Don't be jealous.

My dad got me an H1N1 vaccine for Christmas.

Holla.

I have to try to remember.

When things or feelings are terrible or blissful or completely mundane, they'll always still be fleeting.

Not exactly proud, but...

Today I Googled "How to make Pot Brownies".

Just a thought.

I think that we're all just oversized children, looking for parents in other people.

Mitch Albom, What the Fuck?

You're a terrible writer. I just read "The Five People You Meet in Heaven". It was a waste of half a day.

I got the book off my mother's bookshelf, but I know for a fact that she didn't give anyone money for it, because she's a smart woman. I'm sure one of her fellow nurses at work was went up to her and said "Michong! I have the most heartfelt, touching, time-wasting and masturbatory pieces of literature ever for you to read!"

I'm angry. Really. I've got friends who genuinely care about writing - and you, Mitch Albom, are the Nickelback of writers.

Leaving

Someday I am going to move to New York City and suss out this Girl-Wild-in-the-City vision until I get it out of my system. I'll dress like a moody art student and start listening to experimental whatever-the-fuck. And I won't talk much, but when I do, it'll be extremely profound and people will chew on that shit for days.

Then, later I'll realize that I'm way too sensitive and realistic to live like this and that leaving home doesn't mean my being has been surgically removed from myself; that geography isn't always inspiration. I'll put on some sensible shoes and a good coat and I'll go back home to Wisconsin where somehow everything will feel warmer to me and I'll hug my mother and father.

Payback

I spent about twenty minutes in front of the mirror today, tugging at my face. It was so depressing. Wrinkles, pores, lines, sags.

One of the things I used to love doing to shamelessly fish for compliments in my early twenties (yes, it seems like ages ago) was ask people how old they thought I was. They'd usually say 19 or 20, and I'd squeal in delight "NO! You're SO wrong! I'm ACTUALLY 24!" And they'd be like "Oh my God, NOT POSSIBLE!" And I'd be like "Oh my God, YES!"

So my time and disappointment in front of the mirror today has got to be some kind of karmic payback for the gluttony of attention years ago. I believe it.

I get so wrapped up in this. I scrutinize and dissect everything wrong with the way I look - hell, girls all do this to each other. And I realize that all we are is a bunch of furniture frames walking around draped with different varieties of slipcovers and it makes me feel like the worrying is really fucking pointless.

Skanks.

Once upon a time, I was 14 years old and living in Paris for the summer. I went to an international school and befriended some Australian twins, Estelle and Stephanie. These girls were 16, pack-a-day smokers, street-smart, and beautiful. They took me under their wing and brought me to flea markets and stores around town and it made me feel incredibly cool. One day, I asked them if I could try a cigarette. Estelle asked me if I was sure. I nodded and they looked at each other and smiled - the feeling to corrupt someone must be disgustingly satisfying - took out a pack of Marlboro Reds, and put one in my mouth. I was completely intent on doing this, and doing it right. We all stopped in the marble arch doorway of their apartment and Stephanie lit my cigarette.

I didn't know how to smoke it. I didn't know how to inhale. So, we went on with our day, walking around Paris. They were intent on teaching me how to do this, so for the entire afternoon, Estelle continuously put a new cigarette in my mouth as soon as the last one would burn down to the butt. Regardless of whether or not I was really smoking, I felt cool. After the seventh or eighth cigarette, I burst into a coughing fit. Estelle and Stephanie's faces lit up. I did it! From then on, I was a smoker... at least, whenever they would bum me one.

A few weeks later, a girl from Detroit named Helen joined our classes at the school. She was a bad girl, from her gelled, slicked back ponytail to her baggy jeans. She smoked cigarettes like Estelle and Stephanie did, and made fun of me when I'd cough. She told me I was dumb for liking No Doubt. Helen and the twins went to bars and discotheques and got drunk. Helen met a boy and lost her virginity in a park. The twins thought that was cool. Helen, Helen, Helen. I was heartbroken. My only friends in this huge city of Paris, and they were taken away from me by a skank.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't think of Estelle and Stephanie when I smoke cigarettes, sometimes. I remember their faces well. Those bitches.

Did someone slip me some ecstasy?

'Cause man oh man, I just wanna hug EVERYONE today!

Teddy said:

"You know what? I'm not even gonna bother asking you about your awkward behavior."

Thank you! It's exhausting sometimes explaining it. :)

So...

So I'm at the library and this girl is complaining to her friend about finals. "I think I'm going to quit school and try out for American Idol", she says.

And all I can think is Daaayyum girrrl. You've got a world of hurt ahead of you.

"If you love me you'll be honest"

Don't say it if you can't do it, too.

Pffft.

One thing I really don't like about my character is that I'll occasionally get really overzealous about/with some thing only to let it fizzle to nothing.

The most recent example would be coconut water.

The last thing was shopping organic. The thing before that was veganism. The thing before that was anything Jason Schwartzman-related. Ugh, don't ask.

Anyway, moderation is a difficult concept for me to grasp. Go big or go home, I guess.

Overlooked, again.

So, someone's taking a stay in the hurt closet for not calling me when they thought Let's find a mediocre-looking, yet cute asian girl to get to kiss Michael Cera and start an adorable indie relationship.

It's funny, I've been asked a few times, "Do you feel very connected with your asian heritage?" The answer: I used to. It was a big part of my life growing up, going to Korean church, having more Korean and half Korean friends. We ate Korean food at home and my mom spoke to us in the language. And it seemed that no one could get over this fact. In Green Bay it was such a big deal - Holy shit, your mom is KOREAN? But this just isn't the case anymore. Compared to my other mixed friends, I don't look quite as asian. I don't really carry on any of the customs. I feel completely guilty for never learning the language. It seems that the older I get, the more I'm just not Korean enough.

I'm pretty sure this is why I wasn't in this movie.

Words from Momma.

"Sometimes it's a good thing to feel lonely"



Still trying to wrap my brain around that one, Mom.

Dr. Feelgood

Sounds like I need to get kinda familiar with this Deepak Chopra guy.

Pet Peeve #952

You're a bartender, not a "Mixologist".

And you're bartending, not "slingin' drinks!"

Anyone who has the balls to use either of these terms is not a real bartender. They're just getting paid to fuck things up. FYI.

Peace

Teddy signed a lease for a new apartment recently, so I've been helping him get set up with all the little things. For instance, it is very important to have a complete spice collection in the kitchen, and I know for a fact that if I weren't there to remind him, he'd never buy Qtips. Or dish soap. Or garbage bags. You get it.

So, it's on the east side, which is a bit of a hike from my place downtown. I could easily bike there if I weren't afraid of my bike being stolen. It's not a bad neighborhood, per se, though there is an adult toy store a block away. It does have covered off-street parking, though! And heat is included! And two bedrooms! And laundry in the building! (Let's focus on positives here to off-set the adult toy store thing.)

Anyway, spending some time there has been good for me. It's unbelievable how living downtown just gets to me sometimes. There's just way too much stimulus and my mental filter malfunctions. And have I ever mentioned that I'm 80% sure that I suffer from Agoraphobia? I just like being at home, being safe, being unbothered. Give me a good book and some knitting and I'm fine. I feel peaceful right now (though I am dreading going in to work tonight).

I think that if I just make sure that I'm giving myself some time to reflect and be alone, I'll be ok.

Overwhelmed

I am in a bad headspace.

This hasn't happened in a long time (thank God) and it doesn't happen very often, but when it does, I think every time Why don't I have a backup plan?! Like, someone reliable to call, a therapist, a hotline. Or I often wonder, if I were on meds, would that keep my moods more stable?

I've got this huge issue with medications. I won't get into it too much, but I'm not happy with the fact that I don't trust doctors and pharmaceutical companies.

Anyway, I get like this and I know that most of my day will be spent crying and sleeping. I briefly freaked out on a good friend - via text, ugh! - and cried, then slept. This is not rare. Also, I have my mechanisms that help me cope. Not eating, for instance, makes me feel prettier. Cleaning my room helps me declutter my brain. Writing out my schedule for the week makes me feel like I'm some kind of efficient, functional, normal human being.

It's just a really rotten feeling, feeling spread so thin.

face

I have bouts where I feel like Anne Sexton.

But I'm really Emily Dickinson.

Vanessa called me today asking about John Popper.

Stephie: hey grrrrl

Vanessa: hi lovie

Stephie: i just got home from worky
did you get my voicemail?

Vanessa: i did

Stephie: john popper is a fat bastard.

Vanessa: hhaaaaaaa

Stephie: he's all bloated from doing cocaine and drinking

Vanessa: grossness

Stephie: and he's not funny but he thinks he is. i hung out with him for like six hours and the dude did not grow on me.

Vanessa: did he try to get in your panties

Stephie: no, we got into an argument before he could try. and he had a dinner plate piled with cocaine in his hotel room. and then he started making out with a homely girl. and i'm like "that's our cue - let's get the eff outta here". and she came into my bar a couple times after and all i could think was "holy shit you're the girl who actually had sex with john popper"

Vanessa: thats a horrific and fantastic story

Stephie: the stuff dreams are made of, vanessa. just a day in the life of stephie p.
yeah, did i ever tell you before how i hung out with him?

Vanessa: you did

Stephie: ok. good.

Vanessa: but i couldnt remember the whole story and blues traveler came up tonight and i needed your contribution

Stephie: yeah you almost have to feel bad for the guy. he's so incredibly socially retarded but he's surrounded by people who cup his balls all the time so he doesn't realize it. c'est la vie.

Vanessa: wow

This is the type of thing one of my best friends and I talk about at 3:30 in the morning (4:30 her time).

I turned 27.

I am not getting any younger and it makes me feel sad.

Social Detox

There are a lot of people in my life who don't need to be. It's time to purify.

This is somewhat of a Birthday Epiphany, if you will.

Self-discovery...

Not drinking for a little while has enlightened me to my long-hidden Type A personality.

I am annoying myself.

This shit is getting exhausting.

I'm home from another glorious night of bartending, and let me tell you... this shit is getting so tiring. The act of pouring drinks is ridiculously unchallenging, but speaking at length with people whom I care nothing about is really sucking my soul dry.

This one guy came in and ordered a pitcher of beer to drink by himself. BY. HIMSELF. He asked me if I wanted to do a shot with him, to which I politely declined. He seemed taken aback, and I explained that there would just be no point to be drinking alcohol on a school night, or consuming alcohol for no other reason than it just being there while I was working. He tried to back-track and said that he rarely ever drinks, and when he does, it's not to a hefty extent. Keep in mind, dude. You have a full fucking pitcher in front of you that you had every intention of finishing by yourself.

Anyway, I'm always looking for new employment. I have to admit, I am very lucky to work where I do. It's a great place. And if I were doing anything else I'd probably feel the same way sometimes.

But still.

Love

You know that feeling you get when you love something so much that you just can't handle it? Like, you kind of want to clench your fists a little and get angry because there's no way you'll ever get to embody or consume this object of love completely. You feel lucky and in awe of it because until you came upon it, there was a void in your life that you never knew existed.

I feel this way about Heart.



I bet those ladies got some serious boy-band ass back then.

It's Friday.

Shit like this makes me impossibly curious as to what it would be like to be a hit internet sensation.

By the way, we won!

Today was the Hoffman Family Badger game. There was a great turn-out of uncles, aunts, and cousins. I gave a record-breaking number of hugs today because I haven't seen a lot of these people in a long time.

One of my uncles went vegan and lost twenty pounds. He says it's the easiest diet he's ever been on because you don't question what you can and can't have. You just know that animal products aren't ok. Then the rest of us went out to an Irish pub and I ate prime rib and had a Bushmill's on the rocks.

I also drank a lot of light beer. But don't let that fool you, friends. I still got as drunk as I would with the regular stuff. But I peed more. And as soon as I could tell that Dad was getting slightly embarrassed by my shwilly ways, I stopped drinking and went home. At nine pm.

Yeah, Mariah!

This song reminds me way too much of my adolescence.

And don't say Mariah isn't rockin' that body, because she is. Go Mimi!

Mariah Carey - New Music - More Music Videos

Love

When I woke up this morning, I turned over and saw this.


Tasha and Cornelius were snuggling. This is, like, Indian in the Cupboard/Night at the Museum-type shit.

I am so happy we have such a loving family.

Dreams

I've been having dreams lately, dreams about my life. Not things that have happened, really, but things that could happen.

Last night I dreamt I was wearing a wedding dress and being walked down an aisle by my father.

I dreamt that I was kneeling down, talking to a little boy, saying "Please do not talk to Mommy like that."

Then after I had a montage of visions in my dreaming, where I was on a number of dates.

What I gather from all this is that I truly wonder if and when I'll ever get to settle down with someone with whom I can have a good relationship and be happy.

When it rains...

So it's been a long time since I've written, I know. I'm sorry. I'm sorry to no one really, though, because I've got no readers. A

Anyway, there's been a ton going on lately. I'm back in school full-time, I moved into a different(and more expensive) apartment, I'm working four nights a week at the bar, my dating life is the most confusing thing ever, and I'm trying to transition into what I'll call a "more responsible lifestyle".

I really ought to dedicate a whole blog to each of the said subjects, they're all quite complex and stressful. But to begin, I'll start with the first on the list.

I'm back in school. My first day of classes was stressful as hell. In one day, I had a panic attack, cried on the phone to first Mom, then Dad, proceeded to yell at Dad, then called him back to apologize for yelling at him. My classes are all difficult and require a lot of work outside of the classroom. My fellow students are all either much younger or much older than me. My books cost a staggering amount (refer to the sentence about crying to Mom and Dad), and when I get through this semester(with decent grades, I hope) I am going to get drunk.

My recent Craigslist post.

Need musicians for a Heart cover band. (Madison, WI)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Date: 2009-08-10, 7:27AM CDT
Reply to: comm-75fv3-1315165429@craigslist.org [Errors when replying to ads?]

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


I want to start a Heart cover band. I'd sing and preferably take the role as the not-fat Wilson sister.

Contact me and we'll rock the shit out of Madison.


Location: Madison, WI
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests



PostingID: 1315165429

I hate you, GLAD

Dear GLAD brand Force-Flex garbage bags. You are an asshole. Play another commercial of yours with an adorable child dragging a full garbage bag and it NOT breaking, go ahead. Lemme see it. I also love the one where there are two piano movers who fit the contents of a grand piano in two bags. FUCK YOU, dude!

I was given the amazing opportunity to pick up the contents of a garbage bag that literally BLEW UP. It wasn't even that full, and I wasn't dragging it.

Thanks.

Pet Peeve #834

When people spell names all sorts of fucked up.

It's spelled S T E P H A N I E, not S T E F A N I E.

Honestly, you're just making your kid look cheap. And don't even get me started on that K R Y S T L E bullshit. You may as well start gelling their hair in utero.

Visiting home.

Yesterday was a good day.

I got into Green Bay around 3pm and went to the mall. I ended up buying way too much but it's the mall's fault for having so many sales. Anyway... around six I endured the clusterfuck that is the Wednesday evening farmers' market on Broadway. After managing some parking somewhere(and highly questioning its legality) Ashley and I managed to find each other and we went to Titletown Brewery. If you've ever been to The Great Dane in Madison, well, that's what Titletown basically is, down to the newspaper-style menus. It was a great time catching up. From there I drove over to the casino to visit my friend Grant, who was bartending. I sipped a vodka lemonade (inexplicably my new favorite cocktail) and people-watched for a while. Let me tell ya, the casino is a depressing fucking place. I didn't let myself stay too long because I was driving and I made plans with my friend Justin, so I got the car home. Minutes after pulling in the driveway, he showed up and we went to Bentley's. It's some bar over by the airport, it looks like a TGIFridays, and the bartender was younger than me and had a messed up perm. Only seconds after sitting down, I heard someone call out my name, and it was some friends I hadn't seen in a long while, so the night ended up being a whole lot of catching up with a large number of Jager Bombs.

I'm happy to be at the parents' house. It's so comfortable here. Dad got a new TV for the living room and it may as well be a Goddamn spaceship for all I know, it's all sorts of fucking complicated.

It's on!

So I'm at the laundromat next to the Caribou Tavern, feverishly trying to finish up a marathon laundry-folding session. The normal weirdos are in there: some kid wearing house slippers who won't stop smiling, a lady with a mega-perm wearing an Alan Jackson t-shirt, and a couple of displaced frat boys who couldn't stop talking about vaginas. This is all fine with me, as I know I'm not the most normal person in the world, and thank God for a town like Madison to give you some variety - especially in the summer.

Anyway, I'm trying to fold up the last batch of clothes. I won't lie here, I hate folding clothes but I'm restricted to doing mostly this because my closet is too small to hold more than five shirts. Seriously. So yeah, I'm doing this, and in walks some college kid wearing a t-shirt sans sleeves that reads "IT'S ON!" And quickly following after him is the worst BO I've ever encountered in my life. No joke, kids, I almost fell over. At some point I thought I'd start crying and I wanted to run, but all my clothes were spead over the counter and I couldn't leave them. The smell got worse and worse until the idea hit me to breathe through a dryer sheet. Eureka!

My dryer sheet served its purpose well until I finished up and could escape in a timely manner. Thanks, Downy!

Something I realized...

I don't hate Dave Matthews, and I don't hate disc golf.


I just hate the people who like those things.

Also... there is hope...

Run, Fat Girl, Run.

I just ran four miles.

Yeah. Four miles, kids.

It's day two of the route I've been taking down John Nolan around the Lakeside and back. Yesterday, I gained this moment of clarity where I realized that life doesn't happen by wishing and hoping. I'm never going to get healthy if I sit on my ass and cry about it. I'm never going to lose weight if I whine and go scrounging through the fridge again. So I laced up my shoes and just started running. If anything hurts the most, it's my lungs, definitely. I think I've finally gained the impetus to stop smoking completely. But day two was a lot easier than day one, and hopefully it only gets better. I know I'll have my hard days, but doing this feels so much more productive than just worrying about myself. Another cool thing- I was sweating. Honestly, I haven't sweat like this in a long time, and it feels awesome.

Words from my parents.

"When you let someone make you feel bad about yourself, you are directly letting them affect your entire life"

"The smallest lie turns into a big one before you know it"

"The best revenge is to improve yourself rather than cut down your enemy"

"Don't feel sorry for yourself"

These are quotes by Mom. Always trying to up my self-esteem.

"Relationships are about give and take. You're not going to like everything your partner does. They're not going to like everything you do"

"Sometimes a parent would just rather not know what their child is up to"

"When you get married someday, never expect your husband to know what you're thinking about all the time. Men aren't mind-readers. Tell them how you're feeling, because believe me, they won't know otherwise"

My sweet Daddy. Always there to give me advice on relationships.

Putting my foot down.

I'm tired beyond belief, but I wanted to start this blog before I go on with the repetitive Groundhog Day movie that is my life and ultimately forget.

I've been taking a very thorough assessment of my life and the coping mechanisms I use on an hourly, daily, weekly basis. Even yearly, actually. Throughout the past six or seven years, I've developed a routine or "anti-routine" and a series of short-term band-aids for the situations that are continuously recurring on my own accord.

Albert Einstein said that insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. This applies to me directly. Every month I have an annual feeling as I did the previous year, and alcohol is used to connect the dots. It's filler for the monotony I create out of my apathy. And it needs to stop. The big thing here is that I don't like feeling. I used to think that my emotions were too intense, and that's why I needed to medicate somehow. It turns out, I'm magnifying all the bad emotions by proliferating this behavior. Then the consequences follow. I'm too hung over to speak to my advisor, go to class. I'm too depressed that I can't get out of bed or exercise. I'm too tired to talk to Mom, cook something healthy, clean my room.

I am insane for thinking I can drink the way I do and function (grow, develop, create, feel, appreciate) like a normal human being.

Steel Bridge Songfest

Wednesday I departed from the house around 2pm, headed for Sturgeon Bay. What was going on there, you ask? None other than the Steel Bridge Songfest.


I planned on stopping in Green Bay to see the parents for a bit, however, neither of them had their cell phones on their persons so they had no way of knowing I was making a quick stop over. I pulled into their driveway, and walked into the back entrance of the garage. My dad's face peeks through the window of the door to the garage, and he says "What are you up to?" Turns out his cell phone was left at work while he was on the road all day, and he had just gotten home. I quickly changed, got made up, kissed Daddy goodbye, and left for the last leg of the drive. Sturgeon Bay is a little over three hours from Madison, 45 minutes from Green Bay. And if you know anything about me and my personality... I hate driving. I can't sit still enough to drive to Middleton as it is, and here I was, driving over three hours on my lonesome. Oddly enough, this last 45 minutes was the most difficult for me, especially as I ran out of gas and drove confusedly through "Little Sturgeon", but not Sturgeon Bay. Divine intervention kicked in and I found a gas station and was told I was a mere seven miles from my destination. I seriously could have hugged the man who gave me directions because I was so happy, but opted against it.


I was given directions to the motel at which many of the musicians were staying. There were two: Beach Harbor, and the Holiday Motel. I got to the Holiday Motel just in time for the chicken booyah dinner. This time also served as a listening party for all the songs that had been recorded that week, thus far. After dinner, we went out pretty hard, and spent the night at a friend's who lives above Cherry Lanes, which is a bar/bowling alley/music venue.



The next day I woke up feeling pretty hazy, and we bummed around much of the afternoon. While everyone was recording and writing, I had the good fortune of taking a pontoon ride. Please bear with me in the audio for the following videos. I was incredibly high for a couple days straight.





After the boat ride, I went back to the hotel room to find Dudley! Apryl! And Chris! What to do? Go on another boat ride.

Afterwards, I stopped by the bar behind the motel and got a chicken salad sandwich. The bartender made it himself. And believe me, he did not skimp on the mayo. Between the sandwich and the side of the potato salad he so generously gave me, I easily could have eaten a few cups of mayonaise out of a jar with a spoon and been the same off. Not complaining, though. I retired to the motel room and slept until 11pm or so. Teddy and I decided to go back to the motel bar and try out the Thursday Night Special: $3 Sloppy Joes. I spent a good deal of time on this trip eating. Once again, not complaining. After this, we were off to Cherry Lanes, where the Blueheels would play an extremely brief, yet fun set.

Chris delightfully surprised everyone when he took his clothes off halfway through the set to reveal a Spiderman costume. I'll find a picture of that soon. The band who played before the Blueheels, Ode, was very nice and kindly offered Grolsch upon return to the motel, which we enjoyed under the stars at some picnic tables. Chris came running and told us that he had found a fire pit. "It's covered by a picnic table, as if to discourage us from using it, but there's firewood in it, as if to encourage us... it's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission." So the boys all built a fire with cardboard beer bottle boxes and said firewood. The gentlemen of Ode were fun company. Two of them were from Bosnia and as one played the accordion, the other sang. It was unreal. I didn't drink much because I wanted to be in good shape for the drive back, but I'll tell ya, I was still as high as a kite. Here's some of the hijinx...

The next day was a bittersweet one. Sturgeon Bay is absolutely gorgeous. I felt like I had been given a little escape from Madison, and I certainly did not want to return. The drive back felt quick, and I had enough time that I could nap a bit before work. I'm tellin' ya, I plan on going to Door County as much as I possibly can this summer.

Jenny Lewis

After several Svedka Citron and Fanta Orange sodas, High Life and Captain Morgan, I got over to the Barrymore Theatre to see the performance of the beautiful and talented Jenny Lewis. Our crew, consisting of Tyler, Fudd, Tex, Jess (among many others whom I'm too tired to list, but this does not discount their importance) walked to the Barrymore. At first thought, I was hesitant, but the jaunt was probably better for me considering the amount of alcohol previously consumed. The show itself was terrific, and the decision to drink wine afterward was awful. Tex bought a Jenny Lewis t-shirt and it fit insignificantly, so let me try it on, and I won the award of keeping it. I call this a serendipitous event for him, because let me tell you, kids, you can fall in love with a guy who loves Jenny Lewis... but you can't fall in love with a guy who wears a Jenny Lewis t-shirt.

In other news, Stephie isn't quite the spring chicken she used to be. 26 is not an old age by any means, but the hangovers get worse, the boobies start droopin', and heartburn is prevalent. Two out of three things were very apparent this morning when I woke up.

So hey kids!

Stephie is doing her best to make her foray into the world of voice acting work. I know, I know, you're jealous.

We've got an A-class script-writing team to help jump-start the whole process... honestly, some of Madison's most eclectic, weird people to ever exist on this planet. The whole plan is to get together to brainstorm, smoke pot, eat pizza, and rock your face off.

I have a moral debilitation in terms of doing impersonations of my mother. She's got an interesting-as-hell accent, but the woman is the most intelligent person I know. Seriously. So I've got a beef with downplaying her talents. However, it was brought to my attention that while Margaret Cho basically made her living doing this kind of thing (and I stilll have a moral obligation against it) she had permission from her mother. I'd like to think (note: I'd LOVE to think) that it lets her know that I respect her in the highest level, and that's why I do these impersonations. This woman is absolutely magical. If you've never had the pleasure of meeting Michong Powers, then please do.

You'll fall in love.

Totally Awkward Websites - June 2009

Your source for Handpainted Clogs.
http://theswanx.com/index.aspx

Getting to Know Your Bunions.
http://www.the-bunion-experiment.com/what-are-bunions.html

Because you have a choice about being anti-choice.
http://www.prolifechecks.com/index.aspx

Wha Wha Whee Wha

I made the best cd mix ever. Or at least, this week. Honestly, I'm straight-up proud of myself. Not only is the music phenomenal... the order and cohesion make perfect sense. This is the equivalent in quality to Boner Jamz 2006. The following is said playlist and associated emotions to its composition.

1. Day Off Work -Deleted Scenes This song makes me want to get married and break shit.
2. Where We Meet -The Apples in Stereo This song makes me want to be an angsty teen again.
3. Parade -Delta Spirit This song makes me want to casually drink a PBR in my apartment.
4. Welfare Bread -King Khan and the Shrines This song makes me want to be a loser in the 70's.
5. Salute Your Solution -The Raconteurs This song makes me want to take my shirt off, flash old people and pump my fist in the air.
6. Saint John -Cold War Kids This song makes me want to put a smug-ass look on my face and not take it off for a while. That, or pick a fight.
7. You Were Right -Built To Spill This song makes me want to go check out some vinyl.
8. Fake IDs -Deleted Scenes This song makes me want to sneak into a bar. Like Wando's, where my fake ID was taken.
9. F--ked Up Kid -Broken Social Scene presents Kevin Drew This song makes me want to feel sad, but not depressed.
10. While You Wait For The Others -Grizzly Bear This song makes me want to smoke cigarettes and feel cooler than everybody.
11. Long Haired Child -Devendra Banhart This song makes me want to take ecstasy, grow my hair long and toss it around in random people's faces.
12. Boy With A Coin -Iron & Wine This song makes me want to stomp around and paint my body.
13. Re: Stacks -Bon Iver This song makes me want it to rain.
14. Sixteen, Maybe Less -Iron & Wine with Calexico This song makes me want to do over every relationship I've ever had.
15. No One's Gonna Love You -Band of Horses This song makes me want to be lovesick.
16. Let's Dance -M. Ward This song is slow, quiet sex.
17. Buildings & Mountains -Republic Tigers This song makes me want to go to the airport and impulsively buy a plane ticket to a lottery-picked city.
18. Time To Pretend - MGMT This song makes me want to coat my body in sugar and sprinkles.
19. Heavy Metal Drummer -Wilco This song makes me want to run around in the sunshine, stoned out of my mind, making out with someone with an aerial panoramic camera capturing every moment.

In other news, Stephie has discovered the medicinal properties of pot. It's no secret that stoned people are irritating to her and she rarely touches the stuff. However, on the verge of one of these all-too-frequent panic attacks, she inhaled a hit of weed and, within minutes, felt better. Officially a believer. Seriously, make this stuff legal and tax the hell out of it. Solemn promise given that it'll only be smoked when alone in the bedroom listening to Wilco.

Later, kids. I'm going to go write some music.

Last night I dreamt of Africa.

When I was 14 years old, I spent four months in Tanzania. Mom was doing business over there and wanted Terry and I to come with. We rented a house located smack-dab in the center of Dar es Salaam. It was an all marble, three bedroom home with two bathrooms, a spacious kitchen, a dining and living room, and a small house out back for the houseboy, driver and gardener to sleep in when they were doing work. Honestly, typing the word houseboy makes me feel awful, but when I first met him, this 35 year old man introduced himself, saying "Jambo ma'am. I am John, your houseboy." I refused to let him clean my room and felt awful about the whole thing. He had a son - a little boy with few friends - and when his father wasn't around, Terry and I would have him hang out with us to watch television, eat Snickers candy bars and drink soda pop.

The walls around the house were about fifteen feet tall, with broken Coca-Cola bottles covering their top surface. Boniface, the gardener, would maintain this collection of glass shards. "For safety," he'd say. He cut the lawn with a scythe and checked the grounds for snakes every day. One morning, he came to the house to notify us that a snake had been found... an extremely poisonous one... and it was loose. We were restricted to the confines of the house for a few days until Boniface found it. It had bitten him, he killed it, and he'd sucked the poison from his own arm. We didn't find out about the bite until weeks after he told us the snake had been taken care of. Also, one day, he didn't come to work. I worried, then found out later that his wife had died. He remarried the next day. This is just the kind of man Boniface was.

One day, we were told we'd be going on a safari. My mother had ties with some foreign diplomats through her international finance work, mostly French. So we accompanied a group of them to Mikumi National Park. This was around month three of my stay in Africa, and I'd been getting increasingly homesick for Green Bay. Sounds weird, huh? I was a jaded fourteen year old. Anyway, my nerves were increasingly frazzled, and my heart heavy for friends and family back home. Mom had somehow procured me a box of Cocoa Puffs from a commissary and I placed added importance to this otherwise worthless box of cereal because it was a taste of America. I set it on a table at our campsite and went to climb trees with Terry. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash. It was a baboon who had been waiting, waiting, so patiently waiting to get his hands on my Cocoa Puffs. He ran up a tree, and almost teasingly, stared at me as he reached in the box and shoved a handful of the cereal in his mouth. It was the straw that broke the camel's back. In my fragile, emotional state, I started sobbing. An Egyptian diplomat drew a gun and pointed it at the baboon, who was now guarding this box from another baboon. I cried harder at the sight of the gun, my mother grabbed me close, and the man was coaxed to put it away by the others. The rest of the day, everyone was quiet, processing the sheer intensity of the event.

I have other random memories of Tanzania. The children that would come give Terry and me high-fives when we'd walk down the street to buy tangerines and lychees. The man preaching Islam on his soap box in the public market. The Islam calls to prayer multiple times a day when a siren in the middle of the city would go off. John killing chickens in the backyard for dinner - due to this I stopped eating meat. The white beaches and rising and receding tides, accompanied with painful sunburns. The Muslim girls in their burqas giggling at the "naked" sight of me wearing shorts and tank tops - I should have known better and done my research beforehand. Sleeping under a net every night and the little prevention it gave for the mosquitos. The yellow tinge my skin attained as a side-effect from the malaria prevention pills. The sunsets. The sunrises.


I want to go back.

Cabin Fever and the Birth of a Blog

Ooh la la! Look what somebody made for dinner! I actually cooked! The past few weeks I've been unbelievably lazy with my cuisine, ordering in, going out. So, the fact that I actually grilled a pork tenderloin is pretty impressive, even if only to me.

I'm on day four of recovery for my ankle sprain that has been annoyingly debilitating. The lack of physical activity has affected my sleep and eating patterns as well. I can't sleep, and hardly want to eat. I'm just not doing enough to make me tired or hungry. Dad came to visit me on Memorial Day and the plan was to go to Bratfest, but he advised that it wouldn't be the best idea to go walking around huge fairgrounds with an ankle the size of a baseball. He was right. I finally realized what it would be like to have cankles. I also have massive bruises on my knees. I contemplated taking pictures of them, but they're that disgusting that I don't have the heart to show them off. At least, not in the same post as pictures of dinner. It would turn you off to pork tenderloin forever, though, I'll admit that my knees don't look much different than the tenderloin. Damn, I'm sorry, I did it. I haven't worked since Sunday, which kills me, since I like being busy, and I've had nothing to do. So I picked up a shift for Saturday night, which should help me out quite a bit. At this point, I don't care if this ankle hurts anymore. I'm going stir-crazy and I'll put up with a limp if it gets me out of the house and moving again.

It might sound weird that this is affecting me so much, but I never get hurt. *knock on wood* I've never broken a bone. *knock on wood* I've needed stitches only once in my life. *knock on wood* And I'm not much of a cruisin' for a bruisin' type of gal. So please, forgive me for being such a whiner.

Also, if you've never listened to Deleted Scenes, then do. They're a great band from DC and they're coming to Madison on June 30th. They actually came a couple months ago per my e-mail request. We stayed in contact and I recommended venues and other bands to play with. Sadly, I was sick the night they played at The Frequency! I heard it was a fantastic show and they got great local reviews. To my relief, they e-mailed me recently to let me know they were coming back. What nice boys.

Please allow me to introduce to you...

Megan Fox's awful roots.




I don't get it, celebrities. Here, I'll break it down for you, step-by-step:

1. Get your limo driver/masseuse/makeup artist (I know you've gotta consolidate, the economy's rough right now) to drive you to the salon.

2. Give them your money.

3. Have them fix your hair color.

You're a pretty girl, Megan. And talentless, too. So don't go screwing up what you've got going for ya.

Oink

So I'm hung over today after a fun night out with good friends and I'll take this time to do some blogginz. Even if I do feel half brain-dead. And it's a beautiful day out.And it hurt to brush my teeth, even.But I digress. So this swine flu is a big deal right now. I get it, it's the flu, not everyone recovers very quickly from this shit. However, how many people have died from the swine flu in comparison to heart attacks every day? Like we have to figure out how to cure this thing, yet people are still inhaling Hardee's ThickBurgers and giving themselves coronaries like it's their job. I also don't get why people are wearing surgical masks to escape this when half those people probably forget to use condoms. Only about 100 people are infected with swine flu, but over a million people have AIDS. CNN is totally beating this thing over the head. People are keeping track of the number of affected with this virus, but I've got some dick almost killing me on the freeway because he thinks it's an awesome idea to text on his cell phone while driving. I've got better things to worry about, folks.

The worst.

So I check my Facebook account and I find that I've received a message from a close friend, "Moxie", whose wedding I'd be in this summer. Basically, in the nicest way possible, she tells me that I've been a bad friend lately. I reschedule our plans constantly, I'm always running late, I'm not involved enough, etc. She goes on to ask me (in the nicest way possible, of course) if I am still interested in being in her wedding because I've been so aloof and detached lately. At first, I get defensive and pissed, and automatically try to formulate my scathing reply. Then I realize...

I AM A BAD FRIEND. I mean really, I'm kind of a dick. Honestly, I am. The only things I really make time for are work and Teddy. Anything else is really just kind of outside my comfort zone. Then I realize that only an hour earlier, one of my best friends called my cell phone, and I sent it straight to voicemail, just because I didn't feel like talking that much. What if she needed to talk? And I'm hanging up just because I don't want to? I'm so busy being selfish and self-serving that I can't answer the phone? Teddy has told me over and over that I need more girl-friends. It's not that I have an aversion to girls and only befriend guys. It's more of an aversion to having too many close friends. The more close friends you have, the more close friendships you have to maintain. I'm fine with having a lot of friends, and do, but they border the work you'd put into an aquaintance you see a few times a year, which is typically how I roll.

So ultimately, I end up sending Moxie an e-mail and I apologize. I also tell her that I won't be in her wedding because I don't want to risk upsetting her anymore. While I'll admit I was relieved, I also felt extremely disappointed in myself.

I've really gotta work on this.

Since I'm just laying here...

let me tell you about what I'm experiencing.


Ok, wait.

Before I go any further, let me preface this story by telling you how much I love my neighborhood. I love it so much that when I move out of my current apartment(at which I've been living for three years) I am moving a mere two and half blocks down the same street. The people are friendly, the shops are unique. I love it so much that when I go for walks, I imagine which of the old houses I'll buy someday. That's how much, folks.


Now, the meat of the story here. The weather in Madison has improved vastly and we've finally reached 70 degrees. What comes with that? Not just summerwear and shades, kids. Not only BBQ cookouts. Not volleyball in the park or kids gettin' their tan on in the park.

Bongos. You fucking heard me. Bongos, people, along with the perpetual Bob Marley soundtrack. So the neighbor kids on both sides of my house are rocking their respective drum circles. I would typically be fine with this, if these kids knew how to play the fucking bongos. Sadly, this is not the case. Also, everything I could say about the Bob Marley music is illustrated perfectly in this Onion article: http://www.theonion.com/content/node/41242

I cut my own bangs.

They look awful.

Really, there shouldn't have been any need to write that. But just in case there are any of you out there who haven't seen home-cut bangs trimmed with hospital bandage scissors, yep, there ya go.

I need to post a picture of this. That's how bad it is. I swear, I'll take a picture and post it tomorrow. Or the next day.

I was in Green Bay last Friday and I used it to have a nice visit with Dad. So he and I are out at dinner and he tells me how nice my hair looks now that it's longer and I haven't cut it in a while. And I've got a few screws loose - it's as if Dad's compliment was more just a reminder that I had better fuck up my hair somehow. So we get home and I'm messing with my hair in the bathroom, and run downstairs to look for scissors. None anywhere. I ask Dad, and he tells me where some are. They're bandage scissors for God's sake. Does this deter me, though? Of course not. "What do you need scissors for honey?" he asks. "Nothing," I say.

Stupid Stupid Stupid.

If I could...

and had the means...


and the access...




I'd shoot Heidi Montag.




(for this)



Is this some fucking April Fool's joke?!

Blogginz

I'll say it right here. Blogs are good for me. Both reading and writing provide for immense catharsis and I'm a better person for them. I know it's an aspect of technology I've come to rely on. But then again, it's a free technology that's saved me thousands of dollars in therapy.

Neighborly love.

One of our downstairs neighbors (or one of their guests) took the initiative to walk halfway up our private flight of stairs to throw up. It's been sitting for two days. We've asked them to clean, but to no avail.

The fact that someone got sick and made a mess is not a big deal to me. This stuff happens. Who hasn't thrown up after drinking too much? If you've answered "Not me", then you aren't flawed enough to be my friend. The big issue here is that these kids are blatantly refusing to own up to their gastric concoction that was made on property not belonging to them. It's weird.

Last night I drove home from work and realized that I had no parking spot. We're provided private parking, however, these neighbors throw parties regularly and let their friends take our parking spots. I put my flashers on and encountered a young man in the back of the house, who was exhibiting first class behavior, peeing on my flowers. I told him to move his car out of our spots. Now, I'm no girl about town, but I've seen a penis or two in my heyday. However, I wasn't prepared for this. He turned around, wang in clear sight, still peeing and replied "I didn't know anyone else lived here" and. Ah, the naivete. FUCKING. KILLS. ME.

I decided I won't be so hesitant the next time to call a tow truck.

Seriously.

The Big V.

So I had a couple friends in at the bar last week and while I turned away to do something important, like wipe tap beer off my iPod, they got on the subject of virginity.

Ahem Losing it, that is.

Now before I really get into this subject, I'll tell you right now. I find virginity-loss stories fascinating. There are just so many emotions and factors that dictate what kind of experience it will be. The way your parents raised you, the friends you had and your attitudes, your religion, you pre-teen/teen/early adult/adult awkwardness. All that stuff. And you only get that one first time.

So they each go ahead with their stories. One of them lost their virginity to a babysitter when he was like, six years old. And he's totally not traumatized by the experience (which I find amazing) just overeducated at this point with a lot of experience and about ten years of boredom. Because HELLO - after losing your virginity at six years old, how long do you have to wait to find another willing partner? There was a ten-year gap in his sex life. And I mean, FUCK - what's a hand job at thirteen when you've had sexual intercourse when you're six?

And the other guy told a typically cute "Seventeen Magazine Embarrassing Moments" section story about trying to be sneaky and be rid of the V-word with an older girlfriend, but ultimately, awkwardness ruled for a couple years until he could figure it out and lost his virginity in a more comfortable way to someone who mattered.

I like these stories as I like stories about first loves, first best friends, your first serious talks with your parents. They shape you.

The turn came to me. How did Stephie lose her virginity? The story is so saturated in anger and disappointment that I honestly refuse to talk about it here. I will say, though, that if you have a daughter you want to attempt scare-tactics onto so that she avoids any sexual activity, let me talk to her. Seriously, I'll do magic.

These virginity stories can be cute, can be awkward, can be funny. Or downright tragic. I learned several important lessons about trust, people, and dignity in one night, though I wish I could have been innocent for only a just a while longer. In college, I advocated in abstinence programs, speaking to high school students at local schools. I went to church almost too much. I felt screwed up. Sex is still a difficult issue for me. Having children is one of the greatest, most exciting endeavors I hope to have, but I don't know if I'll ever get to experience it because I've got such a crippling fear of a bad situation like mine happening to my little girl.

It's just such an amazing thing to me how sex can shape people so significantly.

My menstrual cycle is 42 days long.

Now you before you shriek "EWW! GROSS!" . . . stop.

I am a fucking anomaly.

In all honesty, you should be delivering tropical fruit baskets and bestowing coconut milk offerings while fanning me with palm leaves.

No, it's not that I had my period for for 42 days, you gross perv. I didn't get my period for 42 days. On day 38 I started crying and lost my shit. I had full knowledge of the fact that I am not pregnant. Day 39 I even took a test and was backed up on this. There are just certain cycles in the world that just shouldn't be fucked with. There's the lunar cycle, the span of a week, the amount of time it takes to microwave a bag of popcorn. But the second Mother Nature tries to butt in on a woman's menstrual cycle when she is not pregnant, it's officially legal and socially acceptable to let heads roll (men might not know this). Hell, they almost did, by my water-retention-affected-so-my-rings-don't-fit hand. But I kept on keepin' on. You wanna know why?

Because I'm a professional woman*.




*A consummate professional who is slamming the door on that IUD shit and going back on the pill to regulate this physiological anarchy and make sure it never happens again.

The Components to a Good Life*

*as stated by a bar regular of mine.

1. Good sex.
2. Good friends.
3. Purpose.






I didn't know life was that easy.

Dear Jessica Simpson,

You got fat. Now before you hit that uncomfortable high C and deafen me permanently, let me tell you one thing. I'm allowed to be chubby, because I'm not a celebrity. I'm allowed to have a muffin top because I don't make money based on how I look and whether or not my tits look perfect. You do. If singers were paid on the quality of their voice rather than the sexuality and appeal of their overall image, I've got a lot of friends who should be raking in the $35 million deal that you got with Columbia records last year to record awful, shitty music that makes me question where mainstream America is headed. Only my friends would use that money to make an album a million times better and probably give away a good deal of that $35 million. They'd also take their careers and honest talents seriously enough that they wouldn't pose on the cover of Rolling Stone in high heels and panties. So when your sister Ashlee Simpson goes all boo-hoo on the media, telling them that a size two (which you know you aren't) isn't something to be ashamed of, I say "GET REAL". You got where you were because you (used to) look good in hot pants, Jessica. That's really all you had to rely on. It's not like you're a MENSA member or a PR whiz. You're not going to cure AIDS this year. And when you first met with studio execs, I highly doubt that the first thing they said was "So this the girl with the voice!" We get it - you found love in Tony Romo(whom I sincerely question to be a feeder) and made a crap country album. You want a cookie for that? Probably. So instead of sitting around and whining that Mama Media is a bitch, give her a hug for getting you where you are and jump on the treadmill. Hell, my dad even commented on this. And you wanna know how media savvy he is? Just enough to know when Everybody Loves Raymond is on.

Sincerely,

Stephie

Epic Fail

Operation Get Some Abs started today with limited success - aka FAIL - with a drive-through trip to McDonald's. I got a Double Quarter Pounder value meal and a BLT Chicken Sandwich value meal and made Teddy pick one of them when I got home. I kept stealing bites from his(the quarter pounder) and he actually ate less than I did. Damn. So I'm lying on my bed writing this, drinking my regular Coca-Cola because upon giving up diet soda, I developed an addiction to sugar. And there's no way in hell I'm going to make it to the Turbokick class in eight minutes that I wrote in my planner with hot pink gelly roll pen. From what I hear, sugar isn't so good for diets, but then again, aspartame isn't good for my brain, being a neurotoxin and all. Also, I've recently given up alcohol(for real this time) and I'm told that sugar cravings are a normal thing to expect since booze is all empty calories and full evenings of embarrassment.

So, as they say, don't let it get you down. Start anew tomorrow. Hopefully, without drive-thru (or any other kind for that matter) fast food.

Happy New Year

So I'm not sure I really have anything to write about, but it's the first day of the new year so let's get on with it and let it flow...

My resolutions are as follows:
1. Quit bartending.
2. Get healthier and stronger.
3. Stop hatin' so much on people and improve that attitude, girl.

Speaking of hatin', I'm sorry, but I CAN NOT STAND Howie Mandel. I mean, honestly, what's he been doing since Bobby's World in the 90's? I'll admit I liked that cartoon. When I was little I also loved it when he'd blow up a rubber glove over his head through his nose. But he leaves for a decade or so doing God know what, getting therapy for his germaphobia, and all of a sudden some studio exec decides to throw him a pity party and his bald head and soul patch are taking over my tv. Seriously, what's the deal with shaving your head like that besides making yourself look like a total asshole? And soul patches like that are just a begging for a punch in the face. The icing on the cake would be if he wore sunglasses indoors. The dumb reflective kind that dudes with tribal tattoos who listen to Dave Matthews wear. Honestly. I don't have cable, Howie! I've got three channels, and you've spread your ass all over one of them! I have limited options as it is, man, and you're taking away my joy. I do miss Bobby's World.



Anyway, let's hope that 2009 is a good year. 'Cause man, my 2008 sucked.