Cruising on a Saturday

My teenage Drama Queen’s first semester of high school was officially over Thursday and the students had a day off on Friday. With that in mind, I arranged to meet my friend Steve at his son’s apartment a block from the beach in Seal Beach for a bike ride.
As I read what I just wrote I realize that sounds vaguely homosexual and I want to assure you he’s not that kind of friend. I have gay friends. Steve’s not one of them. As usual, I digress. Allow me to begin again.

Saturday morning my daughter and I loaded our beach cruisers onto the back of my car and headed to Seal Beach to meet my friend Steve and ride around the beach. To be clear, I did all the loading. She just stood there.
It takes 1 hour 15 minutes to get from home to downtown Seal and as soon as I started the car DQ began yammering. “Did you know on Monday we start reading the Odyssey in English?” She asked. “Uh,” I replied. “Yeah. Who told you that you were starting it and who suggested you get a copy for your Kindle so you can begin reading?” She had no answer to the question which was odd considering we had the Odyssey conversation less than 18 hours prior.
After reminding her it was I who suggested she get the book, my daughter began to ask detailed questions about Homer and his Odyssey. I explained that I hadn’t read the book in years but My Muse loves the book so she should point any questions that direction. She then started asking questions about Greek gods and I once again explained that she should discuss this with My Muse because the only thing that I know about Greek gods is that Aphrodite is supposed to be the hot one.
I’m pretty sure you can see where this is heading, right? For the next seven minutes I swear to God she asked me thirty different questions about the book and the gods and I only had two responses for her. It was either, “I don’t remember anything about Greek gods. Ask My Muse.” Or, “I don’t remember the book. Ask My Muse,” Actually, the last Greek god one started with, “Seriously?” And the last book one began, “Holy crap!
We were three blocks from our destination when she finally stopped yammering and I was enjoying the quiet. As we approached a stop sign on Main St. I noted that we were the fourth car back. And that we had a cop in front of us. Suddenly, dude throws on his lights and barrels around the two stopped cars and through the intersection.
“Damn,” I said to my daughter. “Somebody must have really messed up.” At the same moment I saw the car screech into a parking spot directly in front of Nick’s Deli. The only parking spot within a half block of Nick’s, I might add. Then they casually walked in to the deli, presumably to pick up breakfast burritos. Is the siren used for dinner only or do they have to be traveling further than 500 feet before they use it?
I would say I’m surprised the cops did it, but My cousin grew up in Seal Beach and frankly it would take a lot to surprise me with the Seal Beach Police. This is the same force that in the spring of 1984 sent a police dog after three of his friends who were toilet papering my uncle's house.
They were hiding in the bushes three houses down and the officer knew where they were, but this lunatic had just gotten the dog and wanted to try him out. After they arrested his friends and took them to the police station (seriously) the cop pulled my cousin’s car in front of a fire hydrant and gave him a ticket. Nice, huh? If I remember the story right, that officer was later dismissed from the force for something crappy. What a shock.
Once we got to Shawn’s (Steve’s son), we unloaded the bikes and headed down Ocean towards First. We passed beach front house after beach front house and as I glanced at the ocean and blue sky between the houses, I vowed that I would try to get out and do this a couple times a week. I also vowed that I would do it when DQ was in school so that I could keep my sanity.
Why do I bring up my sanity? My daughter isn’t “uncoordinated” but it’s safe to say she could use a little more. She’s never had much desire to ride a bike until this past summer and she’s not overly steady on it.
My brother got her a cruiser for her birthday in April and she loves it. She and I have been out together a few times, but she has this tendency to not ride straight and it scares the crap out of me. Just before we ended the ride this morning I pulled to the side because I’d gotten slightly ahead of my daughter. I turned to look just in time to see my angel (only riding about 2 MPH) ride straight into the back of a parked Infiniti. Not the corner of the car but dead center of the back end.
In her defense, it was black and one could make the argument it was hard to see. Who am I kidding? There’s no defense for hitting a parked car when you have a whole street to ride on. I apologize for even trying to spin that in a positive manner.
After an hour of cruising through the streets of downtown Seal Beach we stopped for a donut and coffee before biking to the pier to take a couple of pictures. For some reason I don’t have a lot of pictures of the two of us together and I have none of the slimmed down me (15 pounds in three months) and my daughter.
There’s a grassy area next to the pier and we stopped there to take a couple shots. Drama Queen got off her bike and I turned towards the beach to look for a good spot to stand. Suddenly I heard a smack and quickly spun around. Seeing my daughter with her hands cupped closed, I ask what happened.
“I caught a butterfly,” she proudly said. “No,” I thought. “You killed a butterfly.” As you can see from the picture, the butterfly was unharmed and stayed in her open hand for almost 30 seconds.

I totally needed this bike ride and I’m going to make it a priority to get out on a regular basis. I think I’ll hit Bolsa Chica or the Huntington Cliffs next weekend so I can ride with a prime view of the ocean and chill while I exercise. I think I’ll even put together a Beach Cruisin playlist for my iPhone. That way I can stick in my earbuds and listen to some tuneage as I ride.
I’m thinking Sublime, Katrina and the Waves, Blink 182, Oingo Boingo, The Smiths, Harvey Danger, Red Hot Chili Peppers and anything else that was played on KROQ since 1980. Any suggestions?

If I were lesbian

…she’s nerdy hot. Me likey.





Sunday night at 9:01 I was NOT sitting on the couch watching Family Guy. Instead I was sitting on my bed, eating Almonds and watching videos for Music Monday on Benjamin's Blogs. I was also texting The Muse.
She asked if my friends and I ever had the “If I were gay” conversation. I told her that guys don’t have that conversation, they have the “If I were lesbian” talk. That got me to thinking. I really had nothing better to write about, so why not take this idea and expound on it…

If I were lesbian…
I was in downtown Los Angeles one Sunday morning several years ago. I was heading to Roscoe’s House of Chicken n Waffles for some breakfast. Yes. I eat fried chicken and waffles for breakfast. Dinner too. It’s the shit, but not the subject of this post.
As I approached the restaurant I realized it was Pride Parade morning. Roscoe’s was jammed and as I waited, I noticed a mannish girl wearing a t-shirt which said “I (heart) Vagina.” She walked past me and I pointed to her shirt and said, “Hey! Me too.” The look she gave me told me she wasn’t impressed. Oops.
I like boobs, but I also like a nice ass. The boobs don’t have to be huge, but they should be nice. And they should be a reasonable match. There’s nothing worse than the right one being much smaller than the left. Or vice versa.
Yeah…If I were a lesbian I would definitely be more lipstick then butch. I’d have a little edge about me (like Jo from Facts of Life)., but I would look all sexy and shit (like Mallory from Family Ties).
If I were a lesbian I’m not sure what color hair I would have. Being a blond would be too cliche, so I guess I would want to be a tall, sexy redhead with big cans. I would prefer them to be natural, but I wouldn’t be above shopping for a nice pair.
I was thinking about what type of chick I could realistically score if I was a lesbian. Since I don’t plan on being an ugly lesbian (but then again, who plans for that, right?) I think I would attract a pretty decent sort of woman. I would like one who is smart, cute and can fix shit around the house. I’m not good at the whole home improvement thing.
I’ve compiled a short list of: Chicks I Would Bang If I Were Lesbian. I’m going to start in the 80′s because that’s likely when I would have come out.

Both sisters from Too Close For Comfort. But not the mom.
Suzanne Somers from Threes Company. The other blond chick who replaced her too. The tall, dumb one.
Heather Locklear. T.J. Hooker. Melrose Place. Posters. Motley Crue. Take your pick of where you know her from. She’s delish. I once gave her friend my underwear when we were all at the Hard Rock in Beverly Hills. Totally true story.
Katey Sagal. Peg Bundy from Married With Children. One afternoon with me and she would forget all about Al. I wouldn’t do Marcie though. That dude looks kinda rough.
Christina Applegate. Peg Bundy’s daughter from Married With Children. This is as close as I would ever get to pulling a mother-daughter train, so I’m going for it!
Jenny McCarthy. She’s been in Playboy, is funny and farts. She is mmmm mmmm good!
Carmen Elektra. Watching those babies bounce on Baywatch was awesome. She’s a bit of a mess, but very, very do-able.
Marisa Tomei. Do I even need to explain? Seriously?
Liz Phair. Singer. For some stupid reason I thought she used to be in Veruca Salt. Portia di Rossi of Arrested Development. She’s already lesbian, so I don’t have to convince her to switch teams. Cool.
Mary Louise Parker. She’s the pot dealing mom from Weeds. If you’ve seen the show, you totally know she would consider a woman.
Tina Fey. Whether on Saturday Night Live or 30 Rock, she’s nerdy hot. Me likey.
Most of the girls Charlie Sheen is banging. I have a feeling nearly all of them would.

This list in in no way complete. Please let me know who I left off or who you would like to be with if you were a lesbian. I don’t really think it matters whether I was lesbian or I was straight; all I want is a woman who makes me happy. That would be some cool shit.

Damn I love this place

Damn I love Chipotle's, a photo by benjamin_valadez on Flickr.

It takes more than great tasting food to make a terrific meal. It takes an awesome location and eating with fun...

A teenage life lesson

I need to go find a way to accomplish that. Somehow.

Yes. That’s me in 1983. I’m not sure where to start mocking myself. Is it the hair? The glasses? Maybe the fact that I was 5 ft 5" 160 pounds and chubby? Just don’t mock the suit and tie. If you do, we’re gonna have a situation.




Tomorrow my daughter is supposed to play her violin at Disneyland. But she’s not. Let me explain….
Drama Queen’s high school orchestra was invited to play at Disneyland and when I found out about this a couple months ago, I was very excited. So was she. But not anymore. Why? Daddy pulled the plug on the Happiest Place on Earth. Why did I pull the plug? School.
Before Christmas break I sat down with my daughter (a senior) and her mom to discuss her grades. She’s doing really well in most subjects, but is having some difficulty in English and Biology. Both classes are easy fixes and it’s really just a matter of putting in the right amount of effort, but she apparently didn’t want to go bad bad enough. Because of that, last night I told her I was pulling her from the all day trip to Disneyland.
I’m bummed that I had to do it, but I don’t have second thoughts. I know I did the right thing. She needs to learn that everything has a price. Of sorts. Anything good in life costs something and it’s not always about dollars and cents. The stuff that really matters is paid for with something far more precious than the almighty buck. It’s paid for with effort, commitment and desire.
I see a lot of my high school self in my daughter and quite frankly it scares the crap out of me. I didn’t like high school much because I felt like I never fit in. I was the preppy dude rockin the argyle like a mo-fo, but I didn’t fit in. I’m kinda pimp now, but I wasn’t like that in the 80′s. Really.
I felt socially awkward in high school and was made fun of. A lot. I know the guys who made fun of me are complete tools, but somehow that didn’t help much at the time. I had no self esteem and I was so sick of hearing the word “potential” that I do my best not to use it on my daughter.
My high school years were filled with getting blown off by people and listening to my classmates tell stories about the awesome parties they went to and the fun things they did as a group. I rarely dated because I was sure the girls would say no. I never experienced a swirly or got stuffed in a trash can, so I have that going for me. Through the magic of reconnecting with a lot of my former classmates I found out that had I only asked, a lot of the girls would have gone out with me. That’s info I needed 29 years ago. Oh well.
Don’t think I was a friendless loser, because that’s not the case. I mean, I felt like a huge loser, but I had some great friends. I don’t talk with them as often as I should, but I still consider them to be friends and I’m fairly sure they consider me one.
I want Drama Queen to enjoy her high school years and to have more fun than I did. I’m not saying I want her to be one of the ‘popular kids”, because I don’t. I’ve never pushed my daughter to be popular or the best at anything. All I ask her for is effort. That’s it. I just want her to be able to relax, enjoy these years, get good grades, and get better at tennis so she can get a scholarship and save me a few bucks.
I really took notice of Drama Queen’s stress last week and it started bringing back a ton of memories. Most of those memories sucked and I remembered the stress and worry I constantly felt in my teen years. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I’ve lived more than 30 of my 47 years carrying a ton of stress and that way of life is getting passed to Her Majesty. I don’t want that for her or for me.
I’ve been making a conscious effort to try and relax more. I
tend to
constantly worry about stuff I have no control over and I know it’s not healthy and that I should stop, but for some reason, I don’t. At night I can’t get my brain to slow down or shut off and it kills me to think that my daughter may be doing the same thing. I need to stop this not only for my health, but to make sure my daughter has a long, happy life.
I told Drama Queen that missing a full day at Disneyland so she could stay at school is a “Life Lesson” and she understood. I asked her how many people (relative to the entire population of the world) get to perform at Disneyland even once and she said, “Not many.” My daughter took it well and didn’t argue with me. She completely understands that the reason she’s not going is all on her and that I gave her every opportunity to go. For that I’m both happy and proud.
Now I’m faced with a dilemma. I’ve spent several years trying to deal with my stress and to find a way to relax and I haven’t been successful. Now I have to figure out how to take my daughter, whom I love a lot, and help guide her towards the path of a happy, stress free, worry free life. I don’t suppose Mapquest can get me there, can it? I didn’t think so.
I guess I’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way and figure it out for myself. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go come up with a plan to accomplish that. Somehow.

Somewhere Over The Rainbow

And the dreams that you dreamed of
Once in a lullaby
Israel “IZ” Kamakawiwo’ole
(Hawaiian pronunciation: [ka-maka-iwo'ole]






If someone told me I would be quoting lyrics from the High Holy Diva of homosexual men (Judy Garland) I would say you’re sm0king crack AND sniffing glue. Yet here I am, quoting song lyrics from the Wizard of freakin Oz. Weird.
For the record I don’t advocate the use of either crack or inhalants. Whether alone or together. Crack is wack. Say no to drugs, yo. This is a tale of perservernce, stress, parenting and other assorted stuff. It should make you laugh and it might make you weepy. OK, maybe not “weepy” but it’s a look inside my world and right now my world is kinda sad.
First let me give you a little background on this song. It was done back in 1993 by a dude named Israel “IZ” Kamakawiwo’ole. Who is he? Here’s the Readers Digest version. If you want to know his full story, wiki it.
IZ is the most popular Hawaiian musician. Ever. He kicked Don Ho’s ass years ago and at his biggest (pun intended) he weighed 757 pounds. That’s not a joke. IZ stood six-foot-two and weighed 757. In 1993 he recorded this version of Somewhere Over The Rainbow and around 2004 or 2005 it was released as a mainstream song.
IZ died in 1997 at age 38 and 10,000 attended his funeral while thousands more were at a service to dump his ashes into the Pacific. There’s a shot of it in the video. He’s also only the third person ever (and only non-politician) to have their body lay in state at the Capitol building in Hawaii. That’s a pretty bitchin honor, bro. Nicely done.
I implore you to watch the video at the end of this. It’s just a big dude with a rad voice and a ukelele, but it features some beautiful scenery and it’s something you need to hear at least once in your life. That’s enough about IZ. On with the blog post.
Where trouble melts like lemon drops
High above the chimney tops that’s where you’ll find me
There are times I feel like I’m over the rainbow, as in ready for a straight jacket. The reality is that I wish I could figure out how to make my troubles melt like lemon drops, but I can’t seem to figure it out. It often seems like I’m seriously losing my mind, though I’m
fairly
confident that I’m not.
I’m adjusting to changes in lifestyle due an ongoing illness and it’s frustrating at times. By “at times” I mean most of the time. I’m not in a wheelchair or anything, but I have to plan my day so I don’t get burnt out. That’s easier said than done.
For example, Saturday night I learned (the hard way) that when I’m around fireworks I need to put on my headphones and play some music because the booming sounds are not pleasant for me. But enough about that.
I’m stressing and worrying about things I have no control over and I try to let go of it, but for some reason I can’t. On the rare occasions I do relax, it’s short lived because I start thinking about these things I have no control over and it worries me, which stresses me out. I keep telling my brain to chill, but it likes to screw with me and does its own thing.
Lately I’ve started accepting invitations to events I know will likely not be great for me, but I go anyway. Why do I go? Easy. I don’t want to completely hole up and become a social douche. Plus I need to figure out a way to enjoy myself without paying a huge price and if you don’t try, you don’t know. Ya know?
I know that this will sound both ignorant and insane, but it’s the straight up truth. My lack of confidence is feeding this fear of both success and failure. I really believe that I often subconsciously sabotage myself because I’m afraid of succeeding, even though I very much want to be successful.
At the same time, I’m deathly afraid of failure. Why? Hell if I know. If I could figure it out, I wouldn’t be afraid of it. Trust me.
Here’s how my personal Circle of Life works. I’m afraid of failing, so I don’t try to do things that I should try. When I don’t try, that satisfies my fear of success, but like any nasty beast, my fear of success needs more nourishment, so I continue to not do things because I’m afraid of failing or looking like an idiot.
Add the inherent stress of parenting my hormonal teenage Drama Queen to the equation and you can begin to see why I feel very alone and discouraged. My Muse keeps trying to get me out of this funk, but her arms aren’t long enough to bitch slap me on the West Coast from the East Coast. Still, I appreciate her trying and I publicly apologize for being a whiny douche and for heeding about 2% of the advice she throws down. Maybe 3%. Definitely low single digits.
Thank you to everyone who is still reading. Most sane people left at some point before this and I want you to know I appreciate your sticking with me. I listen to this song and it reminds me that I need to let my troubles melt away and that I can’t change a lot of what’s happening in my life, so I need to roll with it. I’m ready to be happy for a while.
The video was recently released and watching it reminds me that it doesn’t matter what the package looks like on the outside, it’s what you have on the inside that counts. If a 757 pound guy can belt out songs like this, then I’m pretty sure a dude with a weird sense of humor, skewed view on life and a flaming cane can accomplish something pretty decent with his writing.
Note that I said, “pretty sure” and not “sure”. Why not completely sure? Self doubt. As I begin taking regular trips over the rainbow I’m sure I will feel better. I cannot believe I just typed that. Remind me to find a better way to say it. The phrase “As I begin taking regular trips over the rainbow I’m sure I will feel better” sounds wrong on so many levels and I offer my most sincere apologies for having uttered it.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to look for that lemon drop place so I can chill a while. Daddy needs a time out.

                                                                

P.S. If you read this regularly, you’ve probably noticed I haven’t written much this past month. I’ve been out looking for that damn rainbow. I’m pretty sure I’m close, so please stick with me. If you’re new, hook a brother up and subscribe?

The Muse on Valentine’s Day

  Go ahead, make everyday Valentine’s Day.


A couple weeks ago I was chatting with The Muse and she (out of the blue) mentioned her feelings on Valentines Day. I paused for a moment to make sure I heard what I thought I heard and asked her to repeat herself. I heard her right the first time. I was intrigued by her viewpoint and asked her to write a guest post for me. Here it is. The Muse’s views on Valentine’s Day. Enjoy.

Valentine’s Day- Is it a real holiday? I think not. Over the years, the notion of spending a ton of money one day every year in the order to shower your significant other with love has been blown completely out of proportion. Personally, I put a boycott on the so-called holiday years ago. I mean, why should some card company and ridiculously overpriced flower shop tell me when I should tell my significant other I love them?
If they aren’t bad enough, the commercials for jewelry stores are so sickeningly sweet they should come with a warning beforehand stating “Caution: May induce vomiting”. One in particular strikes me as completely moronic.
Two lovers in a cabin, watching a storm out the window at night. Lightning strikes and she leaps into his arms like she just spotted Michael Myers standing on the other side of the glass. But! Don’t fear frightened Princess! This diamond ring will make the lightning go away! Seriously??
We are losing sight here, people! If you love someone and it’s Tuesday, July 7th, don’t be afraid to buy them a card, write them a love letter, or give them flowers for no reason other than you love them. You shouldn’t feel obligated to purchase overpriced roses for the woman/man you love simply because it is mid-February.
If you are truly in love with someone, don’t you think about little ways you can express that love every day? A good morning kiss, a call during the day just to say hello. I would much prefer a small daily reminder of the fact that someone loves me. What I don’t want is someone to feel obligated to buy me flowers or a heart-shaped pendent because some marketing machine told them that was what is expected of them.
They say diamonds are forever and, well, they sure as Hell better be for as much as they cost! But, and here’s where you’ll probably thinking “This woman is out of her freaking mind!” I tend to boycott diamonds as well as odd holidays. But, it’s for good reason. Most diamonds are from South Africa and it is extremely hard to prove how the diamond was obtained from the mines and from whom.
There are so many corrupt “businessmen” who hire young men and children to go out into the mines, enslave them, even kill them over the tiniest gem. It isn’t worth it. I don’t want to look down at my hand and think “I wonder if some child lost his life so I could wear this?”
Needless to say, I don’t ever expect anyone to go all out for me on Valentine’s Day. What I DO want is, if you love me, show me. Everyday. The little notions of love are so wonderful, especially when they are completely from the heart and not from the wallet. A quick call to ask how my day is or a text that says “I Miss You”, would be enough. Wouldn’t you feel amazing every single day if someone just gave a couple of minutes to make sure you know they care?
So, this Valentine’s Day, I urge you to give this gift to the one you love…it doesn’t cost a thing: Tell them how much you love them, how your life has improved with them in it, how you would not want to go another day without making sure they know how you really feel. Then, vow to yourself that you will take a couple of moments everyday to show them you love them. Make them feel good, loved, and appreciated, and I’m quite sure they will return the gesture. Go ahead, make everyday Valentine’s Day.
Now, if you don’t mind, will you please pass me a few of those Conversation Hearts? Those things are addictive!
Muse

The internet is spooky

So there I was minding my own business in the middle of the night browsing the web looking for reviews of novels that I could download for Breana’s new Kindle. I looked under crime and found some really neat-o books. I browsed around for a bit and looked under mystery and found another couple that I thought she might like and proceeded to purchase them. I looked around a bit more from this site that is associated with the Kindle and bought a couple of more items from this site. What happened next really freaked me out. I don’t know how they do it but whatever email marketing software geniuses they have are well worth their money. I started getting emails and Twitter followers from sites and users that knew nothing of me until I placed those orders.

This whole thing is so spooky. What’s next? I am going to be in the kitchen one night looking up some recipes to coordinate some sort of semblance of a wonderful dinner and someone is going to email me about something pertaining to what I am currently looking at. If I go to a online conversion chart to see how many tablespoons are in a quart they will probably email me the link or current special where I could buy the exact product to figure that out with. I don’t know about how everyone else feels but that is way too scary.

Tuna helper and other white trash food

If you wash it down with cigarettes and generic vodka, it’s white trash food.





I have great friends. I tend to get some great inspiration from The Muse, but from time to time, my inspiration comes from elsewhere. Like this post.
My friend Liz inspired this post with her stories of shake & bake and tuna helper. I texted that for a girl who went to a fancy college, she was eating pretty white trash.
She went on to inform me that every year for her birthday, hubby gets her a cake made out of Twinkies. A Twinkie cake is definitely white trash! With this knowledge front and center in my mind (and with nothing better to blog about) I quickly turned this convo into a blog post.
I started thinking about what other foods were white trash and I assembled a short list in my head. Next, I texted The Muse to get some of her thoughts. She had a few good ideas too, but something seemed to be missing. So I turned to my great Twitter friends for some suggestions and clarification of a few items.
My point? This was kind of a group effort and I want to give credit where credit is due. I give a hearty *chest bump* to all of you, but to some more than others… *wink* When you’re done with the list, let me know what I forgot and throw your two cents in on what I did list.

White Trash Food

Sonora dogs–A.K.A. the bacon wrapped hot dog. I’m going to get this one out of the way, because frankly I don’t give a crap how white trash this is. I love them! I’m not sure if I first had these in Tijuana or if it was from a cart outside a Lakers or Kings game, but who the hell cares. I know my last three.
One was Saturday afternoon. I got a craving and I fired up the cast iron skillet.
Pork rinds–I’m not sure I really need to elaborate on this one. I’m totally confident, if you asked 100 people to list 10 white trash foods, that 100 out of 100 would have pork rinds on the list. Not a doubt in my mind.
Corned beef hash out of can–On St. Patty’s Day I made corned beef and on Saturday I made corned beef hash for breakfast. I’ve made it many times, but I still went to the Food Network website to see if there was a cool recipe. I looked at almost a dozen and none included the words, “can” or “can opener”. I don’t think I need to say any more on the subject.
Spam–This one has long intrigued me because Spam is huge in Hawaii and Hawaiians aren’t white trash. I’m sad to admit that one night, several years ago, I sat in my backyard in Redlands, CA and pondered what Spam really is and why someone created this crap in the first place. In case you were concerned about the fact I was talking to myself about Spam, you can relax. My friend Jack Daniels was keeping me company that night.
Cheese in a can–Cheese was not meant to be squirted directly into the mouth. That shit is just wrong.
Nachos in the microwave–Nachos were meant to be cooked in an oven. Or a toaster oven. If you put cheese on chips then throw them in the microwave, you’re following a white trash recipe. You may not be doing it consciously, but you definitely have some white trash tendencies.
Casserole–This one isn’t as cut and dry as you might think. My initial feeling was that any casserole should be considered white trash, but a Twitter friend said she feels there has to be cream of something soup in there in order to be called white trash. She makes a good point.
Another Twitter friend explained that casseroles aren’t white trash, but rather are retro and hip. Yet another said they have to include potato chips in order to be considered white trash. I never knew that a simple casserole could spark such strong debate. I’m going to err on the side of caution and go ahead and call the casserole “White Trash”. Sorry mom.
Fried bologna–Some people will tell you that it tastes like hot dogs, but it doesn’t. Nor does it taste like chicken. It tastes like fried bologna. To me, fried bologna tastes much like I imagine ass to taste.
Tater salad–Potato salad is OK, but if you call it tater salad, you’re eating white trash food. The same with smashed taters. Mashed potatoes are perfectly acceptable in high society, while smashed taters are to be eaten in the double wide.
Keystone beer–It’s the official beer of Keith Stone and Keith Stone is white trash.
Sunny Delight–To be fair, it’s only white trash when you call it “orange juice”. It’s also white trash if you mix it with vodka. I don’t care if you call it Sunny-D and vodka. If you put vodka in it, it automatically crosses the border. It passes go and collects the $200. If, however, you recognize it for what it really is–citrus flavored sugar–it’s perfectly acceptable to drink, and in fact, I would love a glass. Do you have any rum?

For dessert, anything with Nilla Wafers and Cool Whip automatically qualifies. A Jello mold with fruit inside also gets an automatic berth on the list. I think these two are definitely white trash staple. I’m pretty sure when mama sends papa to the A & P, he sees this:
Nilla Wafers (the cheap ones)
Cool Whip
Jello (lime)
canned fruit cocktail

As I was working on this post, I noticed a few other things. There are no fresh fruits or veggies in white trash food. In fact, the more it has been processed, the white trashier it is. I also noticed that a lot of white trash food is meant to be eaten with condiments such as ketchup, mustard mayo and store brand salsa. That’s probably because most white trash food tastes shitty.
Some things are meant to be deep fried, like chicken, potatoes or onions. If you fry anything out of the ordinary, go ahead and consider it to be white trash. What do I mean by “out of the ordinary”? Things like pickles, mayonnaise, Oreos, pizza, corn or spaghetti and meatballs on a stick, are all items that only white trash will fry. Just because you have hot oil, doesn’t mean you have to use it. Remember that.
The bottom line is, it doesn’t matter what you eat. If you wash it down with cigarettes and generic vodka, it’s white trash food.

Benjamin



P.S. I always want to give credit where credit is due. Monday evening Liz texted me the “Washing it down with a cigarette” line. I added the generic vodka part. Thanks Liz!!!

Chair guy had a girlfriend?

That’s a shitty move bro.

I’m driving home from work on Wednesday and clicked on my favorite radio show, Shredd and Ragan on 103.3. A few minutes after I turned them on, they started discussing someone they called Chair Guy. You know who I’m talking about, right?
If you don’t, the short version is that in a small Ohio town, very, very near to West Virginia (I mean, like spitting distance), lived a man who literally did not get up from his chair in two years. I’m not kidding. He did everything in that chair. Yeah…Everything.
He wasn’t alone in the house. His girlfriend and a roommate lived there as well. How the fuck does someone live with a guy who for the last two years has crapped his pants and pissed himself every time he had to relieve himself?
I wanna know something about the girlfriend. Did she perform her “girlfriend-ly duties”? If so, that chick is a special kind of white trash!
Anyway…this week the two roommates found him unconscious and called paramedics. When they arrived they found his skin “welded to the chair with his own urine and feces.” I’ll pause for a moment while you try to get that image out of your head….
They had to cut him out of the chair and they had to cut a hole in the wall because he was too big to fit through the door. They took him to the hospital and the state told the roommates they had to clean the apartment thoroughly or get the hell out!!! A state inspector said he goes to the house daily to monitor the process.
WTF is up with the girlfriend and the roommate? How could they live there in the stench and the filth and the squalor? I mean, we all know the roommate was bangin the girlfriend, right? C’mon, it’s pretty obvious Chair Guy isn’t getting any. Yeah, she’s a special kind of white trash, but there had to be a point where she just said, “I can’t baby. Sorry.”
Those two should be put in jail for subjecting Chair Guy to this prolonged agony he must have been in. It’s pretty obvious that this guy hasn’t been mentally capable for a very long time, and these two were morally, if not legally, obligated to call authorities after a few days of this. This shit went on (pun intended) for TWO YEARS!!!
How sad is it, that after I heard the story, the first thing to cross my mind was, “No shit? Chair guy has a girlfriend?” I mean, how the fuck did this guy get a girlfriend, when perfectly mobile men with proper bathroom etiquette, can’t find someone? Seriously. That guy has game.
Actually, it’s more proper to say Chair Guy HAD game. He passed away Wednesday; just three days after being removed from his chair. If the roomies can’t be prosecuted legally, we should at least be allowed to kick ‘em in the junk. Anytime. Anywhere. Can I get an Amen?
I’ve already determined that she’s a special kind of white trash, but the dude is too. Not only for the living conditions, but for nailin his roommates girlfriend the past couple of years. That’s a shitty move bro.
As I close this tale, I would ask that before you click to another fabulous post on my blog, that you observe a moment of silence as we ponder in our heads, just what those living conditions were like, [shudder]

R.I.P Chair Guy.

The Muse

Inspiration is cool.

I learned a few things in 2011. One of those things is that when I write about girls I’ve dated, am dating or even flirting with, people will either love it or hate it. There seems to be no middle ground.
I’m either The Woomaster or I’m the dude with the shitty mustache. You know the one. The guy in the old black and white flicks who would tie a chick up and put her on the train track. Yeah. Either I’m sweet and cute or I’m that dick.
That’s neither here nor there. That’s because this post isn’t about that. This post is about someone who inspires my writing and inspires me to be a better person. She’s my muse and she’s very off the hook.
I can’t remember when we cyber-met, but it revolved around something meaningless and trivial. We chatted a bit, traded a couple of funny stories and I got hit with an idea for a blog post.
I have no idea where she pulled the idea from, but she steered our conversation towards a new topic by saying, “I wonder if…” She said those three words and straight into a topic I had been thinking about for the blog, but wasn’t quite sure how to present it. When she started asking questions, I knew she had just given me the perfect way to go.
I told her this and she texted, “Thanks…(with a little blushed face next to it).” I was so inspired by this idea, that I sat down and banged out the blog post right away. It was really cool that we seemed to connect on a creative level.
There was no flirting, nor was there any real pressure for any. We continued to discuss our lives, what was happening on Twitter or what either of us was writing about. It was friendly and fun. I continued to get ideas for different things to write about for my different projects and it became a nice friendship.
The Muse knew I was going to be alone for the holidays this year and she made a point to check in a few times on Christmas Eve to see what was going on and she was the first person I had any interaction with on Christmas morning. Once again, the contact was initiated by her.
We chatted over the next few days and I noticed more than once how comfortable I felt talking with her about things and how much we seemed to have in common. I mentioned that she was turning into quite the muse.
She thanked me and I told her, “If you look half as good as Selma Hayek in Dogma, you’re going to really inspire someone very soon.” Throughout this friendship, I had no idea what she looked like.
She responded by sending me a picture and holy crap was she cute. I suddenly felt inspired in a slightly different fashion. Hell. Yeah.
Two days later I wrote a post and in it I explained that I was in the shower when I had the idea for the post. I hopped out of the shower to jot down the idea on paper and as I climbed back in, I grabbed my iPhone to tell her what the idea was. I threw her a couple names and asked if she had any suggestions for other related subject matter.
She replied, “Sadly no. You naked and wet is all I think about.” I laughed at her remark and returned to the shower. I tried to forget the comment, but somehow it had replaced the previous thought and it wouldn’t go away. I didn’t particularly want it to go away.
I was hearing her voice say it. In several different whispers. And with the inflection being delivered at different points. And with her eyes, uh, forget it….Back to the story.
I was thinking about her as I finished my shower, and I texted her again after I dried off. She answered my question of, “Really???” With, “Not all I think about.” But she had thought of it. Well, she inferred that she thought about it. Good enough for me.
The past 10 days or so, I’ve been very low key. My Dr told me I need to cut way down on stress and drama, so I did. I pulled away from several people because I needed to not feel so stressed and connected over things happening in their lives. It’s not that I don’t care, it’s that I have to chill.
I bring that up, because The Muse is the first person who noticed the unplugging and she checked in to see if anything was wrong. I mentioned to her what the doctor said, and she told me that I did need to relax. She’d noticed it too. She texted from time to time over the week or so before the shower comment, and I was always happy that she did.
Since the shower conversation, we’ve become a little flirtier with each other. Nothing crazy. Just playful and fun. As it should be.
I asked her if she felt she was picturing me realistically and she said she was. I asked because I wanted to know if I had lost my 30 20 pounds in her version. She giggled and said that I was very attractive with or without that extra weight.
Was I stoked to hear her say that? Duh. What dude doesn’t want a cute girl to say he’s appealing? I do. FYI…she can say that shit anytime.
Right now I’m feeling very relaxed and comfortable. I have a good friend who has the possibility of being something more. Beyond that, I’m gonna keep on having fun and if feelings develop further, I’ll continue to go with the flow and let things proceed as they should. Inspiration is cool.

Benjamin

P.S. Selma Hayek played a muse in the movie Dogma. That’s what the reference was about.

Pizza boobs

 My boobs get me sex, but that’s about it.

Last night I was sitting on my couch eating bacon wrapped hot dogs, jalapeno potato chips and drinking Molson Canadian. It wasn’t a healthy meal, but it was a tasty meal. About halfway through dinner I received a message from my friend, The Muse.
Apparently, she stopped on the way home to pick up a pizza. She innocently leaned on the counter and was making polite conversation with the 20-year-old kid working the register.
I guess he liked what he saw, because when it came time to ring her up, it was half what it should have been. Nice. She was excited and thought she would share the experience with me.
That started me thinking–which can be dangerous. What would my life be like if I had pizza boobs? You know what I mean–boobs that get you discounted pizza and other cool shit.
I’ll be honest with you and say this isn’t the first time I’ve had that thought. I guarantee you that at some point in his life, every guy has thought about it. Several times.
The Kings Fan is one of my closest friends. He and I have known each other since before Drama Queen was conceived. He was in the hospital waiting room the night she was born and he was my goalie for a few championship soccer teams.
He’s as good as it gets when it comes to friends. Except for that one night he led us into a gay bar in Tijuana. We had a lot of good times together. I remember sitting in his garage one night, getting absolutely F’d up. We were laughing at all kinds of stupid shit and all of a sudden he blurts out, “If I had titties, I’d be a big titted porn star.”
As you can well imagine, the conversation regressed from there. I asked him why a big titted porn star? I mean, the answer seemed obvious to me, but I wanted to see if he could come up with the correct reasoning. He then began to tell me that if a girl is hot and she likes to have sex a lot, a career in the adult industry can be lucrative and rewarding.
First, you get to have sex with men and with hot women. It’s a small community that performs in these films and they are all tested regularly, so the chance of contracting HIV is lower. Plus. you get paid a lot of money. He had a few other good points, but it mainly came down to sex and money.
We discussed the various fringe benefits one could get as a woman with big breasts. We listed a few immediately–free drinks, getting out of tickets, getting preferred treatment or services. I don’t know how long we talked about it that night, but we did it again another night a few months later. Oddly enough, in his garage once again. Hmmmm…
Today’s blog post was to be about something entirely different, but once I heard a large rack can get you 50% off your next pizza, I started contemplating this subject again. This time I got some help from some friends on Twitter.
I told them I was looking for things they’ve gotten discounted or for free because of their cleavage. I got a lot of responses. Free drinks was the most popular. One said she got the large pour, premium drinks but was only charged for well drinks.
Another chick said “If you let them touch ‘em, it’s easy to get free stuff.” Uh… Cool. The strangest one came from someone who said she got discounted rent on an apartment she never moved into.
A friend of mine told me she was wearing a tank top and arrived at a toll booth, only to find out she had no money. She flashed the guy and he let her go. I’m sure that’s happened more than once to the average toll collector.
The daughter of one of my closest friends texted me with her reply. She told me that she used to get free t-shirts and stickers at concerts along with the obligatory free drinks for showing your cleavage. She also told me that she once flashed her old boss and the next day she got a raise, to the tune of $1.50 per hour.
The opposite of the free drink comes from another friend who texted me back saying she bartended when she was younger. She would lean over the sink in her low cut shirt while she pumped glasses over the brush.
She said she made “hundreds of dollars a night”. Considering I know her personally and can attest to the, uh, “quality” of the cleavage; I would consider that to be a fair statement.
I found out you don’t need big boobs to get free shit. One woman said she has small boobs, but got her back tattoo done for free because she took off her shirt to have it done.
There were two that really stood out and I want to share them with you. Consider it a gift from me to you. The first one comes from my friend Elle.

Hey Benjamin,

So here’s my cleavage story:

About 2 years ago I was rushing to work and took a shortcut thru some back streets. The streets curves at a pretty weird angle and there is a park right on the side. Right as I was running a stop sign at about 35 mph I spotted a police car parked to the left of me. I knew I was going to get pulled over and I could NOT get another ticket since I had gotten 2 in the last 6 months. I had to think fast so I immediately pulled in the parking and unbuttoned an extra button on top and hiked my skirt up just a bit. I popped the hood of my car & got out just as he was pulling up next to me. He asked me what the problem was. I launched into a drawn out story about “this really scary noise” that my car made and how I was just so anxious to get to work so I could call a mechanic. The whole time I am telling the story I am pretending to look in the hood while bending over just so. I was in a nice blouse, a tight skirt and 5 inch heels. It didn’t take me long to see that he was clearly enjoying the view.

I know that he did not believe a word of what I was saying but he certainly wasn’t making any effort to really question me either. After a few more minutes of back and forth chit chat, he offered to escort me to work to make sure I arrived safely. He followed me all the way to work and even told my boss to make sure I had someone check my car out! My boss totally knew I was BS’ing but he went along with it and then proceeded to give me shit about it for years!

That is so cool. It just proves the point that a nice rack can get a lot of shit handled for you. If you let it. My final story comes from a Twitter friend, who shall remain nameless.

I have always been a fan of pornography. I’m not talking rabid fan that goes to conventions, but rather the type that enjoys movies and goes to strip clubs. I started going to strip clubs with full nudity with my then, fiancé. I was a fan of Barbara Dare because a lot of her female scenes were quite a bit more realistic. I discovered she was going to be performing at Deja Vu in Lansing, Michigan and didn’t have to convince my fiancé to come with me.

The bonus back in the early 1990s was women weren’t charged admission. The rationale, I was told, was to encourage girlfriends or wives to see and feel comfortable in the atmosphere. Also, I think it was to enhance couple’s fantasies so they would return in the future. In my case, the latter was true.

I made sure to wear my fuchsia silk blouse with a black lace bra underneath. My lips stained in red lipstick with a tiny bit of gloss. I wanted to make sure she saw my breasts so I added a tiny touch of body glitter down my cleavage. I left a hint of perfume on my neck without overpowering all of the other dancers that would be there.

Knowing where I was going made me slightly aroused and my cheeks blushed. My heart was racing by the time I hit the club. The atmosphere just oozed sex. The pounding bass of the music, the darkened room, and the beautiful women never failed to make my heart skip a beat. It didn’t hurt that I was exploring my sexuality at the time.

As I settled on a table near the stage, we ordered drinks, and it became apparent that Barbara Dare wasn’t going to give anything away for free. She had t-shirts, posters, magazines, and VHS movies (it was the 90s). If you tipped big, or bought lap dances from strippers, you might be able to get a poster. I was bound and determined to get something as I was the only woman out there, and it was no secret that she preferred women in real life.

By the time Barbara’s second set came around, I had one dancer that seemed very fond of me. Every time I tried to tip her, she wouldn’t take it. She managed to flirt , sit on my lap, and shove her breasts in my face every chance that she got, which drove me sexually insane. With my adrenalin racing, I hastily came up with a plan. As Barbara started to get ready to throw out a t-shirt for free, I unbuttoned my shirt just below my bra, went up to the edge of the stage, and and screamed her name. At that very moment, I felt like a dumb ass, because I knew they could throw me out. I probably looked like a creepy fan, and it didn’t occur to me, that any of the other men sitting around the stage could have copped a feel.

She motioned to me to get closer as one of the men next to me yelled, “Take the bra off!” With my heart pounding, my chest flush red, she leaned over, ran her hand over my breast, smiled, and handed me a t-shirt. I froze. It seemed like it took forever, but the whistles and cheers from the other men around me snapped me back to reality. I hurriedly closed my shirt and returned to my seat, with a high five from my fiancé.

As I buttoned my shirt back up, my favorite dancer came over and said I could meet Barbara personally. She would come get me when it was time. Before I could say no, my fiancé told me I should go.

After Barbara Dare’s last set, she had a VIP meet-and-greet, which I was lucky enough to be a part of. I was shocked at how tiny she was! I got the t-shirt signed, a hug, and it was the last time I used my tits to get something for free. But, it’s a memory, I’ll never forget. (wink)

My blogging friend Melisa sent me a link to a post she did for Weasel Momma. I remember reading it when it happened and it’s way too long to fit in here, but I’m throwing THE LINK to you. Check it out when you’re done here.
I want to hear from you. Use the comment section below and share your stories. Ladies–what have your boobs ever scored you? Dudes–if you had cans, what would you use them for?
Before I go, here’s one of the funniest DM’s I got back on the subject. It came from from friend Kris of Pretty All True. I loved it because it was brutally honest and I appreciated her lack of shame in telling me this:

Seriously?  My boobs get me sex, but that’s about it.

 

P.S. In the midst of the original conversation of the discounted pizza, I asked The Muse what the hell she was wearing to make the kid give her half off. She sent me the picture at the top of the post. “That’s all pizza boy saw,” she texted. She then followed it up with, “Maybe that can be your blog pic. Ha ha ha ha!!!” OK. It is.

Pass it to the left…

No child should have to hear her parent say, “Yo, bring me my bong.”

Last night Drama Queen and I were in the car with my neighbor. We we’re heading towards home around 8:15 when the neighbor suddenly blurted, “Let’s stop at Papa John’s on the way home and get a couple of slices.”
I paused for a second and said, “Uh…OK. I guess if you want to.” There are several great pizza places around Redlands and Papa John’s isn’t one of them. Their pizza sucks. Maybe in another part of the country they would be pretty good, but not around Redlands. There are too many awesome pizza joints for me to waste my time on Papa John’s.
“OK,” she said. “Hey! There’s this place right up the street from here that I’ve been dying to try. Let’s stop there.” I asked if she meant Giovanni’s and she said yes. I’ve never tried it, but have heard good things. I was totally down with stopping there.
They were out of slices for the night, so we decided to order a small pizza and have them throw it in two separate boxes so we could eat at our respective places of residence. We sat down at a table to BS while we waited for the pizza. What I heard at that table absolutely blew my mind.
My neighbor teaches adult education (GED classes) in Fontana and, as you can imagine, she has some pretty interesting students. She told us of a conversation she had this afternoon with one of her students. I know I shouldn’t be shocked by this, but for some reason I kinda am.
This particular student came into the room and my neighbor said, “Hey…how you doing?” The reply is classic. “Better now. I just smoked a blunt in the parking lot.”
Yeah. She said she was doing OK because she just toked up a fattie in the school parking lot. Nice.
The two started conversing about her marijuana use and somehow it came up that not only does she smoke in front of her 11, 13 and 15 year old girls, but she also smokes WITH her 13 and 15 year olds.
Where do I start? How about we start with the 11-year-old. No child should have to hear her parent say, “Yo, bring me my bong. No. Not that one. Bring me the tall one. Yep. Thanks. Got a lighter?”
A lot of parents won’t buy cell phones for their kids until they’re 15, yet this mom rolls blunts with her 13-year-old. I sense a very different parenting style here. Very, very different.
What kind of a Sweet 16 party does a mom like this throw? Maybe at 16 the daughter gets a meth pipe. “Time to graduate, baby.” Mom probably goes so far as to introduce her daughter to Tommy, a local meth dealer who’s giving her the first hit for free. As a birthday gift.
What criteria does she use for determining when her children are ready for their first puff? Do their grades have to slip enough that mom feels they’re well on their way to being a full time slacker or is it strictly an age thing? I’m really not sure.
With a mom like this, there’s no telling how these girls will turn out. There’s a high probability that they will be all kinds of messed up. I hope not. Fingers crossed.
This might be a good time to mention that the students my neighbor teaches are all placed in her class by social services. These people are all receiving public assistance of some kind and since they don’t have a high school diploma, they attend school instead of job hunting.
That means the weed was paid for by the people of California. With our tax dollars. I helped buy that chick and her daughters weed. No one invited me to the party. I wouldn’t attend, but if I helped pay for it, an invite would be nice.
I’m totally shaking my head right now. I can’t believe this is a true story. But it is. Every time I wonder if I’m being a good parent, I hear stories like this that tell me I’m doing OK.



P.S. For the record, the pizza was pretty damn awesome.

$1 pregnancy tests

I just returned from the Dollar Tree store near my house. My neighbor asked if Drama Queen and I wanted to ride with her and I said, “Sure.” Little did I know that I would emerge from the store with this blog post.

I’m all about saving a buck and I’m not ashamed to say I know my way around this particular store. There are some things one should not skimp on, and pregnancy tests fall into that category. I’d like to say that was the only disturbing thing I saw, but it wasn’t.
There are things you cut corners on and things that you don’t. Lotion, cleaning supplies, candles, fake Tupperware and 3-packs of Bible card games are examples of products you can get away with going cheap. Pregnancy tests fall into the, “Spend an extra couple of bucks” category.
On the shelf next the pregnancy test was an Ovulation Predictor. Do you seriously expect me to believe that you can spend a dollar and accurately find out when your chick is going to ovulate? I think I would rather guess and save the buck for the dollar menu at Wendy’s. It;s a crapshoot either way and at least you can get a frosty out of it.
After I saw the first two really bad ideas, I started searching for condoms. I didn’t see any, so I asked the girl working there. She had no clue (duh), and I continued the search on my own. I looked high and low and finally ascertained that they do not sell condoms at Dollar Tree. With that knowledge in hand, I breathed a small sigh of relief.
If they were to ever sell condoms, they should change the wording on the pregnancy test box to say, “If you used our condoms, go ahead and assume you are pregnant.”
As a species where have we gone wrong? Somewhere along the line our society has decided that accurately finding out if you got knocked up should be worth a buck. There is no way to put a price on the miracle of life, but I have to believe that finding out of you’re going to have a baby has to be worth at least $9.99. Am I right?
As I stood in the cluttered aisle I wondered what other bad ideas they were selling here for a dollar. I assumed that the aisle I was currently in would yield the best fruit, so I moved back a bit and carefully scanned the shelves as I worked my way towards the front of the store.
I’m not a chick, but I have a teen age daughter, so I will go out on a limb and say that the concealer and makeup they sell is probably crap. I’m not saying women should start shopping st Sephora or MAC for their cosmetics. I’m sure Walmart has a fine selection at reasonable prices.
I have to believe that the makeup they sell at Dollar Tree is fully-allergenic and not hypo-allergenic. I was disappointed to find that you cannot buy acne cream at Dollar Tree. I’m pretty sure if you use their makeup you will need a bottle of some good zit cream to get rid of your newly hatched mountain range.
They also had a 2-oz tube of Warm Touch Warming Jelly for a buck. I’m not sure what to say about that. I know there’s a joke or funny comment to be made about it, but I’m at a loss for words on this one. Sorry.
I did like the fact that the picture indicates one should keep it on the nightstand next to the clock radio. Totally classy…
Next to the warming jelly was a 30-pack of Lucky Super Soft Intimate Cleansing Wipes. I guess they could be used to clean up different types of spills, one of which could be the warming jelly.
I’m actually OK with this product and if I felt there was to be any intimate contact in my immediate future, I would have picked up a pack of these. But there isn’t. So I didn’t.
Actually, now that I look at the package closer, I realize that the wipes are for women to wipe down their, uh, “business”, presumably before they get down to business. I’m guessing they could be used as both a “before” and an “after” wipe.
Maybe my women readers can educate me on something. How is an “intimate wipe” different from a baby wipe? I know on a baby wipe package you don’t get a silhouette of a naked chick with her legs partially crossed. Is there any difference in the wipe itself? Help me out here ladies.
I’m sure there was plenty of other funky shit for me to find here, but at this point, Drama Queen and my neighbor were ready to roll, so I had to hit the check out line and head home to start writing this.
One final note. If you are pregnant, the test won’t tell you who the Baby Daddy is. You still have to go on Maury to find that shit out.
P.S. The pregnancy tests come 72 in a case and you can order a case on the Dollar Tree website. In case you were wondering

A tale of two years

It’s finally 2012 and for that I’m glad. 2011 was a shitty year for me, but I have big hopes for 2012. Of course, a year ago I said I had big hopes for 2011 and we know how that turned out.
2011 saw my health deteriorate and lots of financial stress, but my teenage Drama Queen and I somehow made it through. I have great friends, both online and off, who have helped keep me sane and I want to make sure they all know how much I love them and appreciate them.
I’m most thankful to my Muse who is as great a chick as I’ve ever been involved with. I know at times I’ve been a dick and a pain in the ass to deal with, but she’s stood by every step of the way. I truly believe that when you find someone willing to put up with your shit that you should keep them around. Even though it’s a struggle living on separate coasts, we’re somehow finding a way to make it work and I’m optimistic that we can continue making it work for a long time.
Six years ago I had an idea for a book, but had zero self confidence in my fiction writing, so I put it aside. I started working on it a dozen different times over the next few years, but never got more than a couple thousand words in when I figured it was shitty and not worth continuing.
Finally in late 2010 I started feeling better about my ability to write fiction courtesy of the Red Dress Club (now Write on Edge). The encouragement I received there gave me the confidence I needed to seriously attack the book in 2011 and I’m happy to say that it’s still not finished. During 2011 I asked a few of my Twitter and blogging friends to look at some of the book to give me feedback. It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but my confidence ebbed and flowed and I wanted some assurance that I was on the right track. Imagine my surprise in October when a friend pointed out that someone put up a WordPress blog called “Benjamin's Shitty Book”.
This person posted three chapters online and talked about what a dick I am for sending the chapters to them and they spent a lot of time mocking me. I have no idea what caused someone to do this. I really don’t. The only explaination I have is that either someone who said they wanted to look at it, didn’t really want to or I accidentally sent it to someone I didn’t ask to read it. Either way, the person can feel free to kiss my ass.
I think my biggest accomplishment in 2011 was somehow getting my daughter ready for Collage. She’s in a good school and doing well academically, which makes me very happy. She made the frosh soph tennis team and has great coaches who work with her and who think she has the ability to make Varsity next year.
Drama Queen has played violin since third grade, but the reality is that she’s a mediocre player. The orchestra at her school is very, very good and D.Q. asked if she could change to Drama at the end of the semester. I’m happy to announce that later this month, my daughter will officially be a drama queen. I’m not sure how that’s going to turn out, but I’m pretty sure it will make for some good blog posts.
I’m still struggling with my health, which has made me kind of a loner, but I’m appreciative to my long time friends for checking on me and keeping me involved. Steve, Crystal, Bone, Shawn, Steph, Victor, Viviana, Josh and Cat are some of the best people I know and I love them all.
I keep telling myself that 2012 will be good and I’m pretty sure that one of these days I will come to believe it. I know I haven’t blogged in more than a week and my posting frequency has been spotty at best, but the truth is that my brain needs a rest.
In the half hour I’ve sat here writing this, I’ve become mentally exhausted, so I’m going to end this here. Steve and Shawn are huge Oregon fans and invited me to watch the Rose Bowl with them, so I’m going to go rest for a bit before donning my Wisconsin shirt and hat. I’m hoping for a Wisconsin ass kicking so I can do the taunting. I hate being the one getting mocked, but sadly I’m kind of used to it.
Thanks for supporting me in 2011 and here’s to big things for all of us in 2012. Word to your mother.