Try as I might I can’t stay away from the call of the blank page and I need as many formats as I can get, apparently, so I can:

And there’s just something so un-Wordpress about Tumblr.

In true calamity fashion, I’ve just completed a seven page paper for tomorrow night’s class. Don’t let it seem like I might even be ahead of myself. That shit would wait for tomorrow afternoon if I didn’t have to work. Just pending some printing drama and the absence of every stapler in the world, I’m exactly where I always find myself twenty-four hours before a paper or project of any magnitude is due.

I caught myself thinking it really wouldn’t matter so much if I got a C or a D in my Cultural Anthropology class, so I long as I collected another three units toward the 5482482148239712 remaining.

In two days we end the five month stay in the smallest room of my parents’ house and unload our storage unit into a sparkly new condo. To summarize what it’s been like living with seven others plus two Jack Russells, two cats, a turtle and a Beta fish, I’ll keep it light:

…in all honesty, the Beta totally didn’t deserve that.

-CJ

Except that I almost wasn’t.

The class was full, they’re always fucking full, and I had to show up on the first day and beg to be let in. By beg, I mean show up knowing I was seventh on the waitlist and hope that exactly that many enrolled students didn’t show on the first day. Myself and about a dozen other hopefuls lined the wall in the classroom, eventually taking a seat on the hard floor. For over an hour we listened to this teacher that we might not see again. When he got into the attendance around the hour and a half mark, our eyes and ears perked. Only five students had missed that first day and were immediately replaced. But two people ahead of me on the wait list didn’t show up either and there it was. I was the final person allowed in the class and I could attend school for another semester.

One week down and I am absolutely fascinated with the subject.

Yesterday after work I hit the campus library to take advantage of the late hours and the available textbook for my class while I wait for mine in the mail. Though I’m not really, I feel a lot older than the other students there. Like I’m playing a part in a role I have no business being in. It’s hard to shake.

At the end of class on that first night, excited to have made the cut and even more excited to head home for the night, I was stopped by a girl looking to borrow a cell phone. For a second, I could only consider what a lot of untrusting people might consider, which was that she would run off with it. I handed it over anyway and got into a sprint position, fully prepared to chase her down and tackle her if necessary. She dialed a few numbers with no response and was looking a little more than worried. She told me she had no ride home. As it turned out she lived closer to my house than probably any other student on campus. I am not quite local to the school and the people in my area would probably attend a different, closer college over this one. Is it weird that I had no second thoughts about letting the little stranger into my car but almost wouldn’t let her touch my phone? We got to talking and introducing ourselves on the long drive back. She was barely older than I was when I was pregnant with Kiddo (see: YOUNG) and she was freshly knocked up as well. She grew up in the same area that I did and attended the same schools that I had.

IT WAS LITTLE ME.

It’s possible that I didn’t even drive her home, just dreamt about a meeting with my former self for the purpose of giving inspirational advice. Which, of course, I didn’t offer. It was the usual foul-mouthed blather on my part. One should expect nothing more and nothing less. And this explains why I am the way I am.

-CJ

I declared my weight loss goal to the world three people listening and then I did not make it. Shocked, you are? The move completely uprooted my routine and I shouldn’t have allowed it to happen but I did. The stress and sadness and relief plus good dose of blood, sweat & tears that comes with a move from the city you’ve adjusted to after three years back to your hometown took precedence over the evening workouts and inspired more than a few not-so-healthy but oh-so-quick-and-delicious meals. I checked last night and found that I put back on two pounds, which is most definitely better than putting it all back on which I was pretty sure had happened. My brain does not allow for much hope. Ditto: optimism.

Josh and I picked up some gym passes at the nearby big name workout spot. It’s been about a week and we’ve logged a few sweaty hours. For now, and this may quickly pass, it seems like time flies at the gym. (It is note worthy that my brother pronounces it ‘the guy-m’ and that is how I find myself saying it as I type.) I was pushing for twenty minute workouts and then twenty-two and then twenty-seven, up to thirty when I would work out at home. I don’t know why they went up in those intervals, just roll with it. At the gym, an hour flies by so quickly, I almost don’t want to get off the treadmill because I’m so close to figuring out the puzzle on Wheel of Fortune. (The TV options are pretty dismal at the gym. I stick to podcasts until I see BEFORE & AFTER on the screen. It’s the best category.)

I recently upgraded from a fat little Verizon phone to my very first smart phone, courtesy of Ree, who will always have the latest of the greatest in phone technology. I must say that this thing is beyond smart. It is brilliant. I am so, so in love. (Before I even had a period on that sentence the thing froze in the middle of a text to my sister.) Okay, it’s not perfect but neither am I. And this little first generation Droid accepts me for who I am and doesn’t judge my application choices. What do I need to know about fun and useful apps? I found some snazzy photo ones that I like so far and I’m obsessed with Words With Friends. Which debuted on Facebook and inspired some word-happy dance moves all up in the living room. I got Calamity Mom playing too and posted this message on her wall:

‘Wall’ is a really stupid word for that space. May I suggest: table top.

-CJ

The other day on my lunch break I was performing one of many awful, awful tasks that come with moving (returning my internet modem and various other part and pieces to Time Warner) I walked into an ongoing spat between a righteous customer and an employee who’d simply had more than enough. By the time I arrived they had escalated to a point of no return; the customer service gal going all street on this woman and the woman going all everything-is-your-geedee-fault on the gal. As I quietly (so as to continue eavesdropping) and politely (like a normal human) spoke to someone and signed off on my delivery, a very old woman walked up to my other side and started immediately berating another girl behind the counter. Her bill had INCREASED! AGAIN! And it was JUST RIDICULOUS! She tossed the offending bill across the counter, shaking her head.

It would be a very rare occurrence that the person in customer service had anything to do with what is pissing off one customer so badly. They are doing their job to collect their paycheck, must like the rest of us. They are not laughing manically behind your back and fucking with your account for giggles. Acting like a helpless victim with a horrible attitude is so far beyond acceptable, those irrationals deserve to have their bill increased or service shut off or whatever it is that got them all irate. We are a society above taking out our pain on the wait staff. They are human beings. Mistakes occur. So it goes.

It was really hard to watch and I do not for one second miss working in retail.

Do you know that Farmer’s Insurance jingle? We are Farmers. Bum buh bum bum bum bum! It makes want to stab things, people, myself through the cornea. Maybe because it has interrupted my happy time ska loop on Pandora ten too many times this afternoon. Maybe because it has a brain-grating tone and is slightly infuriating in its simple non-advertising. You tell me nothing with bum-buh-bums!

OH MY GOD ANOTHER COMMERICIAL OF THEIRS JUST CAME ON

It’s the weekend. Calamity OUT.

It’s all for the better. To get caught up and to get ahead. We were rocking the hand-me-down chic with pride for a while but it’s high time we bought ourselves some furnishings we love and are proud of. I was mentally and emotionally finished with 2B and wished it a good riddance on the last drive out of the alley. Though on that drive, I did tell Kiddo, “I’m kind of sad.” She offered with a heavy sigh, “I’m sad I don’t have any food.”

Some pretty kickass anecdotes to living at home again are hanging with the fam and enjoying my mom and dad’s cooking. They’re a damn fine bunch of people and I’m pretty thrilled to be related to them. I’ve missed my hometown so much. There’s already been a hefty poker tournament in the backyard, many a lap swam in their pool, a jog around the quarter mile track up the street and a hike at a local park. (I am not above squealing over a cotton-tailed bunny or seven, turns out.) All of my DVDs are packed and my TV requires a variety of boxes and/or cables to work. I don’t have the patience for that so I borrow a lot of their movies and read more than I used to, which is a huge perk in itself. Face down in a good read is when I’m most at peace, mostly because everything and everyone around me seizes to exist. I could get behind this whole no television lifestyle, though I do miss all my Showtime stories.

Last week, I made the final payment on a loan that has been hanging over my head for five or six years. There is so much relief in that statement. It’s gone. Over with. DONE-ZO. This calls for a celebration, yes?

-CJ

The late afternoon/early evening workouts (*flex*) require late afternoon/early evening showers, so I’m good and clean come morning time. I’ve even devised a hair situation that involves some mousse and some bobby pins, and la-dee-da, we have morning time waves that are a half-step above hipster bedhead. The morning routine really only needs to involve clothing, teeth brushing and deoderizing. When I’m feeling nice, I’ll get Kiddo on the move while her dad takes a forty-seven minute shower. 

This morning I didn’t drag my body from the blankets and the direct aim of the fan* until 6:55 am. I am a half-step under hipster bedhead, needless to say.

*I just love sleeping under the big zebra blanket but July hardly allows that to be comfortable. Having the fan blow all night keeps temperatures good and balanced. 

There was much to be celebrated this weekend. My sister’s sixteenth birthday was on Friday and my gift to her was tickets to a Dodger game, attended by five of us girls. Saturday was the day of the Hootenanny, which I’d been waiting for with wet hot anticipation since about here:

Sunday was for the celebrating of my most bestest friend’s birthday at her house, involving a Taco Guy, music, good people and many, many drinks. And the holiday that brought on this whole weekend-plus-one-day was done right at our friends’ house where there was more music, good people and many, many drinks PLUS a band and a ton of fireworks going up in every direction.

There is more to be said about all of these things. In due time.

-CJ

My pain tolerance is pretty admirable, considering the quantity of needles I’ve had pushed in and out of me and the sensitive skin surfaces I’ve had adorned with ink.

The worst of the worst was ten or eleven years ago when I had my rook pierced by an impatient jerk. (This is not mine.) The stiff cartilage and the shape of the fold made the process difficult for everyone and I couldn’t clench my jaw hard enough as it was happening. I didn’t expect it to hurt that bad and I wouldn’t do it ever again.

The second worst of the worst was when I took my septum piercing out for upward of six months and decided I wanted to put it back. (Also not mine.) I am unable to maneuver almost all jewelry, most especially any sort of piercing jewelry that is not for my earlobes. I went down to the nice piercing specialist man that I’ve seen a few times now and asked that he do it for me. It was supposed to be simple but see, and this should be common knowledge though it totally eluded me, the hole will shrink when not occupied by a piece of jewelry. I had thought it would slip right back in, having worn the piercing consistently for a year or so. NOT SO MUCH. NOT SO MUCH AT ALL, TURNS OUT. He had to stretch the hole back open to accommodate the jewelry. Put simply, it felt like the front of my face had exploded and then was lit on fire. (I used to wear six gauges in my ears and getting to that point never, ever hurt this bad.) I went straight to a nearby dive bar and ordered something stiff to soothe my aching existence. I told someone an hour or so later that it still felt like someone was holding a lighter directly up to the skin.

In conclusion, we understand that both the rook piercing and the stretching of skin after a piercing has shrunk hurts really, really bad, yes? Any questions?

On Saturday afternoon, I didn’t know that my plan was to combine both horrors.

My dumbass finally got around to putting back in my ear piercings since my surgery last March. (The rook and one near the top of my ear, close against my head.) I met with a different, though equally nice piercing specialist and gave him my hoops. He inserted a taper into my rook without warning and I started losing my shit. Writhing and grinding and squinting through the immense pain. He asked that I hold still and insisted he knew how horrible it felt but I was “doing great” and the like. (I was doing the opposite of great. An infant would have been more tolerable than me.) Because I had worn this earring for so long, I thought it would slip back in. WRONG AGAIN. At my breaking point, something I’ve never had before, I told him I had lost my nerve and to forget it. He explained that the taper was in place, he would just need to insert the jewelry, easy-peesy, and we’re through here. I took a deep breath which he accepted as a green light and in it went. When he confirmed it was done and said it was time to check out the other hole, I said quickly, “Ya know, I never even liked that piercing anyway. Let’s call it a day.”

I still feel like the left side of my head partially exploded. I take Ibuprofen every few hours and put ice delicately against it but it only offers relief for a short period of time.

Thus, booze.

I will never learn.

-CJ

Ashley: For our domestically inclined souls? HELLLLS yes.

CJ: Toootally. I knew you’d understand. All this Lohan nonsense and I’m all, YES PLZ.

Ashley: WE COULD CLEAN ALL THE THINGS

I skipped a Reese’s today, okay?

Some major indicators of what makes this SRS BUZNIS: I’ve given up beer and switched to clear liquors (Bacardi, vodka) without sugary mixers (substituting soda water or 100% juices). I’m getting out of bed at 5:20 a.m. 2-3 times a week to log an extra fifteen sweaty minutes on the treadmill. The only acceptable daytime snacks are little fiber bars or whole wheat crackers with no bullshit (ie awesome toppings) and the only acceptable nighttime snacks are non-existent. I’m cutting back on juices and upping my water, Crystal Light and Gatorade intake, being that I drink fluids all day, every day. Our dinners are centered around chicken and vegetables or brown rice. (Now accepting meal ideas!)

I’m tellin’ you, mang. It’s for realsies serious. And I welcome ideas and suggestions for the sedentary-by-day, active-by-evening lifestyle I’ve got going to burn off even more. If I hit my goal, everyone gets a prize!

Spoiler: the prize will be my never shutting up about it

-CJ

Friday was nice, when my boss allowed us all to duck out early. I was super selfish and came home for my workout before I picked up my kid from school. I know, to hell with me. I actually doubled that workout in anticipation of All The Beer. We had some vague plan shapes that frothed over into nothing when Josh went out to finish the dragon tattoo on his arm. I hung out at home with kid, did some shopping, did some cleaning. A young gentleman got in line behind me at the grocery store with a case of beer. I told him to cut in front and he asked if I was sure. “Come on, you’re obviously going somewhere fun and I’m *sweeping gesture over the cart of lunch foods and dinner ingredients* going home.”

The thing about being home sort of alone on a Friday night is how fucking awesome it’s become. I am thrilled for those wide open weekends with few to no commitments so I be loungey and cleaney and do everything I want according to my watch.

My watch is set like that of most other Pacific time zone dwellers, so I guess I do things according to theirs too but you know.

At one point my mom called and asked what we were doing. I told her Kiddo and I were fresh off a “penis and vagina conversation*,” to which she asked what one had to do with the other. “Um… a lot?”
“Really? Penises and pajamas?”
Choke laughs, snorts and tears followed. I told her what I’d actually said, baffled that she hadn’t put it together on her own, and told Kiddo, “Grammy thought we were talking about penises and pajamas. Haha, go wipe your pajama!”
“No, YOU wipe your pajama, Mom!”

Totally had to be there. Mom got it right when she said, “Yours is the only eight-year-old that would laugh at that.”

*It’s high time she had an educated conversation about those, IMO.

Halfway through a cheap bottle of red and several Chelsea Lately episodes down, Josh came home, showered off the Bactine smell and showed me his new, raw goods. He has had the outline of a “paper cut” style dragon in need of shading on his forearm, which I fawned over and accidentally touched a few dozen times.

Then I touched his bathrobe, over his chest, and he flinched. He opened the robe to reveal a freshly shaved patch of chest with my name BLAZED across in large, fancy letters.

“Oh, you’re not fucking around, huh?”
“Nope.”

This is translated roughly to: “Oh, you’re very serious about us, huh?”
“I am.”

There’s some history here: In October of 2002, eight months after we’d met, he came home to his pregnant, sleeping girlfriend to reveal a small, printed “Jill” on his chest, with a small x dotting the ‘i.’ A few months after Kiddo was born, I took on a scripty little “Josh” on my right hip. Over the years, his little chest piece faded and faded. I asked him to get it touched up but it never happened. Queue epic breakup of 2007, after which I spent thirteen hours (in three sessions) under a needle to get a huge, colorful dragon down my ribcage to my hip, covering his name completely. HA, I scoffed. And then last summer, we got back together. He still had my name, despite having dated others in our down time. If I mentioned touching it up, he gave me that look that says, “Bitch, please. You erased me.”

A (super-cropped) glimpse of the top portion of my cover-up:

Needless to say I did not expect this huge, bold proclamation in place of his tiny, faded one. I’m still shocked when I see him shirtless. It makes me giddy.

Saturday was the day for All The Beer. My neighbor rolled his BBQ downstairs to our common courtyard/front lawnish type area and grilled up some burgers, brats and dogs. We had a number of folding chairs out under an awning filled with friendly faces. Perched next to me was my blue ice chest filled with frosty Coronas, which I sipped on for a solid seven or eight hours, in between dipping chips and smoking cigars. On every rare occasion we get this group together, we say, “Why don’t we do this more often?!” There’s no right answer. It was a really good night that even included some new faces, though I’ve forgotten the names attached to them.

At (my) of the night (11ish) (some others didn’t head home until dawn) came a text message from my friend Oscar, inviting me to a one o’clock Dodger game the next day, which I happily agreed to. Once I was jersey’d and ready that next morning, I found out we were on the FIELD. The tickets retail around $120 each and could have sold for over $200, surely. They were incredible seats, which we toasted to over and over. They were a last minute gift from a rep at our work who I will seek out and hug. I drunk-Tweet’d from said incredible seats.

There are so few things better than perfect weather at your favorite team’s stadium, cold beers and good company. When my plastic cup emptied, I spied a new one in the next cup holder. “A fresh one?!” I asked Oscar. And he said, which will stick forever, “The beer fairy came.”

The girl I’d overheard turned out to be this hilarious, super baked young girl that we laughed with as well as at for about seven innings after we’d shook hands and declared ourselves friends. That’s one of my favorite things anymore; those single serving friends you meet when you let your guard down and stop thinking the world believes you to be a freak.

And today: Kiddo went off to swim with a girlfriend and Josh and I were blessed with a sudden three hour window for an afternoon date. We loaded up on gummy type candies and hit the movie theater for Hangover 2. If you find the first one to be epically hilarious, and you should, this one is worth seeing. It’s not up to the same caliber as the first, though not much is. It is very, very funny though.

Now I’m slow-cooking some chicken and looking forward to some serious ice cream eating in bed with my freshly inked and wonderfully sexy lovah.

-CJ