Italy when the young male cashier at Petco didn’t charge me for my two cat collars or ID tag, and only for the least expensive items— treats, a catnip mouse, and a mint flossing toy (yes, Nicco is spoiled rotten). My total came to HALF of what it should have been. I felt better about life than I have for DAYS.
…It’s not that I think that I’m entitled to free shit. Quite on the contrary, I know I’m not, and I’m not the type to take hand-outs. It’s just that, when someone does something like that for you— because you smiled at them, made conversation, asked them how their day was, didn’t just treat them like another cashier or salesperson, and yes, are pretty— it really just makes you feel good, you know? In Italy, they do it because I’m foreign and blonde and always tried speaking to them in their language, first. It was a courtesy thing. Here, it almost never happens, so when it does, it makes it that much sweeter.
And such a sweet, sweet life it is.
All clubs should have a Photobooth.
18 years of friendship, and this is what it gets you. She still makes me cry when she steals the stilts; I still accost her for touchy-feely moments of affection that make us all uncomfortable. Awwwww…what are friends for, anyway?
And yes, I see those ducklips. I regret nothing. NOTHING.
Adorable man? Check.
Adorable child? Check.
Casual reading material? Check.
When I was a pre-teen, I used to daydream about finding a young widower and child to create an insta-family with. May I now nominate these two, please?
My best friend was in town today for a quick visit, and met me when I got off of work so that we could catch up and hang out on my sofa and drink beers, like old times. (I wish I were kidding. We had bad high school habits.) We were amusing my mom with general tales of our freakish bond through the years when Nora force-cuddle-attacked me, and I let her. I’m generally not big on physical affection unless it involves a penis and an orgasm, but I played dead, went limp, and let her do it. Afterward, I looked at her and said, “And you’re probably the only person who can get away with that and still have your face intact afterwards.”
We reminisced over all the bullshit we used to do to each other— the times I bit her while drunk, all the mornings she took off at a run down the long hallway to my room, culminating in a swan-dive straight onto my sleeping, prone body that resulted in the rudest wake-up calls of all time— when she mentioned something about the infamous early-morning ambushes that legitimately shocked me:
She said, “Yeah, well, the problem was, if you actually slept with your arms at your sides, it wouldn’t have been a problem and I wouldn’t have had to worry about getting punched or scratched like I did, but you sleep with your hands curled up near your face, so even if you were on your side and pressed up against the wall like usual, you could still turn before I landed on you and claw my eyes out.”
Solid. gold. truth.
And that’s when it hit me— how many guys have I been with/slept with/lived with who could actually give you an accurate print-out like that of how I sleep? I mean, I sleep like that EVERY NIGHT OF MY LIFE, and I am pretty sure NONE of my exes could hit that nail on the head that well. I mean, c’mon…I know like, three of you guys read this— did you notice that about me? Could you have told other people how to wake me up safely? Do you know what side I fall asleep on, and how I cradle my head in my hands? No? No? No? I thought not.
Having a best friend like that is a bond that blows my mind at times.
…And for the record, I can tell you she sleeps diagonally across the bed. Every. Night.
1.) You know how when you’re sleeping with someone, if they roll over or make a dramatic shift during the night, you kind of wake up halfway, just because the bed moves or you have to stop leaning against them or something? While The Dude was living with me, one night, he and his restless leg syndrome decided to move from the edge of the bed to the middle, pulling me up into semi-consciousness, and just before I drifted back off to sleep, I felt him press a kiss to my forehead. I think I managed to think, “Adorable,” right before I fell back to sleep and dreams about working with Steve Carell at McDonald’s.
2.) One of my lovely coworkers so kindly passed on a killer cold to me about three weeks ago, which I’m finally getting over, albeit with a nose that still runs like a faucet. Sharing the love, I passed it on to my mom and The Dude, who now both look and sound like utter shit. Today he met me at the mall during my break so we could run some errands and grab a bite to eat (me) and some cigarettes (him) together. After he walked me back to the store and we were saying goodbye, he looked down at me and said, “I’d really like to kiss you goodbye, but I don’t want to keep swapping this cold back and forth,” and then leaned down, kissed my cheek, and nuzzled me.
Died. Right there. Right in front of all my coworkers with a stupid grin on my face. The teasing I endured for the next two hours was totally worth it, though.
One of my ex’s younger brothers called me last night to see if I was still in town to hang out— I wasn’t; we quickly caught up and did the “Happy New Year” stuff; he ended the call by saying “love you!”; I hung up and teared up. It is so hard for me to give love so freely like that— it always hits me hard when other people can and do.
I love boys.
I am secretly such a softie.