Mantramine

Not Killing People

noreply@blogger.com (Mantramine) — Sat, 17 Sep 2011 15:01:00 +0000

that's me. I'm not killing people. Not today, anyways.

The good news is that I quit smoking, again. Little arms half heatedly stretch towards the sky with a weak and anticlimactic, "yay!"

As it is when I quit, I like to come here and vent about everything that genuinely pisses me off and, it seems to me, probably has since birth but all this time the nicotine has kept it down. This is the real me, and let me tell you... fuck you (I said that with my deep man voice, btw).

Phew, I've been holding that in for some time now. That felt good.

Who knew nicotine was holding me back from being, as Oprah urges us all to be, authentic.

Now I can walk around giving people filthy, dirty looks for not paying attention to how they are not supposed to walk within a five foot radius of me. Stupid is no excuse, and I will bite your face off. Get the fuck out of my way.

Now, this is honesty. Arms stretch out east and west to behold and bring in this new dawn, "sigh." It's truly a beautiful day.

If you happen to see someone barreling down the highway, burying the needle (of their tired little '99 Toyota) whilst in third gear, wave 'cause that's me. Call me crazy (bitch), but something about possibly blowing up my engine satiates me and tickles my very core.

by the way, this song kinda (really) sucks, but he says crazy bitch and I liked the cherries. fyou.

Umm... excuse me, Arrogant Misogynist?

noreply@blogger.com (Mantramine) — Tue, 16 Aug 2011 16:25:00 +0000

You're a douche bag.

The other day, while filling up with gas at the corner station, wearing my pajama attire, which consists of sweat pants, a t-shirt, and, if I recall correctly, no bra, and flip-flops - oh, and slight bed-head, a somewhat elderly man gave me a filthy look while pulling up at the pump beside me. As this happens to me somewhat regularly (in a variety of different outfits), I pft'd to myself and went about my business.

I then gave him the benefit of the doubt - maybe he wasn't gunnin' me off, maybe I imagined it. Maybe, he walks around with that filthy look of disdain on his face all the time.

However, as I was starting up my car to leave he walked passed me again, the look of disdain clear as he peered into my car.... he then proceed to cross himself- as in, yes, The Father, The Son, and the Holy Fucking Ghost.

To which I just want to say, "Bitch, just because 'women seem wicked when you're unwanted' doesn't actually make me EVIL!"

I am so sick and tired of bitter, can't get laid, men putting their shit on women.

When I go out for the day, I do not deviously plan to splay my breasts o' plenty out so that you will weep at my feet and do my bidding. Fact of the matter is -you don't even occur to me. All I wanna do is drop my fucking kids off - without you crossing yourself because of my very existence.

Now, I wouldn't have written about that goof at the gas station, but I heard an acquaintance-ish of mine, a single guy, say that "women are evil because they use their sex as power" and it just seemed like something needed to said, as if this acquaintance was only a few years away from being just like that disdainful old man, cursing woman and their womanly wiles, using 'god' to protect him from their evil ways (by the way, good luck with that).

Apparently, how we use this 'power' is: we don't want to have sex with you. Our power seems to be that we are not attracted to you or your cock... therefore we are evil bitches for parading about in clothes that we enjoy wearing and being common-courtesy-friendly. Fuckin' cock teases. We should be ashamed of ourselves! Going out in public and not being attracted to you enough to sleep with you - how dare us?!

To be perfectly clear - I've heard this type of statement a few times from men in regards to all women, not just the ones that actually are flaunting their business. In fact, it's those nice ones that aren't flaunting their business that are the real evil ones, because they give the look like they're all "nice and stuff" but really, they're the truly evil ones because they are secretly luring you in by looking good and normal- but then you ask them out and they *gasp* turn you down... and suddenly, you see their evil clearly. Nasty little bitches going about their business.

So, it seems, the short of it is this, because you are not a complete enough human to attract a partner - we are withholding sex and rubbing the fact that you love our lady bits in your face? Do I have that right?

On behalf of any and all women who agree with me - grow the fuck up. asshole(s).

...and don't fucking cross yourself when you look at me, damn it! That pisses me off.

The Rose Goes in the Front, Big Guy

noreply@blogger.com (Mantramine) — Fri, 29 Jul 2011 16:34:00 +0000

One should not think. Unless you're dedicating the thinking to some physical project that requires a tool such as the brain, one should not idly think.

I'm in the process of learning Drupal 7, which, those that have spent any time in the background of their blogs, trying to make things different, will appreciate this... requires my brain. And while my brain is hard at work trying to internalize things such as "Drupal Views" (and wondering why this has to be so much more freakin difficult than hand coding!!!!), idle thoughts creep in.

Out of my window, I see my next door neighbor, an elderly man, watering his yard, and I think, "God, that's gonna be me one day." In that one second of thought, stories abound in my head. What type of old person will I be? I never see his wife although I know she lives there - is she the shut-in in the relationship? He's the "doer" and she's the "coucher"?

I steal their raspberries from their yard, the ones I can reach when I "plank" over the fence. I wonder if they see me and shake their fists.

I've always imagined my old age similar (only slower) to my life now. As well, for some reason, I always imagine my husband walking about, slightly hunched, in his tighty-whities (whose elastic will, by then, stretch up to his rib cage) and with droopy, grey haired skin boobs. In my vision, he's always slightly ornery but good humoured about it (I'll be sure to let you know if this is the case). Before you know it, I was assigning roles to our elderly selves: "I wont be the shut-in, so it'll have to be him," "I wonder if I'll garden then?", "will he ever put clothes on over his tighty-whities?", "will our kids even visit us?" and "just how much ear hair will he have and will I wax, shave, or pluck my lady beard?"

While my brain was hard at work trying to process the time it is going to take me to duplicate a site in Drupal... in the one second of free time I gave it to look out the window, it wrote a complete history of my future - and anxiety moved like a stirring cauldron in my belly.

"TURN IT OFF!!!" yelled a voice from the bellows. "QUICK, TURN IT OFF!"

"What? What was that?" I absently whispered to myself while my gaze fixed on the future.... "what did you say?"

and then closer to my ear, I hear... "don't think, Meat..."

My gaze returned to my lap top in front of me, and I remembered to, yup, you guessed it, breathe through my eyelids.

I shook my head and remembered that my brain is only a tool... it is not the whole of who I am or will be.

While I'm not adverse to the elderly image of my life, living it created a gap between now and then, and in that gap there came distortion. Distortion of what is now. Distortion of frequencies sounds awful and, I imagine, creates static. Static reproduces the sensation of fear which manifests as anxiety.

I, all at once, surmised then feared what doesn't exist when in fact, in the words of (my beloved) Crash , "[I] don't know shit..." which is a beautiful thing to remember that I don't know.

It was a fleeting moment but had I not caught that source of anxiety and confused it with a necessary fear, my whole day could have sucked balls.

Free is the person divorced from idle thought and "Party on, Garth."

Frankly...

noreply@blogger.com (Mantramine) — Sun, 24 Jul 2011 16:58:00 +0000

I don't know which one is hotter... I'm torn.

And, I fully realize I'm a little late coming to this party, but I love them all.

Better late than never.

Also, was very conflicted about this. Yummy voyeurism mixed with deep, eye scratching jealousy.

que sera.

Yay! 2012 Star Trek II

Ask Not...A Word to the Wise

noreply@blogger.com (Mantramine) — Fri, 22 Jul 2011 16:18:00 +0000

Really?

Ask not what your relationship can do for you, but what you can do for your relationship.

When you wake up in the morning, this should be the question you ask yourself, or at least... my husband should.

I believe I do; in that, it's a natural initiative in me to contribute to my partner's well-being. I *enjoy* it even. It gives me pleasure to bring the ones I love a little happiness.

I think if husbands ( and I'm generalizing towards the men because, well, I think they're consistently daft as a species when it comes to this) woke up and asked what they could contribute to their relationship today instead of brooding over when their last blow job was... they would increase the positive flow of the partnership and, consequently, would probably see more blow jobs (winning!).

Because I love analogies to no end, I proposed this one to a gentleman (with an outstanding work ethic)... when you go to work you don't show up, sit on your ass, take zero initiative, and collect a pay cheque. You understand that your peers (wife/family) and employer (institution of relationships) would not take kindly to your sloth like contribution. In fact, such is your ethic that you would be horrified and embarrassed to not do your part on the job. When you go to work, you appreciate the hell out of the fact that you have a job and you work your ass off to show you are worthy of that pay cheque. You show up, you are awake, you are an active part of a team - without that, there would be no team. Without that, there would just be other people working whilst resenting your lack of contribution to the whole.

Right? Do we follow me? People who go to work and do nothing don't usually hold their jobs very well or long.

I propose that this perspective be brought into the house of marriage and/or relationship. Now, before you get all up in arms about who your fucking employer is... it's not your wife. Your wife is your peer, your family is your team. Your employer, like it or not, is simply the end result. Happiness or self-employment - it's your choice.

We've all heard a million people say it a million times: Marriage is work. So, why not take a minute, step back, and compare how you show up at your job and how you show up in your relationship. Do you show initiative (examples: Hey, I'm going to mow the lawn before it gets too long, Hey, I'm going to cook dinner tonight, or I'm going to organize a family outing)?

Ask yourself, do I just come home at the end of a long day, sit back and watch other people do stuff and then expect to collect a blow job at the end of night? What type of relationship employee are you?

If you are the kind of employee that shows up in their best everyday and gives 100% and still... no blow job? Well, then, I suspect you work for a call center and suggest you recognize the glass ceiling when you see it.

And if your reading this and chuckling to yourself that you are that sloth employee and you still collect a healthy sum of blow jobs at the end of the day... well, I suspect you work in the kitchen at KFC, your life sucks in general, and you're actually in denial about taking it up the ass day in and day out.

I guarantee that either way someone somewhere is recognizing their glass ceiling with their "partner" and packing up their desk as we speak.

Now if your relationship is just not fulfilling and that's why you lack the drive to contribute, then nut up and get out. But if you love your relationship and your partner, for godsakes, don't be lazy. And DON'T tell me you just don't know how to do it... because there are a tonne o' instruction manuals out there that you could read.

Let's say you wanted to be, oh, I don't know, an electrician... if you weren't born with the gift of knowledge that it took to be an electrician, you nutted up and went to school to be one. You sought out the professionals so that you could learn how to be a good electrician. If you lack the skill, knowledge, and intuitive sense to be a good relationship partner - THEN GET OUT THERE AND FIND A TEACHER. TAKE THE GOD DAMN INITIATIVE LIKE YOU DID WITH YOUR CAREER. okay?

If about this time your whining because you "work all day... now I have to come home and work too!?" then I say this to you: if your house does not look like you are a hoarder and food magically appears around dinner time then somebody in that house is still working... too.

If you require a less subtle comparison to really make this clear and really hone your intensive, then here:

People who go to their relationship and do nothing usually don't get laid well or often ;)

Clear as mud?

Sweet Jesus

noreply@blogger.com (Mantramine) — Mon, 14 Mar 2011 13:13:00 +0000

My head is like a ball being held under water by some bully. In other words, I'm sick.

I liked it at first because I was kind of losing my voice. I always think that's a little sexy - even though even I could tell I sounded a little like a 70 year old heavy smoker that wreaked of cheap perfume and tobacco, wore deep pink lipstick that bled into the lines on her face, and moved her false teeth around in her mouth with her tongue as she winked at you. I think her name is Flo. She's still really proud of her breasts too, even though in their supportive gear they still resemble two oranges at the bottom of a pair of socks.

Now though, well... I'm just another girl running her hand along the bottom of her nose in a constant attempt to absorb the free flowing mucus. Somehow I'm sure I'm no longer sexy.

Ugh.

It's okay though. I will soldier on. Like the trooper I am. Don't you worry about me.

I was out this past weekend with some friends from high school - it is this year that we all celebrate our 40th. Technically mine was last year which kinda makes me the wise elder of the group (because, of course, I kinda failed grade 9 due to an introduction to pot n' stuff. Whatever).

It was really, really great to see those girls. A few I had seen over the years, but two I hadn't seen in a really long time. One of those two girls is this beautiful French Canadian girl that was the girlfriend of the guy that I could have sworn was my soul mate. She was and is such a beautiful, kind, and sweet girl, it was way too hard to hate her for stealing my soul mate away (even though, technically, they were together long before I ever met him. Whatever).

So we became friends her and I, friends that eventually lost touch only to come together this last weekend over drinks and dinner.

When she walked into the room she looked different... couldn't put my finger on it really. I also noticed that someone had chopped the hell out of her bangs. Poor girl I had thought, hell of a bad haircut... yikes! But then about an hour later - she pulled her hair off to reveal her perfect and fuzzy bald head.

It wasn't a bad hair cut, it was a wig. Turns out my old friend is battling breast cancer that has metastasized to her lymph nodes. I had no idea. It was her that had initiated this get together reunion - so she could see everyone.

One out of every seven women face a diagnosis of breast cancer in their lifetime. There we all were, seven of us, and it wasn't me, it was her.

Under all our laughter and reminiscing that night, there was a profound echo.

I couldn't help but look across the table at her and hold still her smile, her beauty, and her being... .

Of course, she too is a trooper. Why just last weekend her ex boyfriend beat the shit out of her, she told me, and she still came out with us. With that, the echo got deeper.

Thank god, she's living her life for her now. She's dumped the bad boyfriend and is focusing on her health and happiness. My heart beat this heavy beat of reality. Not fear, but the incredible broken beauty of life on life's terms.

She seems like glass to me. You have never seen life quite like the one you see in the face of death. It is breath taking.

Still, I think she will survive this. I see her fragility. I see the possibility. But still, I think she will survive.

I think she will live to the ripe ol' age of someone just like Flo - simply because she must. We will all meet again to have dinner and drinks. Our slippery pink lipsticks will line the rim of our glasses - and everyone but her and I will have breasts like two oranges at the bottom of a pair of socks.

All Done

noreply@blogger.com (Mantramine) — Thu, 20 Jan 2011 14:43:00 +0000

Well Mr. Allen Carr, it seems as though you have done it. I'm impressed. I have to tell you though, I didn't finish your Quit Smoking the Easy Way book before I put my last cigarette out - I just couldn't.

Every breath of cigarette became the biggest buzz kill ever. I was the slothiest cigarette slave, dragging myself to that pack of 'friends,' hearing somewhere in the back of my mind a "baby wants to fuck" like insanity.

You gave my head a shake, slapped the stupid from my eyes, and showed me the way. Thank you.

Usually when I quit, I put patches all over me to help me endure the withdraw, that oh-so-awful process. However, Allen said "No replacement therapy! You don't need it." When I first read that I thought, "Yeah right, Allen." But come the day that I put that last smoke out - I just didn't put a patch on. I was all Meh.

Allen works in mysterious ways.

Allen was also right when he said that the withdraw wasn't that bad. After five days of cold turkey I no longer feel like I'm walking in a fog and sleepy as all hell.

I did, however, have moments of incomprehensible, nearly tear inducing, irrational frustration. P lease, allow me to share.

A lot of these moments were attributed to... yes, you guessed it, my stove - the oven in particular.

I know, right? It makes so much sense. Doesn't everyones oven frustrate them to no end?

My question, my burning fucking question about my oven in particular is: what was so hard about a fucking dial??????

This stove has reduced me to (near) tears lately when I've gone to simply turn the fucking thing on so I can cook dinner (which, really, isn't that complicated enough?).

Because technology is just so neat this stove sports buttons for EVERYTHING. Once you find the "bake" button (and its stupid sweet spot so that it actually turns on), you then search the galexy of buttons for a temperature button and you (again, once you find the button's sweet spot) hold it down (not gently, btw - forcefully) and wait for your number to come up.

You might think you'd be done there, right? Yeah, this is where this bitch gets me Every.Time. Don't get cocky with technology, because now that you've chosen bake over the infinite other choices and selected your temperature, you now have to go to the other side of the panel, FIND and PRESS START.

Are you fucking kidding me?

What? What was so difficult about a dial that you just turned and it came on? It was ONE STEP!

You want to guess how many times I have 1) selected bake and 2) selected my temperature... and then 3) just walked away? Only to come back a half hour later to wonder why the frozen sausage rolls (that nights wholesome dinner!) were not even warm.

With barley enough patience to smile at my children's never ending stories of "like, then I said this, and she, like, totally *rolls eyes* did this, and I was like, whatever!" my stove often became the hair that broke the camels back. You know why?

because, for heaven sakes, it SHOULD be easier than this!

Other than that though - this cold turkey business has been a breeze. Thanks again, Allen!

Reluctantly Whole

noreply@blogger.com (Mantramine) — Tue, 11 Jan 2011 15:09:00 +0000

Letting go is a funny thing. Resistance to it is like... forever pulling apart a piece of taffy, the thing you're holding just gets longer and thinner, a translucence that has become depressingly empty and unfulfilling. But still you hold on.

Eventually the taffy will snap and you will, hopefully, at the very least, have your droopy half back.

But if you could just let go of it, let it drop where it stands, you would be whole.

Being whole is so overrated.

Dis-ease is the new black.

Not really though. I just thought I'd walk the mire for purely reminiscent reasons. What the hell, right?

I am reluctantly whole.

I Can't Get No

noreply@blogger.com (Mantramine) — Sun, 02 Jan 2011 15:23:00 +0000

I started smoking again for the New Year. Woo hoo! Allen Carr told me to and who am I to argue?

I first started smoking again back in May sometime.

I had been quit for about a year and half when my niece came to live with me, and I convinced myself that the only way I could deal with her powerful will was to allow myself about 10-15 five minute breaks a day. After my niece went back home in September I quit again in... October? I think.

Come December, I decided I was solid enough in my quitting to allow myself a) a go out drinking smoke and b) a holiday pack of smokes - right? That's reasonable. Then I would stop again, because I can stop smoking like nobody's business. All I have to do is slap a patch on my ass and off I go. Staying quit is, apparently, another matter all together.

Enter Allen Carr. Apparently he can stop me from smoking and make it easy. Who doesn't like a quick fix? Certainly not me. I picked up his book (in hopes of staying quit) having "smoked my last holiday smoke" and sans nicotine patch on my ass. However, his book instructed me to "not to stop smoking" until he says so. I love you Allen, you just co-signed my bullshit. I went right out and bought a pack a smokes, shoved my hand down my pants and ripped the patch off (a delicate procedure in public, let me tell you), sat in the frosty, freezing fucking cold and lit up with a I am so in the right GLEE!

So here I am, once again, ready to kick it, this time Carr style.

I'm hoping to address this whole thing with a much clearer head. I don't want to replace the compulsion to smoke with the compulsion to murder gummy bears with my sharp and ferocious teeth. I don't want the desire to rip the door off my fridge so that I may satisfy my need for some sort of masticated oral satisfaction... . I think Mr. Carr's book has its work cut out for it. I can't imagine not having that seductive desire to fill my mouth with the pleasure of sugar if not a tube o' nicotine.

It's time to get my gentle meditation ON! - like an epic MMA fight. I'll be George Rush St-Pierre.

sigh. Such a slave.

Happy New Year Everyone.

Feel'n Yer Boobies

noreply@blogger.com (Mantramine) — Mon, 13 Dec 2010 04:09:00 +0000

I was feelin' my boobies a while back and, low and behold, I thought I felt something. Fear filled my belly, and I kept (feverishly) examining my breasts. Some of you may know, I fancy myself a bit o' a doctor in my past life, and with my trusty assistant Google, I was off towards a diagnosis. Malignant or benign? I searched high and low: smooth lump, pitted lumb, big lump, moving lump... lump, lump, lump.

Also, I called a real doctor for a second opinion.

If you don't already know, I have medically enhanced boobies, bionic boobies if you will, and the question was, was the lump just part of the implant ? Whatever it was, it was a lump.

I had implants put in just under ten years ago. I had never had much in the breast department, and after kids, well, let's just say my chest resembled two tired pencil erasers on a couple slices of soggy Wonder bread (and if that isn't some good imagery, I don't know what is).

My heart beat as I waited for the doctor to agree that it was most likely something to do with the implant. I'd been feelin' my boobies on a regular basis for sometime (because not unlike a vibrator - they're a toy you just never tire of) and had never felt anything quite like this, but then again, I hadn't really been looking.

My doctor didn't disagree with my potential diagnosis, but she suggested a mammogram all the same. After all, lump or not, I am, as of this year, that age (it's okay that you missed my birthday, I wont forget it).

Being that I'm aware of the breast squeezing mammogram machine and aware that I really had nothing to squish before the implants, I've always been a little a'frightened of THE MAMMOGRAM.

When booking the appointment for the mammogram, I mentioned my small boob concern, and I got that bored, half listening we all think we've got the tiniest titties, honey response of "uh, huh. Okay, I'll note that."

Who knows I thought, maybe they're not that small. Maybe it wont matter....

So, MAMMOGRAM, here I come.

I had heard stories for us implant girls; they push the implant out of the way, slap what's left of your breast on the cold metal, squish, and snap! I was prepared.

I walked in, and the technician and I discussed my boobs. I told her there was not much actual breast tissue... and, again, I got that sort of really honey, you don't have to justify your vanity to me look, and I shut up. I stepped up to the big scary machine.

I placed my breast on the machine. I raised my arm, I put it here, I put there, and she manipulated what she could and the two plates came together as her hands held my breast in place. Squish, squish, squish, squish until (as she barely got her finger out), I was all pinched in.

First breast down. Next.

Only this time was a little different. As the plates came down to squish me in she grabbed a different tool to help her out. You see, I didn't know if it was normal or not, but she couldn't get her fingers out from between the plates during the first breast, she was pinched all in with me, with just a whisp of breast. For the second breast she grabbed the special tool that I knew they kept handy for girls just like me...

she grabbed... a spatula.

With my next breast in place, instead of squishing and pinching her fingers in, which were much thicker than any extra breast tissue I could muster up, she splatted my breast down with a spatula to keep it in place.

We smiled weirdly at each other and I shrugged cutely (but not really). When she turned to go take the picture, I smiled and winked at my vane and vindicated little breast. Somehow, I felt accomplished - like the little breast that could.

And so you're not all sitting around waiting with bated breath, the results are in people - my little boobies got the all clear with a come back in six months FOR AN ULTRASOUND. No more MAMMOGRAMS for Mantra's boobies ;)

Small bionic boobies rock.

How to Feel Alien (and Oh Look! A New Post)

noreply@blogger.com (Mantramine) — Thu, 09 Sep 2010 13:47:00 +0000

I'm back in high school, or so it feels. There is nothing stranger than being on a campus of recently graduated kids.

For me, being back in school (university) is like when I take yoga classes. It should (and I use that term loosely) be a good and rewarding experience, but... instead it brings out my judgmental mind. In my first few classes of yoga I always size up the competition... ? I bet you didn't know yoga was a competitive sport, did you? Well, it is. I size up the other participants and my wrong brain says things like, "She thinks she's all that, pft... just give me a few classes, I'll kick her yoga ass." I know, my spiritual connection is awesome, right?

So the same thing goes at school, just slightly varied.

"Oh, she/he thinks they're soooo smart. Whatever, wait till you get the real world kid. " And then I think to myself, why am I even having this discussion - I am such a nerd.

I think I am some anthropological study to myself. How I move within the chaotic cluster fuck of girls giggling and shouting out "you still owe me a hug... don't forget my huggsies!" Oi. I am studying the reaction of the forty year old foreigner in what seems like education Disney Land for the terminally beautiful. Never has my presence seemed so loud even though I rarely say a peep (because I am sensing that I am terminally uncool).

Now, I am aware that my tone will probably change over the next few months, just as it does in yoga class. Eventually I will cease to feel the need to prove myself to myself, and the thrill for newly graduated will wane. Until then though....

what the hell is this world coming to? These are the future leaders of our country? Pull your pants up man! You want experience? I'll show you experience. Oh, and take your need to discuss Utopic and Dystopic societies and shove it up your ....

but also - feel free to learn something interesting so you can carry on an intelligent conversation later in life, only without being a pompous know-it-all (like me).

The Recluse in Wet Clothes

noreply@blogger.com (Mantramine) — Sat, 03 Jul 2010 13:27:00 +0000

I am ever so slightly thinking about Recovery again. I read your recovery blogs - those of you on the right hand side of my blog that engage in that. I read and remember when I needed to be there so badly, I also read and think that I am glad that I have found detachment with love as solidly as I have.

I no longer have judgment or an emotional response to the addicts, any addicts, use of their drug of choice. I have found the sweet spot wherein I can accept and even still have love and/or a removed sense of empathy for the addict(s).

But, in the last few days... I have felt a certain pull back into the world of Recovery, to Al Anon. It's as if I have come to understand that there is, at the very least, one more thing I have to learn. One more thing I have to do. Humbly and respectfully. Even though it sometimes feels like putting on wet clothes.

I don't like Recovery rooms, I don't like "rooms." I don't like sharing, I don't like finding support. On that side of the coin, I am a bit of recluse - but isn't that because, maybe, I'm afraid of what I will find?

That detachment with love has turned into detachment. With love.

Birth Control and Terrorism

noreply@blogger.com (Mantramine) — Thu, 01 Jul 2010 20:19:00 +0000

The three year old terrorist was on the lose again this morning. It started innocently enough and even almost righted itself, but no.

It was big. HUGE. Ginormous even. She's taken to destroying her room when she's really pissed. Every toy, every pillow, every blanket... she throws them everywhere. My inner-therapist acknowledges that she is doing this to manifest her supreme anger at her situation. She likes to make a horrible mess so she can see the mess that is inside of her.

However, as much as I can sympathize, I'm done cleaning it up and/or getting her to help me clean it up... and blah blah blah... help her to come to terms with how this type of expression is negative with, you know, a really soft and sorta high pitched phony voice. This time, I took the toy basket and laundry basket out. Then, she went for the dresser drawers. PISSED RIGHT OFF at me, she was going to pull every item of clothing out and slam it, with demon like satisfaction, to the floor. In a reverse-psychology type move ( that was done by either her or me, I'm still not sure) I took her out of her room and let her scream in the living room while I sat on the stairs blocking her path back to her room.

The response to this was to scream until there was flying daggers of fire and blood squirting from her eyes and say (from the mouths of babes... I tell you. Too cute) "I DON'T LIKE YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! YOU ARE STUPIDDDDDDDDD!"

To which I responded, "Actually, I am rubber and you are glue..." Na, I didn't do that (maybe).

She screamed some other terrorist like statements at me that I didn't understand (because, of course, it's a secret language that involves tongues or something?), and completely monopolized the living portion of the house looking for things to destroy - only to be stopped by me (thus angering the Fuhrer more). Eventually, I left my post on the stairs, allowing her to return to her room. As she slammed her door, I leaned my head down the stairs to where my sixteen year old was hanging out in her bedroom with her boyfriend...

"Did you guys want to have some unprotected sex at all?"

"Umm, no... we're fine," she called up to me.

That's what I thought.

Girls, Get You Some Wheels

noreply@blogger.com (Mantramine) — Sat, 12 Jun 2010 13:06:00 +0000

I've been part of a very slow to organize Derby team for about a year now. However, due some internal team breakdowns and reorganizations, I haven't skated in a while. A long while.

Last night, I dragged my ass to one of the practices... and ladies, let me tell you, you got to get you some wheels. I don't care if it's two bike wheels or four roller skate wheels, when the wind sails across your skin and through your hair on a decent almost summer evening - there is nothing like it.

Between the night school I was taking and work, I've been sitting in a chair at a desk for months and months. Surely, there has been some atrophy in my muscles. What a terrible thing to let happen.

It's hard to imagine that you could forget how good it feels to burn some energy into something and then just coast - the reward for effort. It's a beautiful thing.The warm wind on a cool sweat was...fucking amazing.

So, get you some wheels, skate the dog, knock a neighbour over for practice or just for fun. Or better yet, look up your local derby group and just go... go be fresh meat for a night or two.

I may never actually play a real derby bout , but I'm going to have fun trying.

You are woman, hear you roar.

Please, Don't Try This at Home

noreply@blogger.com (Mantramine) — Fri, 04 Jun 2010 14:36:00 +0000

Anyone who was reading this blog over a year ago will be familiar with the fact that I am-ish married to an addict. We are still in place of pseudo separation - and what that means, I can't begin to explain. However, this post is about the way we were.

In the olden days of my blogging, I wrote about the strife of being married to an addict. I wrote vehemently about NOT being a codependent. I fancied myself a "good friend" that refused to enable his using but would support his good efforts. I never covered his ass around the consequences of his using - ever. Therefore, no codependent, right?

Well...come to find people, that I was, had been , the biggest ass-face of a codependent EVER! Yes, it's true, shouts of glee from the room as I most humbly admit my arrogant folly. I even took pride in being his... helper, his best friend, his right hand... ugh.

I thought that because I was such a hard ass when it came to his using that this alone cleared me of a codie title, but no.

You see, addicts (or... men) generally share a few personality traits: short fuse, temper (aka: mantrums), inability to focus, and no patience. As my husband's wife, I took on a lot of the day to day business like bill payments, calling business, Dr. appointments, so on and so forth.... I did this because generally my husband could not stand things like the phone-tree "if you are calling for option A, press 1. If you are calling for blah blah blah. God forbid his man hands fat fingered the phone pad and he would press a 2 instead of a 1. His frustration would mount and the household would feel the tension rise. Also, planning ahead was known to be very... annoying. "Ugh! Just a minute!... What are we doing next week? What? Ugh, hang on... what? Tuesday? Am I busy Tuesday?" So, to avoid this issue(s), I, as a "friend," took on all of the dealings of household business. Because, clearly, he couldn't.

We were a team, right? Isn't that what you do in a team? You apply yourself where your partner lacks? Right?

Yes, well.... These days where I work, I take appointments. People call and I book them a time. Every so often a woman will call and say, "I'm calling to book an appointment for my husband," and it takes ALL of me not to say, "Sure, but is there any reason he can't do this for himself? 'Cause booking it for him through you is making me want to vomit a little bit in my mouth."

Maybe her husband is unable, maybe he is deaf, dumb, and blind. Most likely though, he is cad who is too busy, lazy, or arrogant to take care of his own stuff and throws a hissy fit at the idea of having to deal with bureaucracy - and this is where I was the great enabler. By the way, I work at an unemployment center, so if he needs an appointment and can't make it himself, it's not because he's too busy.

And! How is it that a working woman can manage life without a sexretary to book all her appointments for her? Huh? Somehow... she manages. Weird.

When these women call, my blood boils. I want to scream and shout "MAKE HIM DO IT HIMSELF" and "RUN!!!" because I can't believe I spent so many years being bullied by my husband's sullen behavior, and to think, on top of that, I ENABLED it. ohmyfuckinggod.

I was not being a friend. In fact, I was taking his power away doing these things for him. I should be ashamed of myself. I should have allowed him the grace to figure out his own shit. My helping only fueled his lesser traits.

Maybe I didn't enable his using, but I sure as hell enabled a behaviour that is at the core of it, pearl necklace and all.

My name is (being withheld) and I (if I may be so bold, again) am NOT a codependent (anymore) ( I swear).

Sheep Skin House Bubble? Anybody?

noreply@blogger.com (Mantramine) — Tue, 25 May 2010 13:59:00 +0000

Thanks to the free flowing hair of my Golden Retriever, my wee little netbook's fan whines and blows so much noise that I sometimes find it unbearable. Can someone give me a solution to this?

I'm terrified at the thought of opening up the back of my little electronic IV bag myself, because, let's face it, I'll break something, and then I will be forced to write posts and other nonsense from my Blackberry (which I also love and adore). Lets face it though, I'm not fifteen, and while my opposable thumbs are magnificent, they missed that step in evolution which would have given them the power to type 80 wpm with them and only them. I'm afraid, when it comes to typing, I'm just too old school. What's a girl to do?

Perhaps, I could create a bubble for me and my electronic devices, sort of like a large, non lubricated, personal house condom. I could crawl inside every morning and sit on the couch and... go about my business, as it were. In my personal house condom, there would be no dust or dog hair, just me and the sound of all ten fingers typing. Maybe, I could turn the reservoir tip into some sort of, let's say... alcove where I could build a shelf for my coffee. It could happen, I'm crafty in a McGyver kinda way.

The only foreseeable problem? Static electricity. I know you were thinking about that, too. I wonder if sheep skin would still produce this, does anybody know? Gentlemen? Is there less friction when using the skin of a sheep to sheath your sword (and what would Pamela Anderson say)? The last thing I would want is the accumulation of hair on the outside of my house condom obstructing my view of the TV, which will certainly not fit in my house condom (trust me, I've tried).

If any of the four of you that read this blog could maybe ask around? Perhaps some friends and relatives of yours are already doing this and you don't even know, perhaps you could help a girl out.

Let me know and get back to me, I'll be here... waiting.

Taken Too Soon

noreply@blogger.com (Mantramine) — Wed, 12 May 2010 13:09:00 +0000

My warm hands felt the deep intrusion. For days, I would run my fingers across and analyze the area: one of these things doesn't belong here...

Last night: too impatient, too intrigued, I applied pressure. I warmed the hardened core, and then I applied pressure - lots of it.

I pushed. Ouch. It hurt, it hurt me more than it hurt it. However, I was insistent. Today was the day. I could no longer go through each day knowing it was there and acting as if... nothing was happening. No, today we would meet.

After a battle of wills so strong, finally there was a breakthrough, but it was weak. I squeezed for more, determined to have it out and over with. Tears formed in my eyes and, suddenly, the realization of what I had done was all to clear.

It wasn't time. I rushed the moment, I forced something that was... beyond my control.

I took my pimple too soon.

For this, I will pay.

(ps. don't Google "pimple" images)

You Wanna Go?

noreply@blogger.com (Mantramine) — Fri, 07 May 2010 14:13:00 +0000

Sometimes, I feel beat by the will of that child.

My grandparents, the drunken Irish ones, used to call me "The Thoroughbred," with a glint of sparkling admiration in their eyes. Oooo, I was a force to be reckoned with in their minds, I was the strong one.

My older but smaller sister would pipe up, "what about me?" with a smile, "what am I?"

To which they might absentmindedly say, "Huh? What? Did you say something? Oh, you? Umm, you didn't kiss the blarney stone, you tripped over it" and they would laugh and slap their knees. Years later, this would require therapy, on my sisters part, to come to terms with.

My sister always had a bit of a love/hate relationship with me. I was, it seems, the Marsha, Marsha, Marsha to her Jan.

Well, my sister can rest now, because her three year old daughter is beating me. If I am a thoroughbred, this little girl is the dazzling, wild and iron willed lady-stallion (can I say that? Sure, why not. You get my point, right?).

Oh, don't get me wrong, I get that this isn't a race or a c*cough*mpetition. I am down with that fact that this sweet, innocent little child that has had a few years of strife and has now been taken from her Mama and is in strange surroundings, and that, because of this, she is gonna have some issues. I am aware that I need to nurture her through this time. However...

there are times when she pushes me to the brink, drives me to drink, and makes me say strange things.

Case in point: the pajamas.

After a long evening of pushing my buttons, " I'm hungry. I'm hungry. I'm hungry. I'm hungry. I don't like that dinner" so on and so forth, bed time arrives. Phew.

"I don't like those pajamas."

With teeth worn down from clenching, "Well, they're the only ones we have right now so we have to wear them."

"I don't want to."

With total objectivity and grown up calm,"Okay, well, honey-sweetie pie, I didn't ask you if you wanted to wear them, I said it's time to put them on."

Her big, solid, deep but frozen, brown eyes look deeply into my soul. She stares me down and walks the room. She arrives at her small princess table where her piggy bank resides, she looks at me, slowly brings her hand to the piggy bank - never removing her eyes from mine - and then whips that little fucking piggy bank on to the floor. Her head kind of cocks as her body language and eyes seem to say, "that's right, I just did that. I went there, what the fuck you gonna do about it, bitch?

To which I, in all my maturity and a look of foul indignation, say (like, for real and out loud), "You wanna go with me?" Suddenly, out of my mind, I am Tony fucking Montana being punked off by a three year old, my inside voice is screaming, "You wanna fuck with me? Okay. You wanna play rough? Okay..."

I stop myself before me I start waggin my head at her and tell'n her "oh no, you di'nt." I remember, somehow, that I am her champion - no matter what (fuck me, my inside voice cries) she may do, no matter how long she may torment me...

Gently and with love, I place the pajamas on her super special self (because, fyi, going to bed with no pajamas is also, to her highness, completely unacceptable). I let her kick and scream in objection to this particular set of Winnie the Pooh pj's. When all is said and done, I leave the child, that has thrown every stuffy she has on the floor with the same contempt she attacked her piggy bank with, tucked into her bed. I say night nights with tenderness and leave her with her temper tantrum, knuckles white with effort.

Under my breath, as I walk away, I hear myself signing, no chanting...

It's the...eye of the tiger it's the thrill of the fight, rising up to the challenge of our rivals

because, girlfriend... it is ON!

Not The Mama - Blog

noreply@blogger.com (Mantramine) — Sun, 02 May 2010 16:02:00 +0000

So, I've made it a week without smoking. I only almost killed a few people by exploding my eyeballs on them. And, I only almost strangled my sick and whiny niece (who is still staying with me) once - okay, maybe twice. But let me defend myself by saying, the brutality that is a three year old is shocking, I can't tell you how often I have felt vocally assaulted by her inner princess. She's the miniature equivalent to five bad cops in a small room - and she never leaves any marks.

She's wicked smart like that.

It's weird that today I am going to a baby shower to celebrate the birth of what will soon be just another ~~evil monkey~~ three year old. These poor saps are gonna get sucked in by the sweet innocence of that little helpless seedling, but I know the truth lurking underneath. Not only will that baby turn three one day - it will also turn sixteen eventually. At sixteen, it will be thwarted with devastating worldly issues like "I have NO CLOTHES!" or its sister plight, " MY HAIR IS SO FUCKING STUPID" and have to miss first and second class because of it. Understandably so, of course.

The three year old does not have this issue, no... she's happy to dress herself in all her clothes at once: three skirts, two pairs of tights, one skort, and approximately three shirts - oh, and a toque. At least she'll be real smart when she gets to school because you just know we're at that why? stage, and you just know that I answer every why? with astute clarity - I take my time with that shit. Obviously, I'm hoping she gets sick of actually getting answers.

In my house, there seems to be a grazing, quiet period that is ten years old. Maybe she's just building steam, I'm not sure, but my trust in her stability makes me nervous. I'm sure her clothes (if we could find any that fit her tiny little self and that didn't have to be purchased from Please Mom) will fail to meet her standards soon enough - as her standards will have changed from wearing the same dirty, filthy, grease and dirt stained, hoody every.single.day to "oh my god! this has a spot on it! Dispose of it, now!" Naa, she's too cool to ever go that route.

Phew, well, anyways, I didn't mean to rant about my kids, it's not like this is a mommy blog. However, if you haven't spawned yet - consider yourself warned. Kids are some mind-bending, time consuming business - notice how they passive aggressively took over this whole post? Watch out.

All right then "baby shower" (when did it stop raining men?), here I come with all my uplifting-ness. :)

ugh.

The Review

noreply@blogger.com (Mantramine) — Sun, 25 Apr 2010 16:12:00 +0000

The looonnnnggg awaited review, right?

The E-CIG(arette): what's it like? How does it work? Does it suck? (Most important) do you get a hit? What does it taste like? Is there "smoke?"

Well, in no particular order, here are your answers:

Yes Virginia, there is "smoke," which is actually some form of steam? or something? I don't claim to understand such wicked science. All I know is that there is something for me to INHALE and EXHALE. Yum.

Day one of the patch was yesterday. I'm no fool - a girl can not give up tar filled goodness by liquid nicotine alone. I need to suck that stuff up through my skin for awhile too. Lord knows, I don't want to hurt anyone with a shovel or nothin'.

My fancy little cigarette, I am told by on lookers, looks like a real smoke at a quick glance; which is to say, were I to start suck'n some vaporized nic juice back in a restaurant, I would be rushed and asked to "please take that filth outside."

I would chuckle and say... "Good sir, this is an electronic cigarette..." and I would look away and roll my eyes at such ignorance as if it was cute. At which time they would probably ask me to take my (probable) crack pipe (made to look like a cigarette) outside then. Touche. Not everyone can be as worldly and evolved as me.

So yes, it looks enough like a real cigarette (or drug paraphernalia) that you wouldn't get too much attention (unless you try to smoke it in a restaurant.). There is an LED that lights up when you inhale, it's pretty damn cool.

One of my mild dislikes is that it does have a slight sound - it gurgles a bit, kind of like that bong you had when you were sixteen and liked to smoke bags of weed in, dude. However, my mind has already linked this sound with processing of sweet goodness, so we can pretty much strike that con off the list.

Do you get a hit? Indeed, you do. This was the most important thing for me. The e-cig must deliver a cough inducing jolt to my throat and lungs for me to believe I am truly smoking... and it does. It's not as much as the real thing, but I did go for medium nicotine. Perhaps next time I will purchase the strong one. Maybe it will be like smoking Dunhill - which was always a bit of a treat. Dunhills were great for when you wanted your smokes to stand up and punch you in the face - like, say, on a night you were doing some drinkin', you could splurge on some Dunhills and avoid bar fights all together. A pack of Dunhill's in a night would do way more damage then any bar fight. Very satisfying.

What does it taste like? Well... when I first opened up and charged my new gadget, my expectations where high. I dreamed it would taste just like my smokes: dirty, filthy, smokey goodness. Instead, it tasted a little... sweet. I know, I know, this makes it sound bad for the e-cig. Who the hell wants a sweet-ish tasting cigarette? Not me, I assure you. However, it is so very subtle that even I have become accustom to it. It is, for me, a small price to pay for death by (one hopes and crosses their fingers) natural causes.

So, the final review, does it suck? No, it doesn't suck, you do. I'm not sure if it's the medium nicotine or it's just what you have to do to make that atomizer do its fancy work, but when you draw on that e-cig - you really suck for everything you get. It's a bit more work than the tar filled, chemicalized "modern" day cigarette, but again, it's a small price to pay. So what if I have to up my Juvederm injections to fill in the lines around my lips from hauling a decent drag off that thing, the point is....

I will be alive to do it!

The other fun stuff is that it comes in colors. You can get all sorts of colors and designs. I ordered the white cigarette looking one (so I can make a scene in restaurants and smoke in my car with my kids and get dirty looks from other "goody-goody" drivers and laugh at them) and a stainless steel one with a blue LED - for the days where I want to feel very avant garde as well as match my my kitchen appliances.

Also, it does not stink in the slightest. It is completely odorless. In fact, I am sitting right next to my daughter and smoking it right now, and she is not saying "oh god, mom, ack, you stink. cough, cough, gag," which is what she would do when she would insist on following me outside for a real one. Pft. Child, please... let your mama smoke.

So, in a nutshell, that's that, the e-cig.

Any other questions?

Mannequin Me

noreply@blogger.com (Mantramine) — Sat, 24 Apr 2010 15:13:00 +0000

Saints fly through my underpants, superheroes to my life, reeking havoc, painting red on the insides of my thighs.

Dressing me divine in my skin washed and clean; I am their angel, for them I pose.

With stretched out hair and surprise in my eyes, they move me. Limbs askew and awkward, I am. A mannequin for inside out and upside down – backwards to please his lord.

Justified and juried; I am confounded, giant, and clumsy.

Squeezing words through a juicer and producing ground meat for drink, I stuff my throat to stop my breath from escaping.

The saints fly round my head, drying my eyes with the wind from their wings. Fat little saints like bees, making bitter honey from wax and thoughts - the nectar of my existence.

the juice runs down my leg, and the saints... how they do lap it up.

Cough and Hack

noreply@blogger.com (Mantramine) — Wed, 21 Apr 2010 13:53:00 +0000

otherwise titled: My Stupidity.

You may recall my pleasure in finding the e-cig (electronic cigarette), and how I so keenly justified the starting of smoking real cigarettes again in order to prepare my body for the second coming of healthy nicotine, yes?

Well, the e-cig arrived some time ago - and I'll tell you, if I wasn't still burning the real thing, I would love that little device.

It's perfect. It's a little heavy in comparison, but otherwise, I love it.

HOWEVER... umm, I'm still smoking real ones. Coughing, hacking, stinking, and smoking. My mental impulses to the filth of real tobacco are bar none. AND... on my way to Vegas, we of course stopped off at the duty free store where you can get liqour and stuff for realcheap. I thought it best to purchase some Canadian smokes for my travels there, but I learned I could only buy them by the carton. Obviously, Vegas was to be my last smoking hurrah, after Vegas I was going to quit, so standing at the duty free counter with ten packs of smokes in my hand for half the price... well, I was torn. Certainly, this would extend my quit date - I would have to smoke ALL TEN PACKS. Waste is a terrible thing, and this was a scream'n deal.

Sitting in my fridge is the last of that carton; are you all ready for my insane "fuck me tobacco, I love you. Don't leave me" posts again? Because, this stupidity has got to stop.

Last night, I was talking to my ex-husband, the one who flew off to Mexico to live as a king, and (fyi) I have not spoken to him once in the past year where he hasn't been very-upper-class drunk. In fact, a couple of times he has had to call me back in the morning for a refresher of what we talked about, "we did talk last night, right?" Nice.

In talking to him last night, the man who admits to smoking 2-3 packs of smokes a day (while very-upper-class-drinking) cause there so fucking cheap! went off, three different times, into coughing fits so bad that I thought he'd collapsed and stopped breathing all together. He is the same age as me and he sounded like a dying emphysema patient. All I could think was, eww, that's disgusting. Frankly, I don't want that to be me (to say the least). I should have probably recorded his death cough and made it my morning alarm. Surely, my little ahem will progress to something similar one day. I don't want to be that old lady at the bus stop with her oxygen tank - coughing and hacking while still suckin' back a butt through her neck.

It's cute that I thought I could just smoke the real thing for a couple of weeks and then just transfer over to the e-cig.

Now, I'm gonna go and get that little nicotine patch, enjoy dreaming in technicolor because of it, and bring the e-cig back into the picture - because, damn it, I'm gonna be a healthy smoker if it kills me.

So That's It

noreply@blogger.com (Mantramine) — Tue, 20 Apr 2010 13:20:00 +0000

You can't see it, but I am beside myself with excitement and glee. As of yesterday, I finished my eight month online course I was taking. For these last eight months, I have been working full time and running home with the weight of assignments due, always the weight of homework.

Yesterday, I handed in my last assignments and the weight... is gone. Suddenly, there is no pressure and the glee is astronomical. Last night, I kept walking around my house wondering what one household/family task I would do before I sat down to do homework only to realize.... HA! I can do them all 'cause I don't have any freak'n work to do.

Of course, I didn't do them all, that would just be silly.

My family has asked, "what are you going to do now that you don't have pressure to thrive under?" because apparently I like that, and I think that's a good question. What will I do with all my extra time?

I've started dreaming... I can work in the garden, I can go places with the kids, I can be a part of my kids lives again, I can get all my laundry put away (ya, right), I can watch LOST and House, I can read a book.... it's endless and I can't wait.

Among other things, taking this course has given me the deep appreciation of time and space. I want to smoother time and space with kisses like it is a long lost lover, and I will.

Also, I'm going to take up ballroom dancing - 'cause, why the hell not?

I'm Back, Baby...

noreply@blogger.com (Mantramine) — Thu, 15 Apr 2010 13:31:00 +0000

Let's just say, I don't think I've ever gotten so drunk so fast, shall we?

Maybe the booze is different in Vegas. Yes, I think that must be it. I swear, I never had more than three drinks each night I was out - and still, my right breast managed to make many appearances. Yes, that's right, my good friend and I had an understanding that Vegas pictures would be nothing without a few flashes. It's true though, right? The best one was taken with the local police that were posing for and with the tourists more than they were policing. I think it serves him right that there is now a picture out there of him with two slightly naked girls on the streets of Vegas... don't you?

Other than that, let me tell you (if you don't already know) Vegas is crazy. Maddness.

Let me also be completely honest and tell you that I was so tired and out of sorts the first morning that I woke up there that I could only manage a few hours at the pool and then had to return to my hotel room... and have a cry. I needed to center myself, I needed to focus... I am just a wee little Canadian girl you know.

Have no fear though, after a bit of time to myself and overwhelmed tears shed... I was back at 'er. It's hard to keep a good Canadian girl down. I stood up, apologized for being weak, and got out and had more fun.

I didn't gamble and barely shopped. At one point my mom called me up to say, excitedly, "how is it? What have you done?"

and I told her, "Umm, well... umm, I don't know what I've done. Stuff? I'm eating a really fucking big BLT sandwich at the Hash House a Go Go (Twisted Farm Food) right now, and I think it might eat me."

In fact, the resturaunt served it to me with a big knife through the middle of it, probably because it was too tall to stand on it's own and some of it may have still been alive. Luckily, I didn't order the pork sandwich, because it came as a super-sized slab of breaded and deep fried pig that resembled a huge cactus leaf and wore it's bun like little hat on the side (which was pretty, but not in a really appetizing way). If you're ever in the mood for a big salad though, that is the place to go.

In the end, I made it home unscathed (except for the pretty unicorn tattoo on my ass).

I'm sure there are more stories that will filter through over the next days or weeks... but I'll just have to remember them first.

...baby

noreply@blogger.com (Mantramine) — Wed, 07 Apr 2010 13:33:00 +0000

I am just a hint of beside myself excited. Today, I remove myself from the rock on which I live on (not necessarily under) and begin my journey.

Yes, I am going to Vegas.

Bright lights, pretty pink/red little dress with white little polka dots, red bikini, super duper white Canadian flesh, smokes to go with the booze I will surely find there, and a friend that is crazy ( maybe even crazier) like me. What more does a girl need?

This morning, I will remove that little bit of last summer's blue nail polish from the one big toe it remains on, and... REPAINT all ten of them. How exciting is that?

I have had every hair ripped out of my legs and delicate parts by way of hot wax... and I am so ready for this.

I realized that this trip will be the first time I have been away from my kids for this long (four days) and have decided that this is well over due. Certainly, it calls for making up for lost time, and, as such, I think some dancing on the speakers will be required.

It should be a full out I am not middle-aged (even though it's entirely possible that I kind of, sort of , look like it - but not really, right?) festival of ~~vaginas~~ women.

I simply just can't wait.

In fact, I am so thrilled with this whole event, I'm tempted to post pictures here! How fun is that?

Of course, I'm most sure that come Friday, Saturday, and Sunday mornings I will be experiencing the sullen, foggy yet clear, memories of the night before and feel some insecurities about my well anticipated behavior on the dance floor and/or streets...

a feeling that only shopping and sitting beside a pool, oh... and maybe the Black Jack table, will fix.

It is probably premature of me to say I could post pictures I will be proud of, so, I guess, don't hold your breath (because I know you would have otherwise).

Let's hope I don't drunk-book some pictures in the heat of the moment, it wouldn't be pretty.

Wish me luck and good times! See ya.