Oh, Holy HELL, What Is That Smell?

The Boy and I have discussed many times that babies will not be birthed by me, especially not if he's the other contributor. He sleeps so hard and will not wake up and I'm pretty sure that, besides working a full time job, being a parent would fall solely on my shoulders. And no. I'm not doing that. If I wanted to be a single mom, I'dda gotten knocked up by one of the hottest men I could find and just never tell him.

So I'm the one who gets up 2 or 3 times a night to let the dogs out. Two out of the three are very old and can't hold it all the way through the night anymore. Yeah, I get a little pissy about being the only one who ever hears anything going on with the dogs or the house or whatever at night, but I'm also quite used to it by now.

At about 4:45am, the dogs were itching to go out. They usually want out way before that, so I was excited that they'd managed to sleep that long. I let them out, then went back to bed, knowing that the oldest and tiniest of the dogs would bark for me to let them back in.

What I heard instead was a huge crashing thud against the back door a few minutes after I laid down. Then it happened again, and the door flew open and my young male Aussie came bounding in, running through the bedroom, and cowered in the bathroom. I was up in a flash, running to check on the other two: my canine soulmate, an 11 year old Aussie female, and the oldest, tiny girl. The littlest dog came running in, slalomed between my legs, and went running for the bedroom. I had just reached the threshold of the door when My Girl came running at me, stopping every so often to rub her face on the grass. She tried to barrel over me at the door, but I put my hands down to stop her. She was slippery, though, and went right through my hands and she was headed for the bedroom. I very quickly figured out why the other dogs were running for cover.

Someone, and I'm not naming names, but someone pissed off a skunk and was then sprayed by that skunk. And then I reached down to stop her and got the skunk juice all over my hands. And now she was headed for the bedroom.

"Boy! I need your help out here! RIGHT NOW!" I screamed, hoping he'd sense the urgency, maybe wake up and smell the stench, and get his lazy ass out of bed to help me.

"What?" he replied, sleepily.

"NOW! I need your help! NOW!"

"OH MY GOD! WHAT IS THAT SMELL?!" He sounded absolutely frantic and very wide awake at that point.

We got her back outside and The Boy hosed her off while I did a quick Internet search and managed to find a recipe of hydrogen peroxide, baking soda, and dish soap. I mixed it up and The Boy bathed her in it while I mopped the floor with bleach and water. I sprayed all over the house with some Tactical Odor Eliminator (the kind of crap they use to clean out the backs of patrol cars and jail cells) and quickly realized that it permeated the house as well as the dog.

I cannot describe the amount of discomfort. The Girl hurt herself by scraping her face all over the concrete patio and some areas with grass and gravel in the yard. I think she was more embarrassed than anything else, and I felt kinda sorry for her. But not too much, because the odor is so pungent that I can still TASTE it. (yes, i did indeed say 'taste'.)

Now my yard stinks to high heaven too, and I have no idea how to get rid of the skunk spray that's all in the yard. If the dogs keep going in that corner, they're just going to keep tracking it into the house on their feet and MY GOD I am wondering if I'm going to have to sell the house just to get away from the smell. I could rent an ozone machine, but I don't know what to do about the fish tanks. I guess I can just keep spraying the odor eliminator and maybe it will eventually go away.

I'm panicking because it's not getting much better (it's almost 2pm and i've been airing out the house since 6am) and I have family coming in mid-December. This is just horrible. Even with the doors open, the excess overspray from the skunk is still drifting into the house on occasion. I wonder what my neighbors think, although I'm pretty sure they can SMELL what the problem is.

I went to my dad's and got his Havahart trap. We're going to catch that sumbitch tonight. Only thing is that I have to find a way to get it to the county to have them test it for rabies. I doubt it's rabid, and I'm 99% sure The Girl didn't get bit (kinda hard to tell with all the facial scrapes she gave herself from rubbing), but I plan on dispatching it as soon as we trap it. Kinda sucks to use a Havahart knowing you're going to take out your frustrations on it, but what other choice do we have? That's a rhetorical question, you know.

We can't use other traps because of the unintended target species issue. I don't want to be snapping off the legs of people's cats, possums, or other animals. This way, if I catch anything that isn't a skunk, I can just release it and start over.

Anyway, I'm trying to figure out a way to get to work tomorrow without smelling like I've been sprayed by a skunk. When I went to Gander Mountain to get de-skunk spray, the associate knew exactly what I was there for before I even said anything. And I put on totally new clothes! Grr. Oh well. If nothing else, at least it will keep those wretched fucking students away from me tomorrow...
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Cuddling in the Cutlass

I don't remember how old I was, but I was probably about 14 or so. Two of my friends from a nearby suburb had come to hang out with me and we ended up dropping quite a few too many hits of acid. It was cold outside and I can remember sweating my ass off as we walked the streets, trying to avoid too many people.

Greg and Joey were there names. Greg was an 18-year old whose father had thrown him out of the house recently and he was basically living in his car. The benefit for Greg was, though, that his father went out of town on business often and had not changed the locks on the house. His father was currently out of the country, which was good for Greg; it was freezing cold outside. Seriously. It was icy.

Joey wasn't in much better shape. His mother was totally uninvolved in his raising and left it entirely up to his stepfather, who was a complete tyrant. I went over there one time and had to leave because of all the yelling. I was embarrassed for Joey, who really hadn't done anything wrong, but I don't think the stepfather wanted him around. Joey did everything he could to stay away from home as often as possible, and I don't blame him.

We were a group of three misfits whose only solace in life was to alter our reality. Sure, we had other choices, we just didn't take them. So on this particular night, we had split half a sheet of acid between the 3 of us and were out walking the streets. Eventually, somebody got hungry (it wasn't me), and we ended up at this ghetto-ass Denny's. Being around the public when you're tripping your ass off is never a good idea but, once again, this was something I'd never quite learned how to do.

We were in a booth, but I remember this guy sitting at the bar. He was in a green woolen sport coat and he was really old. He was wearing a matching green bowler hat. I could only see his face quartering away, but his nose was long and pointy and I could see it sticking out from behind his cheekbone. I swear, he looked like a leprechaun. It was all I could do to keep from laughing. Of course, I did laugh, but I tried really hard not to be too loud about it.

So, there we were, in a Denny's in the bad part of town, tripping on way too many hits of acid, sitting across the restaurant from a leprechaun.

And we didn't even eat 99% of our food. I had water and that was it. The guys ordered these huge breakfasts and ate hardly any. And so we walked out into the chilly night, crawled into Greg's 1987 Olds Cutlass, and drove back to my house. That link shows you what it looked like - that's not him!

We drove around for awhile, then parked in my driveway. I was exhausted. The acid was starting to wear off and I was beat down. I bid them adieu and went inside to lay down.

It was about 5am when my father burst into my room, screaming. "Why are you bringing faggots over to my house?!"

Since I hadn't really slept anyway, I got up and followed my father outside. He put on his jacket and thrust mine into my face. "Put it on! Follow me!"

We went outside and, in the driveway, was Greg's Cutlass. The engine was off, and the windows were fogged up except for part of the windshield. My dad merely pointed and said, "There!"

I peered in through the tiny clear spot in the windshield and saw Greg and Joey spooning in the back seat! You could see Greg's faded green mohawk poking out from under a flight jacket emblazoned with Chaos UK, Subhumans, and Exploited patches. Joey's little rat face was sticking out from under the side of the jacket - it was quite obvious there were two people under that coat.

I thought about lying to my father for one second, and telling him that Greg's mohawk belonged to a girl, but figured he'd just bust me anyway. That would have been easiest, but I told him the truth.

"Dad, they're not fags. They're very hetero, just total losers and no girls will date them. It's not a big deal - they were probably just too tired to drive back home and it's really freakin' cold out here."

"I don't care what the reason is. Get those faggots out of here!" With that, he stomped back into the house and slammed the door.

I opened the passenger door and a rush of warm, rank air hit me in the face. Those two punk boys were never big on hygiene. I woke them up and told them what had just happened. They admitted they were too fucked up to go home and were just trying to get comfortable. They conceded, though, and drove to the church parking lot down the street from my parents' house and I went back inside.

My father was quite upset with me for a few days, even though he refused to listen to my reasoning. I never saw Greg after that and I never did figure out what happened to him. Joey said Greg dropped him off at home, and then Greg was going to his own house. That was the last we heard from him.

I recently saw Joey in a picture one of my friends posted on MySpace. I hadn't thought about that kid at all except for this one particular memory that came up on occasion. I've thought about asking the poster what's going on with him...
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Scott Status

Ugh. I didn't want to write about this, really, but a few people have asked me what's going on with Scott, so I figured y'all probably do deserve an update. I know I've been evasive.

We continued to talk. He got the CD and decided that I must indeed love him. He insisted on telling me that every time we talked and when we hung up. He would get mad at me if I didn't say it back, so I started. Just because.

Let me be perfectly honest here: I was totally digging the attention, but I knew I could never let it go anywhere. I am not even remotely in love with him and, frankly, I don't even love him as a person. I just said it to give him just a little bit more. I still feel the remnants of the feelings I used to have for him, but that was for a relationship that was all a lie and for a man I apparently didn't really know.

Yeah, I guess you could say I began stringing him along.

And myself, too, because I suppose I just wanted to see how far he would take it, to see how much I could get from him, to see what he'd give. I just can't resist being adored, or the attention, and that's kinda all it takes to get me to respond.

So I continued to call him each day when I got out of work, and we'd still text into the evening. We made plans to get together on the weekend sometime but, as y'all know, I've been busy. He was getting frustrated because I wouldn't just drop everything when he'd decide to take a day off or whatever.

But he still continued to "disappear." Long, unexplained periods of non-communication, and then he'd reappear with little to no fanfare. Sometimes he'd say he had a headache and went to bed early, sometimes he'd say he took his son out to eat and left his phone at home...always an excuse.

Hmm. All seems a bit familiar. I've been down this road before. He admitted that he was still married, but I'm 90% sure that, even if she was living somewhere else, that she came back to the house. Based on his pattern of disappearing and reappearing, he was ignoring my texts after she got home from work, and picked them back up while she was in the shower or went to bed. Usually, I was already in bed too by the time he started returning my texts. I could set my watch by how it happened, too.

So I continued playing along. I mean, hell...what else do I have to do?

I'll be truthful about this part, too. I desperately wanted him to give me a reason to trust him. I wanted him to go out of his way to prove to me that I could try it again with him and not be crushed. I wanted to believe that I was all he'd ever wanted. So I gave him the chances.

So, last weekend, he said he wanted to come down and spend Saturday with me, cruising Galveston. I told him Saturday wasn't going to work, because I was going to have brunch with my grandfather, Mom, and The Boy. I explained that I haven't been talking to my granddad nearly as much since school started, and this brunch was a necessity and non-negotiable. He tried to talk me out of it, but I wasn't going to change my plans for him, of course. Not when my family's involved.

So eventually, Friday night, he said he would come down on Sunday and we could get together. I told him we needed to plan out how we were going to do it, and he said okay. Everything was all lovey-dovey and gooey, and I figured everything was fine.

But then on Saturday, when I was texting him, he was ignoring me. Eventually he sent one back, saying something rude about me standing him up. It all kind of went downhill from there, and I made a snide comment about how everything is always all about him, and that if he really wanted to see me, he'd work WITH my schedule, instead of expecting me to drop everything.

And then I didn't really say anything to him until Wednesday. I knew he had the day off, so I sent him a few texts. Nothing. Then he sent something about how I make it too hard, that he just doesn't have it in him to try and that he just can't do it.

I basically told him that was probably why none of his relationships ever work: because it DOES take work. I wished him luck with the toothless, inbred gold-diggers up there in East Texas and reminded him that if he ever wanted a real woman who was more than just a warm hole, he could call.

But then he wanted to continue on with the BS. So it became this back-and-forth thing where he tried to tell me that I was too high-maintenance and I expected too much out of him, and that he tried all he possibly knew how to and so on.

I reminded him that he had done absolutely nothing except buy me lunch one time, disappear, not return phone calls, and refused to take me into consideration when trying to schedule meet-ups. That certainly doesn't equal "all he possibly knew how to." I guess I was a little mean, and that's okay. He kept trying to keep it open to future interactions and I basically told him, "You think you know me. You don't. I've got 10 years of improvement under my belt since last we spoke. The difference between the old Stillie and the newer Stillie is that I don't need a man. You just can't be alone, which is why you've cheated on every woman you've been with. I don't need you or your childish games. I'm better off without you, that's for sure."

I ended up saying something about "at least The Boy's trying to save our relationship, and I need to be party to that," or something to that effect. I got back a text that said, "A-HA! I knew The Boy was the reason you were holding back!"

I said, "No, Scott. I was holding back because I don't trust you and I'm not going to ditch my entire life for you, after you waltzed back in a month ago."

We finally ended all of it the other day when he said something about "that's okay. next time i'm down in your town, we can still go grab a steak, right? your friend, scott."

I told him to shove it, that he wasn't my friend and if he had the urge to contact me again in another 10 years, to lose that idea. So he said, "Fine. I will lose your number. Good bye forever A****."

Finally. I'm through with these stupid, childish games, I thought. But then, I log on my Facebook today to accept a friend request, and what do I see there? A final, pathetic attempt at a jab at me. "Now I know why I left 10 years ago," he says.

Oh, whatever. He left because he was a liar and a cheater and I caught him and literally ran his ass out of town. He did it again this time because I didn't fall at his feet, give in to him, and give him a way out of his current situation.

His wishy-washy attitude was driving me crazy. One minute he'd be all "how's my baby this morning?" and calling me his girlfriend and shit. Then he'd say shit like, "That's okay if you don't want to come up here today. I 'll just leave you alone, then. Good bye A****..." and do that passive-aggressive bull.

First off, I don't like people making decisions like that for me. Don't tell me I won't like something, or that it's not good enough for me, or whatever. I have a mind. I can use it. I'll decide what I do and don't want, thanks.

He said he had petitioned for divorce and that he had a lawyer. He told me he was legally separated. Well, that's a lie, because there is no such thing as "legal separation" in the state of Texas. He knows I went through a divorce! Why would he try to lie about shit when I know the truth?! And he went on to say that he wasn't sure if the lawyer had filed or not, that he didn't know if she was going to be served, and so on. He refused to talk about specifics of the petition because he said all he wanted was to keep his house, his cars, and his business. She could have all the rest - he didn't care. He just wanted it over with. All of it was a lie. If she really did cheat on him, wreck his Vette in a drunken stupor, and move out of his house and into another man's house, am I really expected to believe that he's not going to outline specifics in the petition or even know its current status? If she fucked him over that hard, would he really just let her have everything? FUCK NO. My ex husband didn't even cheat on me, and I stripped him of every thing I possibly could. I debilitated him in every possible way. No way would Scott just roll over and let her ruin him. His first wife did that. He wouldn't let it happen again.

I eventually came to realize that Scott came up with every excuse in the book to run away. He wanted me to chase him, to beg him, to tell him how much I wanted him and needed him. Not once did I ever say stuff like that. When he realized that I wasn't the co-dependent, weak, and incapable person I used to be, he realized he couldn't lie to me and get away with it. He knew I wouldn't let him use me as a doormat. All of a sudden, that wasn't quite as attractive to him anymore.

If I really wanted to fuck up his life, I could totally do it. I have his wife's parents' numbers, her brother's, and I found both his daughter's and his son's email addresses. I could make it so that his life would be a living hell for awhile. I'm vindictive. So why am I not doing it? Because I just don't give enough of a shit.

Part of me wants to. I mean, I can keep sending letters and eventually someone besides him will get it out of the mailbox. But why? He's miserable, living a jacked up life of his own creation, and he'll continue to suffer because he's a dishonest adulterer. He's a liar. He hasn't changed one bit and he will suffer the consequences of that.

And then, just a few days ago, I got a text from him that said, "Hi baby." And he just started all over again. He's been texting me all evening, talking about how he's sitting in his chair with Pup-Pup, crying, listening to the CD I made him because it's just all so true, and he can't live without me and he needs me now.

HE'S MADDENING AND I WANT IT TO EITHER STOP OR NOT. I hate wishy-washy people.

So that's where we're at right now. And there's no chance of seeing him this weekend; it's The Boy's birthday. I'm off all next week and don't have to go back to work until November 30th. Of course, Scott's off all next week too, so we'll see if he tries to weasel his way down here to see me. I keep telling him that actions speak louder, so if he really loves me, he'll prove it by doing instead of just saying and not doing. *snorts* It's so funny to fuck with this guy, because I know he's sitting there reading that going, "Damn. I don't want to have to try at anything..."

I shall let y'all know how it goes...
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What Am I Full Of, Exactly?

I have a friend who, every time he calls me, shouts my old nickname into my ear as loud as humanly possible. This is weird to me for 2 reasons: 1) I am not a frat boy and, 2) we're not, like, 21. Nevertheless, he never fails to deafen me for one blindingly embarrassing moment when he screams, "A**** VODKASON!" obnoxiously loud into my ear upon my 'hello?'

First off, no, my real last name is not Vodkason. If it were...hell...that would have been a horrible omen, huh? Although that would explain quite a bit.

But I digress.

When I was in college, even as a 27-year old (LOL!), I still partied every night. I mean, 750ML Bottle of Vodka kind of partied. I challenged myself to see how many orgasms I could get the Guy of the Night to help me out with. It was crazy, stupid, self-destructive, expensive, but holy mother of god...it was fun. And I still made the dean's list every blasted quarter, because I worked my little hungover ass off like crazy to make the grades. Somehow, it worked.

But my deal was vodka. I liked Absolut Mandarin, Smirnoff or Stoli in either regular or vanilla, or Tito's Handmade. It was just part of who I was, kind of like the Marlboro menthols whose stench I carried with me everywhere.

So, anyway, there was this English class I was taking at my university (i believe it was a grammar class, to be specific), and the silly little handouts the teacher gave us used really fucked up shit as sample names. For instance, if the story was about a shopkeeper who was sacrificing quality for a profit, the guy's name would be Guy Greedson. And, if there was a kid who was happy and jovial in the story, his name might be Les Laughson. The teacher in the story might be Terry Teachson. You get it, right? Regular name + relevant character trait + 'son.'

So, one night I was sitting up at the bar with my friend King, and I was working on this homework that included people with the names like 'Fanny Friendson' and the like. King leaned over and said, "What the FUCK is that you're working on? Lesson plans for your field work or something?" (ahh, the good ol' days prior to teaching...)

"No. It's work for a regular class. Stupid gerunds and weird Salvador Dali-esque crutch-looking sticks for words. Damn, I can't get this diagramming shit."

King made some more fun of my assignment, and then began making comments on the people's names. "How did they come up with this ridiculous BS?"

"I don't know for sure because, you know, I'm not a publisher of educational materials, but it looks like they just paired up a first name with some words expressing character and added a 'son' to the end of it."

"Huh?"

"Okay. Look. Fanny here has lots of friends, so the publishers gave her the last name 'Friendson.' Vinnie is full of virtue, so his name is Vincent Virtueson. Get it?"

King says, "Oh, yeah. I get it. Kinda like you're A**** Vodkason, because you're always full of vodka..."

You can't argue with that kind of logic. And the name stuck. I've had lots of nicknames from other people that either didn't last very long or I refused to allow to be repeated. "Scooter" was one. "Ralph" was another. "Queen A****" was one I could kind of rally behind, alas, it didn't stick. But A**** Vodkason...now I could totally see that on a personalized license plate.

Or maybe not. Texas ain't too hip to the Driving While Intoxicated thing. But you get my point.

Why I didn't just convert all my "iamstillbroken" stuff over to the A**** Vodkason name, I'll never know. I think I was trying to keep my very real life very separate from my blogging life. They shared subject matter and stories, but I really didn't want to be discovered. Too many people knew about the Vodkason thing.

The whole Still Broken thing is an entirely different story, though. Definitely for another day.

Breaking Up is Hard to Do

I feel pretty bad. Last night I made the decision to 'break up' with a blogger I've been reading for years. Maybe some of y'all know who Crystal of "Boobs, Injuries, and Dr. Pepper" is. Maybe you've just read stuff written about her. She was part of the BlogHer network at one time. Well, I had to quit her.

Her blog was the first one I found via the Internet (rather than an online blogging community) way back when. I don't remember the first post I read by her, but I remember laughing until I cried. I felt like we had a little bit in common after reading her Crazy Chronicles. That's how she became a favorite. As all of you know, if you frequent a blog that's very personal and autobiographical, you begin to become a little emotionally invested. I felt a little bit like the viewing audience depicted in the movie "The Truman Show." Crystal's life - what she chose to share of it - evoked emotion from me.

I was aware that her husband also blogged, and many of her readers enjoyed reading both halves of that marriage. That was never my thing, so I never even looked at his page. Being a voyeur into someone's life is bad enough, but seeing two sides of the story sort of felt like being a peeping tom outside their bedroom window; that was taking it too far for me. In addition, I never really read any of the comments her readers left. That also seemed a little prying - regardless of the fact that it's out there for the world to see. What was the point? You don't respond to a comment on someone else's blog anyway.

Anyway, I've noticed particularly over the last few months that there would be posts, nasty comments, and then the post would be removed, and a new post up, referring to the old one that was removed, and addressing the nasty comments, and the ability to leave comments was removed. There's a lot of gossip online about this woman's blog, for some reason, with people slamming her and judging her all over the place. I'm not here to be disrespectful of her or have a bashfest, I'm just writing this because this situation is something I've been thinking about for the blogging community as a whole.

Basically, this woman puts every intimate detail of her life out for the world to read. Some of it is very sensitive and personal in nature. Then, her husband also posts about these events (supposedly - i've never witnessed it, as i said). Then she wants to get upset when people make negative comments about something she's done or said. And she gets all reactionary. And more drama ensues.

I'm sure Crystal's is not the only blog where this happens. But what I came to realize this week is that I really have a problem trusting her now. When you post something and it's relates a horrific story, and then people react badly to it, and you delete the entry, and then say it never happened and blame it all on hallucinations and whatnot, why should I believe any of what you've written? How do I know you don't post about delusions all the time? Or how do I know that you don't just make this stuff up? You know what they say: there is no such thing as bad publicity.

This last post that was sort of the camel and the straw thing was about a dog. Something very bad went down between Hubs and Crystal, and there was a negative consequence for the dog. Then, there are new posts saying that it was all in her imagination - part of a drug-induced hallucination - and that nothing really happened to the dog. I'm not judging whether or not it's true, but what repelled me at this point is the fact that she would post it at all. I can understand full disclosure but, I mean, come on. Then to say it was all untrue? I felt like she was jacking with my emotions and that didn't feel good.

I guess my main point here is that I just don't feel like I should waste my time reading a blog that seems contrived, fabricated, or insincere. I'm not saying that Crystal isn't a good person because, honestly, regardless of the years I've been reading, I don't truly know her. What I am saying is that I find it hard to watch a trainwreck that seems as if it's largely the conductor's fault. If you lay your entire life out for the world to read, you simply can't get upset with the comments. And if you choose to show the ugly side, you can't just delete it because some people don't agree with it. I mean, what's the purpose of a blog anyway? For me, it's about catharsis and commiserating and entertainment. For others, especially those with ad-intensive blogs, I believe it's about generating income. I'm not about that.

The blogs I follow are largely comedic in nature. I also like some of the more introspective, soulful blogs. Then, I have a few that are a combination of both. There are a few blogs I read that are geared towards a specific interest I have. My favorites, by far, are the personal blogs, though. I want a peek into personal lives so I can say either, "Wow. At least I'm not as fucked up as THAT guy!" or perhaps, "Thank GOD. I thought I was the only one who felt this way about ___." I don't want to feel cheated, lied to, strung along, or as if the blogger is pandering to their readers. Writing to an audience is one thing; writing FOR the audience is another.

Anyway, I guess I'm just disappointed. I don't like drama - even when it's of my own creation - and I don't read blogs to get all stressed out or agitated. That's what began to happen when I'd log on to that blog and see a rebuttal post - especially when the original one had been removed and I had no idea what the uproar was about. I just can't do it anymore. So, I'm sorry, "B, I, & DP," but I'm afraid I just can't read you anymore. It's not you - it's me. Well, maybe a little of both of us.

Identity Crisis

In this portion of Stillie's diary, she's going to make fun of yet another student and, most probably, real adult regular people too. She's going to talk smack about others in an attempt to make herself feel better about her life. Let's see if it works!

There was this kid put out of the classroom next to me today, and I almost tripped over my feet because I was staring at him, trying to figure out what the HELL was going on with this kid.

Let me first say that I am so sick of these thug-ass pieces of shit sagging skinny jeans and wearing studded belts with Jordans and an Ecko Unlimited t-shirt. But this...this was weird.

Let's go over this one, top to bottom.

For starters, this douche-in-training was sporting a fauxhawk, just like this guy's. Just look at his smugness.

I absolutely hate this atrocity of the scalp. I don't give a shit how hot you are or how many promises of a big dick you make, there is no amount of words that can right the wrong of a fauxhawk. I mean, really. Are you hardcore, or not? If you use any kind of wax in your hair to push your hair up into a nipple, then no...you are most certainly NOT.

Even I had the balls to SHAVE my head into a mohawk. For Christ's sake...they're men! I'm not. GRAB A RAZOR. Let me guess...you also like My Chemical Romance and Good Charlotte and get all your 'underground gear' at Hot Topic, right?! *gags*

Next in line on the slow descent downhill, we come across a classic Affliction t-shirt. This is almost as bad as seeing some fat-ass drunk driving around in his 1996 Chevy Silverado with a "Tap-Out" sticker on the back window. What I really want to know is how this Title I, Free & Reduced Lunch kid decided that buying a $50 t-shirt was a good use of what was probably my tax dollars anyway, considering most of them are on welfare.

Yeah, your Affliction is bad judgment and shitty fashion sense and an even worse nose for value...

So, now he's a double-douche because of the fauxhawk and UFC-endorsed, overpriced tee. What else can we see here?

Seeing as how we're in the ghetto, there is NO WAY we could get away without him throwing his little gang-banger spin on this. The workpant of choice for all the non-working Cholos in the 'hood: sagging Dickies!

Black or tan ONLY, otherwise you just look like a UPS driver...

If I could have that split-screen thing like they did on...what was it...Sesame Street? "One of these things is not like the other...one of these things just isn't the same..." or whatever the fuck...that's what I'd do here. Because in the realm of douchiness, Dickies don't factor in. Unless, I guess, you're a Cholo Douche. The worst part: I actually liked Dickies, until I saw what our little gangstas did to them

And, to round off the Identity Crisis Fashion Show, we have the FOOTWEAR CATEGORY!

 

 And yes, I actually liked these too. Oops. Another thing ruined by the shitasses at my school. Along with, like, every NAME I've ever wanted for a child of my own - or even a DOG.

Yes. Uber-Preppy Ralph Lauren Polo duck boots. Nothing says octagon fighting like a pair of Ralph Lauren boots! You'll look good at your arraignment for running a train on a Chola who wanted to be sexed in when you're sporting your Polo duck boots!

I should probably stop while I'm behind. I'm sure I'm offending someone, somewhere, and they're getting all ruffled because some totally anonymous woman on the Internet with a blog that only 3 people read said something derogatory about Hot Topic. Or Good Charlotte. Or Cholos.

Today, when I left work, there was a white guy walking down the street wearing tan Dickies, sagging, of course, with a wifebeater on, walking a bulldog on a chain and carrying a fucking live chicken in the other arm. Your guess is as good as mine, as it was truly a chicken and not a rooster. You can't really cockfight with a chicken.

I have quite a bit more stupidity from my job today, but I just don't have the energy to post it. I don't really want to relive it, seeing as how it was so painful the first time around...

Why I'm Going to Be Toofless

(Holy crap - I have another new follower! I'm up to 2 now! Thank you ladies, both of you, for the validation! Because, like, I'm pathetic in that way.)

Yesterday, I tried out a new dentist. I haven't seen one since the week before I got married. I know, I know, that's not only disgusting, but pretty fucking sad, all at the same time. But, y'all know my financial situation, and until now, there was just no way.

Well, apparently, I still am not going to get clean teeth.

The office looked way too modern and expensive but, like a fool, I thought: "Well, they take my insurance, so how expensive can it be? My co-pay's the same no matter which office I use." Ha, ha, you silly little fool!

X-rays were taken, tongue studs and 15-bajillion tiny hoop earrings were removed. Toofes were poked at by long-handled pokey things. Many grunts and "mmmm-hmmm"s were heard by hygienist. I got to see my whole effing mouth in panorama on a Dell flat-screen above my head in the faux-suede chair.

And then, I got an estimate for the cleaning.

It was over $1300. For MY out-of-pocket costs. The cleaning itself was only about $20 for each row of teeth which, somehow, they factored out at 4.

So, where does the rest come in, you ask? Well, that would have to be the $300 per 'row of teeth' they charge for some cockamamie laser bacteria reduction bullshit. Now, I don't know about you, but I know that all the years I've ever had my teeth cleaned, if I had waited a little bit too long and needed a deep cleaning and the dentist was worried about bacteria, he would write me a script for antibiotics about a week ahead of the procedure. Then, *BAM*, no illness. Besides, I'm already living with that shit in my mouth now, and they suck most of it out when they scrape it off! So, seriously. WTF?

When they gave that to me, I literally laughed out loud, told them there was no way in Hell that this estimate was do-able for me and that it was time for me to leave. They told me to wait, that they have financial experts available to help me make some decisions.

Okay. Fine. Send in the hot dentist so he can figure out what the fuck else is wrong with me, mmm-kay?

So Hot Dentist comes in (love the v-neck scrubs with nakedness underneath, btw), and pokes around some more and informs me that I have two old fillings from adolescence that need to be replaced, and I have two new cavities that need to be filled. Whoo-hoo! So you're, like, what? Going to want one full ovary? Can do. Trust me.

Well, they come back with another estimate, this time adding in the 4 filling information. Guess how much extra THAT added on?

Only $224. Yep. You read that right. A regular cleaning was going to set me back the same amount as if I were going to buy a clean-condition 1991 Geo Storm wagon with high mileage, but the FILLINGS are only going to cost me as much I would save with only 30K miles on said Geo Storm?

So, what they were telling me was that I needed somewhere around $1600 to get my teeth worked on. They also made this into an emergency status type deal where my teeth would likely fall out in the next 48 hours if I didn't cut them a check right that very moment.

At this point, I was beyond tears and starting to get angry. They sensed my volatility and sent in the relief pitcher, a very calming woman with a low voice and a habit of calling me "luv," which is, like, THE most annoying thing on God's green Earth. But still, she made it nearly impossible for me to chop her head off with my sharp, pokey words.

Instead, I plainly told her that if they weren't going to do just the cleaning, without the fancy "lasers," (hee!) then I wasn't going to have them do any work on me at all. I also mentioned that I knew damned well they didn't need my business, but that I would be plenty happy to talk smack about this dentist's office  in SUGAR LAND, TEXAS any time I got a chance, since they were being ridiculously inflexible and refusing to do what the patient wanted, even though millions of offices do it across the country. I guaran-fucking-tee my mom doesn't pay $1300 for her fucking cleanings, and her dentist is awesome. And I know she doesn't let them stick lasers in her mouth.

Here's the part that really pisses me off: I went to a very expensive, private university. I went to that very expensive, private university with this dentist's daughter, Heather. We were in education classes together. I liked her. She was as cute as a bug, smart, funny and, obviously, had nice teeth. I know NOW why the Daddy Dentist (not to be confused with Hot Dentist!) had no problem with his precious darling becoming a scummy old teacher with a pittance of an allowance as a salary: because he's too busy lasering people's gums for fun and profit. He'll always be there to bail her out of financial distress.

Of course, with Heather being as awesome as she is, she probably won a full-ride scholarship to my university, and probably married some fantastic, insanely gorgeous man with equally as gorgeous teeth who makes just oodles and oodles of money and she'd never HAVE to work a day in her life because they're rich, but she does it anyway because she just truly loves kids and helping people. Don't perfect women like that just make you sick?! LOL!

After my near-reaming of the relief pitcher finance lady, I left with my "goodie bag," (are you fucking kidding me?) with toothpaste, floss, and a toothbrush. They were probably saying, "Good luck, bitch...you'll need this shit if you want any hope or prayer at all! LOL!" And I went home. And cried the whole way there.

I called The Boy as soon as I got in the car. He was already at home. When I tried to tell him what had happened, he was short and snippy and wouldn't let me finish my sentences because he kept asking questions that would have been answered if he would just shut the fuck up. But he didn't, and I ended up hanging up on him in a rage.

And called Scott instead.

Oh, like you didn't know.

But it's okay. I've decided he's probably the one I'll end up with. See, he's from deep East Texas, so he's totally used to hot, young people with no teeth. And banjos. And cousins who also double as spouses. So I guess it can't be true love with us, since we're not related, but at least I know he won't cringe at the sight of my inflamed, toothless gums. Yee-haw.

Like Tonight

The clink of the bottle as I slid it back into the sixer case indicated what I had been afraid of: we were out of beer. So he pulled over at the next convenience store and bought another six pack of our lifeblood. If it hadn't been for Shiner Bock, I'm sure we would have starved to death.

He got back in and off we went, into the hazy darkness. I was sitting in the bitch seat and his arm was around me. I looked over at Scott. His face was illuminated by the blue lights on the dash and I could see him squinting just a tad bit to make out the faded yellow lines of the road through the fog. We were headed to the beach, and it was just after midnight.

We drove south from Galveston, down the Blue Water Highway to 18-Mile Beach, almost to Christmas Bay. There was one last turn-off before the toll bridge, but you really had to know it was there. The unmarked road showed itself at the very last possible moment and we had to swing wide to make it, sand kicked up by the truck's tires as we fishtailed a bit.

The headlights played off the fog and the sand, causing the road to have a heavenly aura that seemed to undulate with the wind that swirled between the dunes. Fiddler crabs scattered wildly, dashing sideways left and right, some waving that one gigantic claw in the air.

And then, it seemed like we hit the edge of the world. In a sense, I suppose, we had. The closer we got to the exact line where ocean meets beach, we could begin to make out whitecaps and waves licking the edge of our little stretch of paradise. The sand became flatter, darker, and we turned right as we emerged from the dunes and drove south down the beach.

"How far down do you want to go?" he asked me.

"I don't care. About halfway between the access road and the end of the beach, I guess." I considered the amount of traffic we'd be likely to encounter, which would be next to nothing. It was a weeknight, it was late, and there were no other vehicles or tents on the beach. It was deserted.

"Okay. Then I'll go down here a ways and back up to the water."

The time passed slowly, the dunes creeping by on my right, everything pretty much looking the same to my left: dark. The headlights painted an eerie scene on the landscape as we went along the coast. And, finally, we found our favorite place: a secluded area far away from the last house on the island. We'd been here before.

I yanked off my shoes and immediately threw open the passenger door and jumped out of the truck. The air was a bit colder than I was expecting and I let out a yelp of surprise. It was also significantly more humid than further inland, where we got into the truck, and I knew my hair was beginning to frizz up in way that would rival Gilda Radner's 'do.

The best thing about Galveston Island sand is its texture. It's fine, and ground up into tiny, tiny pieces. When it's wet, it's smooth and hard. When it's dry, it's delicate, airy, and usually lightly-packed. The worst thing about Galveston Island sand (well, okay, the TWO worst things) is that it gets everywhere you can imagine, and, since vehicles are allowed to drive on almost all of our beaches, most of the shells are crushed up. Which also means many of them are merely broken, leaving pointy, sharp, and dangerous shards all over the beach for an unsuspecting, amorous girl to step on in the complete blackness of night.

But, I was lucky this time, because it didn't happen. I did, however, pull down the carefully-pinstriped tailgate of the truck, climb up into the bed, reach through the rear window and grab the old, faded comforter I'd yanked out of the closet as I ran out to meet him. I spread it as best I could, which is a mammoth task when you're fighting the wind, and sat down facing the ocean.

Scott came around the driver's side of the truck with the beer in one hand and his jacket in the other. He handed me the beer over the fender and walked around, vaulting himself up into the truckbed. He sat down beside me and we fell back in unison, faces turned towards the sky. And that's when I noticed it: the moon.

It was a light lemon yellow, full, and dangerously close to the horizon. It's bluish-white glow cast shadows where we could not have noticed until our eyes adjusted to the darkness. The stars were twinkly and bright, obscured only slightly by the low-hanging fog that was steady moving across the beach. I turned my head to face his, and was taken aback all over again by his handsome appearance. His profile was perfect in every way to suit my tastes. Instinctively, he reached over and put his hand on my thigh, turned his head, and opened his eyes.

"It's beautiful out here. Are you cold? I brought my jacket," he offered.

"I'm not cold. I'm perfectly fine." With that, I leaned in to him and gave him a long, deep kiss, as if to punctuate my last statement. And then, I did it again.

"You're getting me hard," he warned, as if that was something that wasn't supposed to happen.

"Good," I breathed, my voice almost a velvet whisper.

"We can't do that here. What if somebody drives by?"

"Who cares? Let them watch. Maybe they shouldn't be looking!"

The look on his face showed me he was considering my proposition. I knew he wasn't going to stop me when I pulled up my shirt, and I was right. He eyed my body hungrily as I began shedding my clothes. But, since he just sat there, he left it up to me to strip him down as well.

It wasn't particularly long, and the truth is that the ridges in the bed of the truck really didn't do much for my spine, but it was passionate and spontaneous and slightly risky; all the makings of a beloved memory. We laid there, hugged up together, cocooned in the comforter. Scott leaned over, burying his nose in my hair. He took a deep whiff and sighed.

"I love you," he whispered. "I love you so much. I want to feel this way forever."

"Me too," I whispered back. My reply may have been lost in the wind.

It would have been idyllic to lay there and fall asleep in each other's arms, naked and tangled in each other, but that wasn't what happened. The mosquitoes were stalking us, the beach patrol or beach people could have come up on us at any moment, so we put our clothes back on.

It was picture-perfect. We walked up and down the beach, hand in hand, beers in our free hands. We chased each other back to the truck for a refill, sat on the tailgate and made plans for the future. I thought life couldn't get any better than that.

Eventually, we drove back to town, went into my house and went to sleep, and tried to enjoy the 3 hours of sleep we got before we had to be at work.