lord i was born a ramblin' [wo]man

I'm sleeeepy. The heater residing under my desk is working harder than a Mexican on payday. The bastard is directing it's venom at my cowboy boots which has me in a trance. I could not be forced to stand if the building were on fire. Evil.

I have a bump located on the inside of my right nostril. I'm not sure what it is but odds are good you have suffered from the same malady at one time or another. I can't quit touching the damn thing. Everytime I stick my index finger into my sniffer someone catches me. I want to scream "it's not what you think I'm just pickin' at a scab in my nose" but this isn't necessarily the lesser of the two evil options. What if it's a tumor!

I just turned off my space heater. Some people have issues with excessive eating, many struggle with coke habits, then you have your porn addicts. I am a space heater junkie. Why won't you just get out of my life!!!

I am going through my book of poetry (did that turn you on) back from some of the dark days:

_____________________________________
Can’t say I wouldn’t blame you
It has tormented my thoughts
When the time comes I won’t sit still
For the greatest love that was lost

You’re not even gone and I've dug your grave
Planning my demise for the heart I can’t save
swallowing hard the pain growing inside
my smile, my laughter, my soul has died

I write a story about a one true love
reluctant girl so complicated but true
lost her heart to the boy of her dreams
all alone and there was nothing to do
______________________________________

The heater returned to life just now without my directing it to.

Do do do da do do do do do...

I was reading my "Word 2007 for DUMMIES" book just now [I like how dummies is the only word in all caps - thanks Dan Gookin] and I am bothered with Dan's attempt at being witty resulting in shamefully dorky. For example, Chapter 19 "Lines and Boxes Around Your Text" Dan starts off the paragraph with "Here a Line. There a Line. Everywhere a line-line". Quit! Chapter 15 "Creating a Section" Danny starts off the paragraph with "Breaking up your documents isn't hard to do". Your killin' me D. I would almost prefer to learn Word 2007 the hard way. This reminds me of a schmaltzy, trying too hard to be hip, middle-aged youth minister you'll find leading a group of vulnerable teens at the neighborhood Pizza Hut on a Sunday afternoon following youth group bible study. "Today we're gonna rock god, guys, because the lord is rad, okay". Dude has more energy than a broker on crack and is happier than a housewife on prozac. He's probably sporting the jean jacket paired with jeans look which might be the biggest fashion OH NO! You all know this guy. He talks with his hands. He likes to do the 'one clap' after finishing a sentence. He's a closet Cho-Mo [thanks Zub].

Thought of the day: try at best to refrain from sexual encounters in a swimming pool during daylight hours, more so if you are within arms reach of a child. This could be frowned upon. Billy goat!

Friday.

Enough said.

Love, J

take 2 and call me in the morning...

“Some would die for that one thing”…jm

I'm a tad under the weather on this dreary Thursday. A trooper I am and I have plenty to say today...

For starters, I would like to further acknowledge my feelings in continuance of yesterday’s post concerning all things Merry Christmas. Now then, it was not my desire to portray a negative spirit in respect to the most expensive and overrated holiday of the year. In fact, there are many aspects to the holiday I miss just as a toothless man with an apple yearns for his teeth.

I miss the snow. I miss door-to-door Christmas carolers. I miss baking holiday treats with my mother. I miss begging my parents to bring out the Christmas albums in late November and the parents always retorting “it’s too early”. I miss writing letters to Santa even when I secretly no longer believed in him. I miss hot cocoa and homemade bread following a walk home from school in frigid Omaha winter weather. I miss spending a night out in the cold searching for the perfect douglas fir tree. I miss the smell of a real tree. I remember, with fondness, decorating the tree with my family as we listened to album after album filled with classic Christmas tunes. I miss going through the box of ornaments thinking "remember this one". I miss the bubble lights my father put on the tree every year and waiting patiently for the bulbs to do their magic. I couldn’t wait to go to children’s Christmas Mass on Christmas Eve followed by a trip to my grandmother’s house where we’d unite with other family members and open gifts. I long for the innocence of Christmas that has been missing for years. As a child it was never about money, gifts or who got what. I never questioned why Santa didn’t bring me the pricey toy my classmate was lucky enough to find under her tree. I loved the ambiance of it all beginning with putting our biggest shoes out before bed so St. Nic could fill them with candy on Saint Nicolas Day to the Christmas school play leading up to Christmas break. It was remarkably special to me and I remember feeling a little empty after it was over. I look forward to the sentiment returning soon.

In other news, I heard from my one and only pen pal Zub today. Due to my lack of correspondence my prisoner pal thought I had forgotten about him and no longer desired the companionship. Little does he know I am pining for the day he walks out those prison doors and finds me, flower in hand tear in eye, and jump into his manly arms and profess my love.

In his latest communication, Zub shares additional terms, also known as “prison lingo” for educational purposes. New prison commitments are known around the big house as “fish”, “fresh fish” and “shorthairs”. Child molesters are known as dead. Nah not really. They’re known as “Cho-Moes." African Americans (Zub uses the word blacks but I am a politically correct individual, ya’ll) are known as “frogs” and “toads." Mexicans – “spics” and whites “crackers” and “White boy”. If someone is referred to as a “punk”, “bitch” or a “nancy boy” it means he is either a homosexual or a weak convict. How about those fun facts?

Someone asked me last night - what do you do for a living - and I answered “In real life or pretend?” Two totally different things, trust me. Night and day.

Does anyone ever use the following phrase when praising a job well done “you really picked up the ball with that one” or “please pick the up the ball this time – you have a tendency to drop a lot of balls and screw us all”. I’m just wondering.

My friend Ellie suggested today that I write for Hallmark because I am always dishing out clever rhymes like I’m Dr. Suess. Ingenious. In an attempt to warm up the brain for this challenging but rewarding endeavor, I am tossing around a few ideas and would like to use this blog as a place to examine these preliminary masterpieces. For those of you wondering, I’m not biased to birthday greetings. I forecast stronger profit earnings with diversity. Sure, it’s a little more demanding on the ‘ole processor upstairs, but I think it’s fair to say it would be a shame to allow this talent to go to waste. Lets rumble:

Front – “We asked you to dinner last night. You brought your appetite but no money”. Inside – “Get a job.”

No? How about…

Front – “This morning I stepped in a messy pile of dog poop that I can't seem to remove from the grooves of my tennis shoes. ” Inside – “Thinking of You”.

Seriously, I’m just getting started.

Front – “Heard you were ill” Inside – “maybe that one night stand wasn’t such a great idea”.

Front – "At least he was old" Inside - “My condolensces”.

Front - "Forgive me?" Inside - "say yes - let's not worry with details".

Front - "So what! You're alone on your birthday - this is your day!" Inside - "[this part intentionally left blank]"

Front – “I may be miles away but what can I say you brighten my day in such a way that’s more than okay and no I’m not gay I just want to say HEY” Inside – “let’s stop the nonsense and move away from the chatroom and into the bedroom”…

Now don't go running off and selling my ideas to Hallmark.

Important business to tend to so I’m OUT like denim on denim.

PEACE ~ J

the twelfth month

"Your life is what your thoughts make of it"...

December is upon us, guyz. I was tempted to throw in a “finally” just then but let’s be real. I feel like we did the time warp to arrive, once again, at the twelfth month of the year. I recollect New Years morning of ’07 like it was yesterday. A hung-over Naylor greeting Nikki and I with remarkable confidence in his best Budweiser baritone voice "welcome to 2007 ladies.” That day feels more like yesterday than yesterday. Remember, as a child, when the Christmas season seemed to last longer than the schoolyear? Waiting with anxiety day after day for the 25th. Today the holiday causes me nothing but stress-induced anxiety.

The December Dark Days, or "DDD", are the days I scurry about in a daze mixed with increased hypertension, lugging around an endless “to do” and “to buy for” list. This is the time of year I fight the urge to hide for 30 days. Sure we’re all suppose to be jolly and spreading Christmas cheer but really I don't enjoy the Christmas Season until Christmas day. I hate to say it, but while everyone else pouts about how Christmas is over, I'm celebrating with a sigh of relief. I'm not a Scrooge. Christmas was my favorite holiday up until I reached my mid 20's, found myself single and struggling to get through Christmas. It's a stressful time. I earn an extra ulcer each season trying to find the perfect gifts but end up settling for appropriate. It can also be a very lonely time if you are single. During the triple D’s you are constantly asked "what would you like for Christmas" and I spat out "really nothing" which is never good enough. Truth be told, there is nothing I want that I feel comfortable asking from you. Would you like to pay off my car? How about a nice down payment on a house? Can you find me a new hobby? Can you tell me if I am doing the right thing with my life? How about a six-figured paying job? I love Christmas for children because, well, that's what the holiday is all about. I love the traditional aspect to Christmas but it seems with each passing year we are becoming further removed from those fundamentals. Heck, I might be reprimanded for using the word Christmas . One more thing, what happened to good old-fashioned Bing Crosby Christmas music? It should be a crime to own a Christmas cd of the hip-hop genre. One word, 5 letters - gross.

The Salvation Army bell ringers must have the worst job ever created by man. Okay, it’s honorable, yes. They probably have their share to as many candy canes as they desire, sure. I don’t know what would drive me to insanity first – the boredom, the bells, or “bell ringing” in a slow, merciless drizzle accompanied by a 30 degree temperature. Do these guys earn a dollar or is strictly charity work? I’m only saying what you’re already thinking.

Another sad thing about DDD is when I leave the office in the early evening it is dark and cold outside. This is non-conducive towards any kind of running ritual or exercise regimen, it turns us into sloths, and temporarily gives us a good 9-10 waking hours per day which most of us spend with our co-workers and at our desks. We’re pasty, if we’re not fat we feel it, and lack motivation for just about anything except eating and sleeping which requires little push. Oh – and sex. Sex is doable. I need to consider a new climate – and a primate…named Roger [wink]!

In closing, I look forward to the month of January for one reason - because it is quiet.

JM

rant party of three...

~No one is perfect until you fall in love with them ~

While impatiently waiting in line at the post office the other day, I heard one u.s. postal worker whine to another “I’ve been walking around with this damn monkey on my back”. While I can't tell you what this means exactly I can say - I wish. Gripers this is an occasion to celebrate, not mope. Stop that bellyaching it’s time for a little fun. Dress that monkey up. Telephone the plumber, the cable guy, gas company – what have you - and put in a house call for repairs. Have the monkey answer the door and [wink] play like he is the homeowner while you hide in the closet and have yourself a well deserved laugh.

Awkward silences. I had to pick up a complete stranger from the airport this morning. This gentleman was interviewing with my firm today and, because I was already “away from the office” I was delegated the lucky candidate to meet and greet this fella. During the fatiguing commute from the airport to my office I pulled everything out of my repertoire including my aversion to green beans and fondness for Asian men. Had I not been driving I would have tap danced for the boy if necessary. I am not positive but pretty confident I asked him twice what city he called home. I was mind boggled. I am 100 percent positive that during one of the more painfully long silences I nervously sang “do-ta-do” while staring off to the left out of the drivers side window”.

Myspace: I hate it. I once had an account and it didn’t work out for me because it seemed to cause too much social drama. On the flipside, I am still addicted to it. I found a loophole in the myspace system. One can still myspace without having an account of your own. How is this possible you ask? Borrow someone’s login and password and use their account as if it were your own. This is similar to when a good friend has a baby and you get to hold it, gaga goo at it, and all that jive but you can unload the bambino on mommy when you sense a blood hurling howl on the horizon [I dare ya to try to spit that riddle out with a quickness].

Space heaters are more addicting than crack [never have tried crack – it’s a figure of speech stop shaking your head in disappointment]. You’re body is burning up like you are fighting scarlet fever, you’re starting to feel queasy, every time you lift your arm the world is privy to the dark ring of pit sweat on your shirt. Should you be required to temporarily leave your warming zone you maneuver around like you are 80 years old and malnourished. Warning: your body will go into shock. You've become a victim to the small box exuding heat. It’s like your favorite 90’s hairband love ballads cd, you can’t live or without the darn thing. Off and on. On and off. It is a vicious cycle.

Happy Birthday Ellie.

Until my next rant,

Ms. McSasssssss

Heart-Breaking the Seal

"The Untold Perspective of Feces Fiasco" by Ohio R.

The following is the rebuttal to a dear friend on a funny incident she experienced with, at the time, a new companion. Some of you may recall Josie's very first blog "breaktheseal" - a sad tale about a date gone very wrong. This is all in fun and not an attempt to upset or infuriate either party involved.

An initial intimate meeting between opposite gender's is composed of fascination with one another. It is more or less an interview session sprinkled with a little chit chat. Depending on if it goes good there is a possibility of romance. Unfortunately there is another obstacle. I like to call it Stage One. It's all good if it's a successful battle for the male.

The man has to be perfect (according to that particular female's idea of perfection). One slip up of any occurrence that appalls the female and the man is doomed. Lick your wounds and keep on keeping on. Thanks to society [sarcasm] it makes it tough for a guy to overcome this obstacle. Success happens rarely. Someone tell the Beatles this is where the lonely people come from. Those men who make it past the first stage have it made. Once the female gets a perfect picture of you, you are golden. You will never have to be golden again, silver, even the bronze will survive. Warning, it can be the smallest of things that destroys chance. Note, I am an expert on this matter and the following story will give you proof.

I have known this silly and outlandish girl for a short period of time. My friends thought I was retarded for using my masterful pick up line, but they were so wrong. Being the sagacious soul that I am, I pulled out my best repartee when I first approached her.

me: "Yo, I'm Mr. Right, I heard you were looking for me?" (I know great artillery!)

her: "Really..."

me: "I have to apologize for my timeliness. You were hard to find but I finally made it."

her: "are you a friend of Lacy's?"

After complimenting her on her looks and cowboy boots, the conversation took off from there like Apollo 13. It is my belief that some kind of connection surfaced. I thought is there a better way to become acquainted with one another than drinking? Lose that edge. Laugh. Be social. Mexican was the venue of choice since the restaurant I had in mind offered a nice patio. After a few margaritas and tortilla soup you had to eat with a fork, I suggested going somewhere to finish the cheap leftover beer in my trunk. Someone had to drink it. It had been lingering in my trunk for a week. At the time I didn’t think that raunchy, warm beer mixed with Mexican food would be my demise. Once we get back to her place I quickly try to get our drinks to beer temperature. Not an easy task since she wanted one right away. Josie had a nice cozy crib with more pictures than a photo album. It took me half an hour to examine each kodak. You would be lucky to find a single photo at my place – with the exception of my incredible find of a painting consisting of dogs playing poker. It makes me laugh. Could you imagine dogs being human? Okay, the story continues. We sit on J's patio enjoying the now somewhat cold brews. We are reminiscing of past memoirs and sagas. Conversation was flowing like the waters of the Arkansas river when all of a sudden I felt my stomach turning and there was something creeping out of my anus. At this point I tried to keep my composure until little mama finished her rant. All I could think about was how much I hated bad beer and tacos. Lord, please don’t let me shit my pants. That would definitely ruin any chance with her if I smelled like shit and I don’t want her to witness my shit stains if I end up getting play. Her rant continues for what seemed like an hour. So I thought of ideas to cover up the shit stain if she saw it later. Maybe I'll tell her that's the new design of boxers or maybe I can flush them down her toilet. But what if it clogs? What if she thinks I'm weird for not having any draws on? Finally she suggests changing the music. Yes! Lucky me. She goes in to change the music and I proceed to excuse myself to "break the seal." I am quick to drop my pants and check for skid marks. I jump on the porcelain like I was trying to adjust the height of an office chair. PLOP PLOP! AWWWWW!!! I made it quick so she didn’t expect I pooped in her house. I quickly wiped and flushed that evil feces. As I was watching the slow draining of my processed carna asada I sprayed a little cologne to cover the smell. Always carry around a small ration just in case. I did a second flush to be safe and scurried back to the rendezvous. Out on the patio I'm ready to contribute fully to our tete-a-tete. All is well for now. She then suggests that she must "break my(her) seal." As I await her return, I question if my two flushes got the job done. Oh yea, of course it got the job done. But what if it didn’t? She would say something, guaranteed. She reappears after being gone for a minute. I question whether she had to dump a load as well. Our conversation continued with awkwardness. We were both quiet in an attempt not to stir up any shit. Yup, I realize by her change in mood she found my stool. As Murphy's law goes "If there is a worse time for something to go wrong, it will happen then." How can I possibly salvage this? The situation was never mentioned for the remainder of the night and I left with a mere peck on the cheek. So much for the play.

In the end I never got another chance with her because of the simplest incident that opposed her. Lesson here guys, be perfect at first then you will have no worries about developing a meaningful relationship with a girl you adore. Also, don’t shit at a girls house you just met. Go outside behind a tree or anything to cover up.

In ending here is the thought of the day:
If you shoot at a mime, do you use a silencer?

lick your wounds and keep on truckin'

When you envision matters that alter the path of life significantly you imagine a career change, the birth of a baby, marriage, divorce, death, and so on. Other ripples in life, subtle trials and tribulations, cease the very second and open you up to life. Those moments that stand still, stop you in your tracks and demand you live in the instant. I had such an expereince last night. I learned that an ex, someone I spent 6 years of my life with and whom was once immensely significant, is getting married. It hurt. No. Deeper than that - it broke me temporarily. Without halt, without even acknowledging what I was feeling or doing, I broke down in tears in front of a room full of people that had no idea what was happening. It was an overwhelming emotion. I felt dumb for crying. But then I thought, no, I need this. My natural instinct was to think “Why was I not the one. Why did it take him merely a year to realize he wants to marry this girl?” Friends reiterated to me what has been said many times before. Not only was he very wrong for me, I was very wrong for him. How could we have possibly made a life together? Raise children under such unhealthiness? It would have never worked. I've known for a very good amount of time that he and I could never be together. Then, feeling rather optimistic, I concluded that I was not losing him. He was losing me.

I recall looking in my bathroom mirror this morning and asking myself “why are you not upset – what is wrong with you”. I considered the possibility that I was in denial. Perhaps I am suppressing pain? But then it dawned on me. I am not angry. In fact, I really am not even upset. I tried to force myself to cry yet I felt nothing. Why? My ex was not the love of my life. Our time together was meaningful. I retain many very good memories of a life we spent with one another. At one point in my life I believed I would have his children and all that jazz yet, at the heart of it all, I never truly felt it. I didn't have a gut feeling “he’s it – I’m done”. I still love him. I miss him to pieces. It’s sad to me that I spent so many years with this man and now it’s as if he has perished and is buried away. I think of him almost every day. I sometimes miss his humor. No one again will refer to me as “badger” or “wee”. But at the end of the day I am okay with all of this because I am so sickening happy with someone, truly unbelievably in awe with someone, that I can’t imagine being with my ex or anyone else for that matter. I don’t recall ever [ever!] being so comfortable or madly crazy about anyone as I am with this person. Before him, I can't recollect a time sitting around, doing absolutely nothing, and wishing it would never end. I want to stop time when I am with him. It is not only spending my time with him that consumes me with bliss, it’s enjoying every second, every word, every look. That is what life is all about, right? I am so lucky to have experienced love like this. I am aware that some people never have that in a lifetime. If I never do again, and if he were to go away today, I feel blessed having had that. It’s better than anything on earth. He doesn’t know how lovely I find him. I've said it before - I knew the second I saw him I would love him. I mean that as literal as I can express in words. That doesn’t happen with me often. Ever, actually. I can’t fathom this sensation going away.

In conclusion, I will be just fine. I harbor no ill feelings for my ex and I really want him to be happy. The last time I saw him, a little less than a year ago, he told me that if he and I were to respectively marry other people that we would be thinking of one another while up at the alter. I certainly hope that isn't the case for either one of us. That would be a mistake.

~ Josie

HAVE A GREAT WEEKEND GUYS!!!!

the earth shall inherit the meek

Once you hit top there is no place to go but down. Modesty is a virtue. ~ J

A strawberry flavored super blowpop has temporarily demanded my sole attention.

Have you ever gotten angry at an inanimate object? I victimized a door a moment ago. I was walking through a co-workers doorway when I stubbed my toe on the open door. As if it were the door's fault and feeling the need to retaliate in some way I slammed the door and watched it swing back and forth a couple of times once hitting the wall very hard before coming to a halt. Seconds later humiliation ensued.

I am a text messaging ace. Friends and family will certify with disdain to this reality. I received a text message from my twin sister, Jessica, earlier that read “never gonna give you up on radio”. One of few drawbacks to the birth of the text message is that there is no connotation of emotion with text and a simple sentence often leads one to interpret the statement with an entirely false undertone. My sister’s text mystified me. Did she loan me a radio I failed to return? Was she implying that she would never give away personal facts or information about me on the radio? It was later determined that my dear sis was alluding me to the fact that the Rick Astley song was playing on the radio. You see, I have such a strong abhorrence to the song it prompts friends to send me an alert. I enjoy inflicting the tune on to others like the passing of an infectious disease. Within minutes of coyly putting the song “out there” you’ll find people unconsciously humming or singing the tune followed by “I can’t stop singing this *&^%$#@* song."

I learned through Zuber recently that many prisoners succumb to the “buddy system” in a way to satisfy their hearty sexual appetites. Zub claims that rape almost never occurs at the prison. As he blatantly put it "you can't rape the willing." Zub informed me that the more “simple minded and indigent” inmates adopt what is known around the big house as a “prison daddy”. Some jailbirds pocket unused hairnets from the kitchen and design lewd, see-thru panties which serve as bait to lure in fellow prisoners for man on man action. Some craft makeup out of kool-aid powder. This was not the worst thing I learned. Listen up:

Now let me tell you about the heterosexuals. There are a couple of different kinds of us also. There are the ones who have holes cut in their pockets and if they see a woman guard, it doesn’t matter if you can only see her arm, these guys start what we call MAPPING her down. Sometimes there will be 9 or 10 of them lined up on the window passing the Vaseline to one another while they get their stroke on. Then you have the female guards that pose for these guys while in the showers.

Speaking of showers, I am in need of one after having read that last bit.

Why is it there is a good to excellent chance a man will make his way to a toilet anywhere between 10-30 minutes post meal? Does the digestive track of this gender kick start immediately upon first bite?

Here is a picture of my friend Matthew and I taken last Friday at our Pretty in Pink get-together [Matthew is not straight]. The party consisted of us watching Pretty in Pink and involving a large consumption of cocktails. Matthew is the greatest.



Adieu,

Josie