Another day another back rub

My last client was a little strange.  She’s an older woman, and one of those people who like a painfully deep massage.  She gave me a hug when it was over and didn’t want to let go.  She kept rubbing my back.  Not patting, but rubbing.  My brow furrowed and my eyes wondered around the room asking the question, “is this weird?”

She asked me a few questions and stared at me.

Her – “Who takes care of you?”

Me – “Um….”

I was about to say my parents take care of me, but that didn’t seem like the right response.  I spot my back buddy (a device used to massage my own back) and snatched it up.

Me – “My back buddy.  It works really well.  I don’t have enough time to get massages these days.”

She stared at me smiling.

I started using my back buddy.

Me – “….”

More staring.

Me – “It really works.”

Me – “I’m eating sushi for lunch.  I try to take care of myself.”

She rummaged around in her purse.

Me thinking “Oh good please pull out tip money and not a business card.”

She handed me a business card.

Her – “You should come see me.  I’m right down the street in Middletown.  I’ll give you a reflexology session on the house.”

My ears perk up whenever I hear the words “on the house.”

Me – “Oh thank you so much.  I’ll definitely come see you.  Thanks.”

She hugged me again.

Her – “That was wonderful what you did.”

She was referring to the massage.

When I give a massage, I like to make contact with the persons hands to form a connection.  And it feels really nice and comforting while I’m massaging their inner forearm.  It’s the only part of the massage where an intimate professional bond can be formed.  25% of men (possibly more), like to grasp my hand and hold it.  Sometimes caressing it, which sketches me out, but it’s usually innocent.  With women it’s more like 5% (if that).  She was a hand holder.

I never had reflexology before, and she didn’t leave me a tip so I feel like I should go do it.  Is this a bad idea?  I don’t know.  It was weird, you’re just going to have to trust me on that.

After the massage, I went into the break room for a little sushi lunch.  I ate a couple pieces and looked at the time.  12:30.  I’ll be here until 8:30 tonight.  I left the remainder of my sushi to save it for later.  I have to make it stretch.  My next client doesn’t get here until 2:30, so here I am blogging.  It’s 1:02 now.

I guess I should read a little.

After ordering business cards from Vista Print, they show you a bunch of little add-on’s you can choose from for cheap.  One of these add-on’s were stickers.  So I bought a bunch of stickers for my clients to stick on after getting a massage.

I found it ingenious.  I only offer them to tippers.

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When life throws you lemons, wet the bed!

Rambo: First Blood Part II (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Dave invited his old friend from high school to hang out with us last Tuesday.  She’s married to a man who doesn’t let her go anywhere or do anything, and it’s up to her to stay at home watching the kids.  Her life sounds exactly like the one I’m desperately avoiding.

She snuck away for a few hours and met Dave and I at Jersey Joe’s.  And in those precious hours at Jersey Joe’s, she confessed that it was the most fun she ever had in her life.

Dave said to me – “Isn’t it crazy she said that?  We do this shit everyday and she said it was the best time of her life?”

Me – “I feel like we take our lives for granted.”

I haven’t blogged in a while.  I’ve been going out and playing video games, sleeping a good solid twelve hours each night (well, almost each night).

I had insomnia a few days ago.  I kept thinking about my upcoming trip to Columbia and how real the trip is starting to feel with each passing hour.  I have only hours left!  In the beginning it was only a vision, an idea – a cool experience to have.  But now the due date is approaching and it’s starting to feel so real that it’s unworldly and unfathomable for me to go.

These past few days I would experience large gaps of time through-out the day where I would forget I was going to Columbia.  But as soon as I remembered, that’s when I felt ice-cold spear-heads splintering into my chest cavity.  I’m not sure if other people have this problem, but whenever there is something in my future approaching that makes me scared shitless, I get jabs of icy shocks in my heart.

It happens when I quit jobs or dump boys – this is the first time I’m feeling it for a trip, though.

So anyway, I lied awake in bed thinking about Columbia and feeling jets of ice pulsing in and out of my ventricles.

“I’m going to be in the Amazon jungle soon, high as a kite from shamanic medicine.  Is this dangerous?  Will I die?”

Then I’d go on YouTube to watch other people’s experiences on similar shamanic retreats and calm myself down.

How tough am I?  I mean really?  This past week I’ve been sizing myself up, assessing my physical endurance and strength.  But when I make a muscle in my bicep, it feels soft.  My wrists are thin and dainty.  My feet flat and my spine crooked.  I’m in no shape to go Rambo if need be.  Did Rambo take place in Columbia?

The only thing that put my heart at ease was my friends telling me I’m going to have the time of my life.  It’s an experience of a lifetime and if I’m brave enough to do it, I should do it and I’ll most likely love it.

I hate hearing negativity from people.  I hate hearing that I’m crazy and it’s a bad idea and that I should stay home – I don’t want all that on my mind when I’m tripping out.  Everyone has been really supportive of me going except for one of my ex-friends who is hell-bent on continuing to make my life miserable.  She went behind my back and talked to my brother about my trip telling him how dangerous it is.  She know’s nothing about Columbia, she’s never been there, and I’m guessing she doesn’t know anyone that ever been there.  She know’s nothing about this trip, but decided to take it upon herself to make my brother believe that I’m going there to die.

My poor brother who wasn’t worried before, now suddenly had the urge to call me up in a panick and try to talk me out of going.  He wanted to take the little money he had saved and give it to me to compensate for my loss.

I was a nervous wreck before he called, so this was the last thing I wanted to hear.  She’s also telling my parents that I’m going to Columbia.  They think I’m going to Florida to visit a friend.  I know the truth would literally kill them, and she know’s that too, but she doesn’t care.

Just when I think her vengeance can’t reach any further, she takes it up a notch.  She also told my brother that I’m not talking to her – ME not talking to HER!  She hasn’t bothered calling me for months and now all of a sudden it’s me – again, as always, it’s me who refuses to speak to her and I’m the one being the indignant prick.  I’m so done with this nonsense – I’m above it and don’t need it in my life.

Well, I’m not kissing anyone’s ass ever again that’s for sure.  That goes for everyone – not just bosses and intolerant bitchy clients.  I’m actually learning to stick up for myself.  Fuck the world.  I have all that I need and will ever need.  And that is belief in one’s own self.

I’m too tired and stressed to write about this anymore.

I was in such a good mood yesterday because my little massage business is rocking out and Groupon contacted me wanting to add me to their featured listings.

I went against everyone telling me not to start my own business (even my own mother), to feeling like I could never go back to what I was doing before.  Waiting tables?  Working a register?  I will never go back.  Not ever.  I will never rely on any job or any boss ever again.  I will never kiss anyone’s ass for as long as I shall live lord hear my prayer.

I’m in love with my business – absolutely in love.  Everything about it I love.  But I always get a euphoric high when starting a new job, so I hope this isn’t the case.  Something tells me it’s not.

My client gave me $100 today for a one-hour massage.  Can you believe that?  $100!  After he left, I cranked open a window in my office and listened to the rain outside and the muffled music from the nearby restaurant – smells of food wafted in drenching my mouth in drool.  I sat down on the stool in front of my makeshift desk (tv tray with a tablecloth draped over it) where I keep my business phone and I set to work on recording a voicemail greeting.

I practiced a few times and gave it a go.  Nope, no good.  I gave it another try – still no.  This went on for 20 or 30 takes.  Speak, listen, delete, speak, listen, delete, speak, delete, speak, delete.  I finally accepted a greeting, hung up the phone, and seconds later my mother calls the business phone.

“What the fuck?”

She always calls.  Its unrelenting and extraordinary frustrating.  The shit she tells me has incalculable amounts of me wanting to punch something.  Well, she called my business phone, I pick up the receiver and hear dead silence.

Me – “Hello?  Hello hello?”

I pressed a bunch of buttons.

Me – “Hello?”

“Shit no, please oh god no.”

The call was gone.

I call her back quickly on my cell.  I’m immediately bombarded with questions.

Mom – “Where are you?  Why didn’t you answer the phone?  It’s raining, do you know how to work the defrost?”

I drank so much last night that I couldn’t drive home.  My friend had to give me a lift.  It was his fault anyway.  He kept buying me whipped cream vodka shots with baileys – they’re like little mudslide shots – so delicious.

So I was stuck driving my mom’s caddy today.

Me – “Yes mom I’ve driven a car before.”

Mom – “What about the wipers?”

Me – “YES, YES!”

Mom – “And what’s this about you going to Columbia?”

Shit she heard my voicemail.  She listened to the whole thing.  Shit shit think think!

Without missing a beat I say – “It sounds more interesting than telling people I’m going to Florida.  I figure this way when people call and hear I’ll be gone for a week, normally they will hang up and I’ll never hear from them again.  At least this way it sounds like I’m doing something very important and they’ll want to meet me and book an appointment just to hear about my trip.  It’s no big deal, I seen documentaries about it and read a lot of books.  I can wing it.”

My mom starts laughing!  I couldn’t believe my ears.  She not only bought it, but thought it was hilarious.  I never could tell what that woman finds amusing.  This one is definitely a shocker.

Me – “Ha ha, I try to make myself sound cool.”

After that humdinger, I text my ex-friend begging her not to tell my parents, but she didn’t listen.  She’s out to get me and won’t stop until I’m six feet under – which according to her, will be in the next few days.  The sad and horrible thing is, if I do manage to come back home alive and well, bursting with stories and wonderful experiences, she would resent me.  She would rather have me come back hurt and broken than for her to be wrong about this trip.  That’s how prideful she is.  Pride is a scary, powerful thing.  I don’t have much of it as you can plainly see.  I respect myself, but I’m not prideful.  She wishes ill will for me and doesn’t even know it.

That’s my life.

What else happened these past few weeks?  Nothing major.  Well, I did wet the bed one night.

Yeah that’s right – I wet the bed.  ME, Melanie, a 32-year-old beer guzzling adventure freak, wet her bed.

I came home drunk, tired from insomnia, and passed out cold for 12 hours straight.  It was towards the end of those twelve hours when I had the pee dream – you know the one, the one where you’re sitting on the toilet in your bathroom and a big friendly pit bull is wagging his nubby tail at you and nudging your leg trying to coax you into peeing?  Yeah, that dream.  It felt so good, but somehow wrong.  “Uhh, yeah, oh feels so good.  It feels good little doggie….Wait, why does this feel wrong?  And what’s with the dog?” I became aware of my dream and what was happening mid-stream.  I looked down at the dog and said to him, “Oh shit…”  I opened my eyes and felt for the damage.

I never wet the bed when I was a kid.  I never had to wear daipers to bed or be scared of sleeping over people’s houses.  No, I had to wait until I’m 32 and sound asleep on a memory foam mattress – One that absorbs EVERYTHING!

Hey, you wanted to know my life, so here it is.  How the hell did I get 60 followers with this nonsense?  Anyway, I probably won’t see you again until after I get back from  my “trip.”  I’ll journal everything, take pictures and video’s and capture the experience as best I can – just like I did for the Nepal post.  I don’t care what happens to me in Columbia, it’s not going to be nearly as bad as the hellish time I had in Nepal.

It’s the people you go with.  Going to new countries, to me, is awesome.  Adventure is awesome.  It’s the people you go with that can make or break your trip.

I’m going to go to the bathroom than go to bed.

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A little about myself

A late 1990’s, 60 minute Memorex dBS cassette tape with the top cover removed, showing & labeling the insides of the cassette tape. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

A telemarketer called me the other day while I was playing spider solitaire at the office.  She had a southern twang and sounded so sweet on the phone. 

Telemarketer – “Now I’m new at this, so I hope I do it right and tell you everything I’m supposed to tell you.”

Me – “Okay, you’re doin’ great.”

I stayed on the phone and listened to her schpiel.  I had nothing better to do.  I wanted to give her practice and confidence (I’m a weirdo like that).

Telemarketer – “How old are you if you don’t mind my asking?”

I had to think about it for a few seconds.  How old am I?  Oh right…but why is she asking?  Oh yeah, I sound naive and too young to afford her magazines.  Any moment she’s going to ask if my mother’s home.

Me – “32”

Telemarketer – “Oh WOW, really?  I’m right there with you girl but you don’t sound it.  You don’t sound a day over 21.”

Me – “Eh, thanks….”

She was being kind, but my voice and the way I come off to others is one of the things I hate about myself.  It’s one reason why I hate talking on the phone.

I have a loving, kind way about me.  I listen to others and care about them – I don’t even have to know them, but I still care about them.  It’s probably because of naivete or innocence, I don’t freakin’ know.  But nothing about it is fake.  There’s nothing artificial about me, maybe that’s considered naive.  Having a young voice doesn’t help.

Perhaps people mistake kindness for ignorance.

I don’t like people thinking I’m innocent, but I can’t help it.  God help me.  No wonder why everyone worries about me.

I feel that people are more likely to get pissed at me more so than at others.  Maybe they consider me as someone who knows better and I have no good excuse for my behaviour because they very well know that I know I did wrong, but I did it anyway.  There’s no wiggle room.  Some people can get away with acting stupid because that’s in their nature, it’s who they are.  But as for me, nobody cuts me any slack. 

Assholes do asshole things.  Nice people doing asshole things are harder to accept and can really hurt others.

I once worked with a slow-minded woman at Stop & Shop.  She was a bagger and I was a cashier.  I felt for her.  She was a bit defensive and ornery, but she had a heart and feelings.  She was working with a bunch of young high school brats who cracked jokes at her, so of course she’d be pissy.

One night at the age of 16 – an age where there’s not many fun activities to do at night, me and my co-workers went over to her house.  We were already in the neighborhood and thought it be nice to pay her a visit.  It felt wrong in my guts and I knew she would take it the wrong way.  If it was just me and my friend that came to visit, it would’ve been okay (she would have been elated!), but instead we brought along three jerky co-workers with us who just wanted to go see the “freak.”

I was against the visit in the first place.  I hung back in the shadows outside while the boys laughed and talked with her from her bedroom window.  I felt like the scum of the earth.  Her sister had to come out and tell us all to leave.

And she WAS pissed.  She forgave everyone except me – the one who stuck up for her and actually cared about her, I was the one she no longer spoke to.

She died in a horrible accident years later.  I never forgave myself for that night at her house.  I did know better. 

If you have two children with a significant age gap, it’s always the older one who gets in trouble, gets the blame.  The little one didn’t know any better.  Well, I’m always considered the older one – not in maturity (heaven knows I’m not mature), but in a different way.  Like, when it comes to matters of the heart.  A wise, caring understanding of people maybe?  When someone like me judges another person, says harsh things to them, it’s felt way more than when your everyday asshole says it.

And when people think I withdrawn my caring, understanding attention, they get spiteful.  It happened with Kristie, and sometimes with Dave (although he loves me too much to ever be rid of me).  It happens with Matt and just about everyone else I ever met.  It never happened with my really good friends though.

It happened with K in Nepal when I told her I didn’t want to hike with her anymore (its a really long story and you can read about it here), and I’m still getting punished for it.

Sometimes I get tired and need a break from everyone.  I have my own problems to deal with.

Telemarketer – “Are you married?  Do you have kids?”

I’m sure that a lot of people would’ve answered that question with a “What business of that is yours?”  Especially when it’s being asked by a complete stranger calling you up trying to sell stuff you don’t need.

But me on the other hand, that thought never entered my mind.

Me – “Ha ha, no.”

Telemarketer – “Oh now that could be why you sound so young.  I only wish I sounded like you.”

Another thing is, I have a tendency to love people in a non-sexual way.  I’m learning that most everybody takes my love in the wrong direction.  I have no ulterior motives or intentions when it comes to others, but they take my attention as being more than it is.  I feel hurt by this and think that the only reason guys stay friends with me is in hopes that one day we can do it.

I have a way with people. 

I was very sensitive, contemplative and reflective as a child – all the ingredients needed to be teased and pushed around.

In all my wonderings and ruminations, I realized at a very young age that all anyone ever wants is to be loved and feel connected to others.  All their actions, every single thing they do is done with the unknowing intent of gaining love and acceptance.  I forgave everybody and learned to accept people.  It opened my heart and changed me.  I guess maybe that’s where my wisdom came from.

I have the knowledge that all anybody wants is love.  I give people that love and connection.  Especially when they have none in their lives.  It’s easy for me to read people like this, and I know that what I give them is important to them.  So when it feels like I’m becoming distant, I get the proverbial shit kicked out of me.

It’s funny how I take the time to understand and connect with others, but instead of them wanting to connect back, they only want to screw me.  Male friendships are very complicated.  However, female friendships aren’t much easier.  At least I know what guys want.  Both sexes get equally fed up with me.

Should I just stop caring about people?  Is that how everyone loses their innocence?

I wish I kept all this crap in a private journal.  Nobody cares about what goes on in my head and writing a blog is pompous in that way. 

I stopped telling people about my blog a long time ago.  Writing a blog doesn’t make me special.  It makes me vulnerable.  I keep wanting to stop, but I can’t.  I feel like if I let too much slip by, everything becomes meaningless.  My life becomes empty when I have nothing of substance to look back on and learn from.  It’s like having a blank cassette tape with no music recorded.  And I love making Melanie Mega Mixes.

I’m sweaty, tired and have on no pants.  This laptop is really hot.  I’m thirsty.  This whole post started from one simple telemarketing call.  I can’t stop my brain!  I write a lot more than I publish, mostly everything I write is still a draft. 

I can’t wait to take some of those Columbian drugs.  My brothers fiancé know’s a girl from Columbia.  I told her where I’m going (upper regions of the Amazon in Putumayo and the valley of Sibundoy) and she replies back saying that it’s one of the most dangerous places in Columbia and she would NEVER under any circumstance go there. 

I wasn’t scared before, but now I’m a bit worried. 

I stereotype people – I love them, but still stereotype them.  An old man yesterday gave me a $20 tip all paid in half dollars for example.  Old men love change.  Who the hell carries around $20 worth of half dollars in their pocket other than old men?  Well, I do now apparently….

But anyway, I don’t have any stereotypes to assign people from Columbia.  These are the times when I don’t mind being blissfully ignorant – I don’t get scared.  The only thing I can connect Columbia with is the old 1980’s movie, Jewel of the Nile with what’s his face and sexy voice lady (forgot their names).  Colombians are comical ruffians who love romance novels, they call their vehicles Little Mules and throw enemies into crocodile pits.  I don’t have much to go on.

No wonder why people worry about me.

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Alexis Humor

 

I believe this to be the work of my niece, Alexis.  She’s the girl who eats entire sugar packets when we go out to eat.

Ode to 30 Rock

I’m Drunk as hell,

Eating chicken soup

Watching 30 Rock

Then maybe the Kung Fu movie, Ong-Bak

I laugh so hard

Tears run down my leg

I think tonight

I drank an entire beer keg

I slept with a married man

We did it on the floor

Liz Lemon would proclaim,

“Holy hammer of Thor!”

And now here I am

on the inter-web

Blogging the evil ewoks

out of my head

I lay here alone

Just me and my blog

Alone in my room

Writing this melodious glob

I taken two naps

One in the noon-time

And evening

Before my perilous

binge drinking

And now I’m warm and snug

Sipping chai tea

Laughing at the insecurities of

Jenna Maroney

30 Rock rules

It kicks my gloomy blues

Lets me forgive my adultery

And escape

For a little while

The

Grotesque carnival

Of human misery

As chai tea dribbles down my chin

Laughing at Jack Donaghy

Blurg.

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Smelly sacks

How I make spaghetti

I am one Tough Mudder

I’m a lazy, conceited, degenerate who thinks she can accomplish anything she wants in life.  I’m conceited in thinking that what others work so hard for, come’s easy and natural for me. I’m lazy because since I can accomplish anything, why bother with the actual doing part?  I’m a degenerate because my laziness made my mind and body slack.

So there you have it.  That’s my story.  Melanie the conceited, lazy, degenerate.

But the older I get, the more I want to actually do the doing part.  And the harder the doing part is, the better.  I don’t like to waste my time with small-time accomplishments.  No, not this hot banana – me being the hot banana.  Well, climbing the Himalayas made me feel more like a flaccid banana peel, but lets erase that from memory shall we?

I can accomplish anything no matter what people tell me.  She is able who thinks she is able.

So I signed myself up for the Tough Mudder.

“Tough Mudder events are hardcore 10-12 mile obstacle courses designed by British Special Forces to test your all around strength, stamina, mental grit, and camaraderie.”  So says the website.

10-12 miles….I can barely run half a mile.  I could never climb the rope in gym class or do one measly chin-up and when it comes to going under water, I almost drowned twice!  Towards the end of the obstacle course, I’ll be running through spaghetti-like live electrical wires.  Yes, I will be willingly electrocuting myself.

Electricity is just a myth…pffff.  Also, we live on the back of a giant turtle.  Or is it the other way around?

Guide me old wise turtle.

Here’s a look at what I’m about to do.  They sugar coated it to make people join up.

I’ll be doing the October Tri-State event in Jersey, so that gives me plenty of laying around time to prepare.  I wish I still had my Sheena underpants from when I was five to put under (or over) my super hero attire.

After I finish the race and aquire my Sheena strength and beauty, I can be all the more conceited and confident enough to talk to this guy:

He can fill my baby bucket with his sperm larvae any day.  And that’s just what I’ll tell him.

Me – “Here’s an idea;  You, me, my baby bucket and your orbs of sperm larvae – what do you say?  Shall we combine these ingredients?  Don’t forget I have a bucket to do it in.”

He will embrace my lyrical wit with his strong rippling biceps and hold me until the world makes sense again.

The world stopped making sense as soon as I got back from Nepal.  Now I’m back here living at home at 32, working for my brothers girlfriend and binge drinking almost every night while feeling lonely and incomplete.

Maybe this turtle can help me:

Most likely not.  Everyone here know’s that Michelangelo was the goof-off turtle.  It looks like he’s sporting a Moose knuckle in this pic.

My Kelty trekking pack stares longingly at me from the corner of my bedroom saying, “When are you going to sew this fucking Annapurna patch on me?”

I keep forgetting that I have to stop working for my brothers girlfriend and start my own business to make money.  Enough money to go somewhere again.  That’s all I want to do – leave.

My friends still don’t care to see me, I stay drunk all day like an idiot, I have no ambition for anything and I work six hours a week.  Seriously Mel?  Is that what you want out of life?  No!  I refuse to be a flaccid banana peel!

I think I’ll have better luck in asking this guy for advice:

But he was so old in this movie.  He’s probably not around anymore.

Damn, I have to go to bed.  Tomorrow might be a long day.

Kristie keeps flooding my phone with texts.  She’s been texting me promptly at 9 am everyday since we met, wishing me a “Good Morning!”  She know’s I’m not awake at this ungodly hour and settles with my 12 o’clock “Good Afternoon” text back.

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My last day of work and an ode full of toe rot all in todays special installment of “Melanie’s Blog”

Image via Wikipedia

This is my very last time sitting in this particular Starbucks.  My job in this plaza is done.  Finito.  Hasta la pasta buster.

I hate goodbye’s – I really loathe them.  One of my coworkers went all out and bought me a card and several presents for my trip to Nepal.  It was really touching and thoughtful. I have trouble with touching and thoughtful because they’re too much for me to handle.  I’m too sensitive and sentimental so any touching expressions hit me hard in a place where there are no words.

I’m sitting here in Starbucks with the sun shining in my face.  I can’t stop yawning and rubbing my eyes.  I slept so well these past few days, acquiring well over the recommended amount.  I am after all, a professional sleeper.  I know of no other who can sleep 14 hours in a single day, or take naps on a whim other than cat’s and old men in recliners.  I am blessed with the gift of sleep but the only problem is it makes me so damn groggy.

Two clients remain before I can sneak out of ME without causing any more touching goodbye sentiments.

I’m leaving for Nepal soon.  Today is Feb 22 and I leave March 4th.  I’ve gotten very little exercise to prepare myself for the Annapurna Circuit.  Practically none, really.

Last Friday I went out with one of my girlfriends.  We started the night at the Cadillac Ranch where we got bumped and pushed while line dancing.

Did you know that line dancer’s are nuts?  I’m going to get in trouble for saying that because they’re everywhere and overtaking the population.  But if you ever get caught dancing creatively on the line dance floor, you will get pushed and cattle prodded by your so-called friendly neighbors.  Breakdancing for example, is shunned at a cowboy bar.  If I were to breakdance at the Cadillac Ranch, Indiana Jones and the temple of Doom’s fire pit would emerge beneath me and I’d fall to my death chanting “Um nump she body Um nump she body,”  after getting my beating heart ripped out of my chest by a line dancer of course.

Unfortunately for me, the floor attracts my spinning back like poop on boots once I get moving and grooving with a belly full of beer.

Me and my friend escaped to Sam the Clams before getting pelted with flying belt buckles.

There was a band playing at Sam the Clams and people were dancing.  I was getting snockered and having fun, so I got down on the floor and spun around in an attempt to breakdance.  I do this whenever I feel the crowd’s attention on me – and they were egging me on.  After I busted a move (and my tail bone), I got up and did a sort of “jazz hands” to thrill my captive audience.  I had a big cheesy smile on my face.  That’s when an old lady hugged and kissed me.  YES my dancing is really that awesome that old lady’s feel compelled to hug and kiss me.

My friend had her back turned the whole time talking to someone, so she missed my breakdancing.  But hey it’s cool, it’s not like I tugged on her arm and said, “Did you see me?  Did you see me breakdance?”  I’m too cool for such unnecessary attention.  Too cool indeed.

Then I took part in a three-way kiss.  I’m not really a three-way kind of gal, hell, I’m not even a two-way unless I’m madly in love and considering marriage.  It’s a shame really, because I really like sex.  Sex is cool yo.  I at least still have the one-way version.  And also my lucid dreams where I grab the nearest man and have my way with him.

I tried to play it cool by agreeing to the kiss, but it turned out to be a complete failure.  I kept laughing so the only things getting kissed were my teeth, which made me laugh even more.  When it was over, one of the people said, “Um, that was weird.”

It turned out that the high point of my night was the kiss and hug from the old lady who loved my breakdancing moves.

I woke up at noon the next day and went to hibachi with my ex and his entire Polish family to celebrate his dad’s birthday.  It was quite honestly the best hibachi I ever had.  I was ravenous.  Squid hibachi makes for a great hangover food.  The best part was it was FREE!

I went back to Dave’s parents house to eat cake.  His Polish relative who could barely speak English was telling me about people who died hiking the Himalayas.  He said I need wool socks and a radio attached to my jacket.  I don’t think he realized I’m not actually going up Everest, just dawdling around its lowest base camps.

I crawled into bed when I got home and slept for ten hours.

*******************************

I’m home from Starbucks, home from work.

Far away from going berserk

I popped open a Hefeweizen

Read my blog post over again

And tried to find words to describe how elated I am

No, that’s not true

Elated I am not

I feel as scared and helpless as my Mother’s toe rot.

(Click the pic to see)

I had too much nicotine

Too much caffeine

My brain is melting like Charlie Sheens’

I’m leaving in ten days

To a place I never been

No hot water, no indoor plumbing

Will make me feel quite unbecoming 

But alas I must go

It will be an adventure fo’ sho’

My life will be like a brilliant starry night

Like the painting, Starry Night

By Van Gogh

My Mother’s worryied that I might start a political riot in Nepal just because I’m sporting a “Free Tibet” bumper sticker latched on the side of my car.  It’s a compliment, really.  I mean, does she really think I have it in me to start a revolt?  Am I a leader?  A leader of Nepal deemed worthy of being named Her Holiness the 15th Dalai Lama?

Mom – “Don’t talk politics whatever you do.  Don’t start anything to cause a riot.”

Me –  “I’m going to start a revolt!”

Mom –  “Don’t you dare!”

Me –  “REVOLUTION!”

Mom –  “Don’t forget to bring Nana’s whistle.”

In other news, today was my last day of work.  Christina, my massage nemesis, was there.

During one of her lecture’s a few weeks ago, she was showing me a book – MY book that I brought from home to keep at the clinic as a reference guide.

Christina – “This book is great.  See, you can look up any medication a client is taking and see the contraindications for that medicine.”

Me – “Yeah I know, this is my book.  I brought it from home.”

Christina – “Oh, really?”

And today, when I was cleaning out my locker, I looked over on the bookshelf and seen my book Christina was using to lecture me with.  I was going to take it home just to spite her.  I opened the book to the front page cover and seen written in bold black ink, her handwriting, “PROPERTY OF MASSAGE ENVY, GLASTONBURY.”

Me – “Holy shit that evil bitch.”

She’s not actually evil, but saying it aloud made me feel better.   I know for a fact that wasn’t written there on lecture day.

But just think about it.  I mean, just how much hate and anger can this woman have for me?  I know that Jeff, the owner, talked to her about my resignation letter.  I was keen on her ignoring me.  But I didn’t lie to anyone.  I may have played the role of an underhanded little shit, but I’m passive aggressive and that’s how I roll.

I ended up not taking the book home with me.  Now I wish I had.  It feels like she won by getting to keep my stinking book.

Oh well, what can you do……I’m going to sleep for a good ten hours then go hiking.

Oh no wait!  First I’ll tell you about the dream I had.

I’ve been vaping my e cig a lot and accruing a high nicotine debt, so I think that’s what triggered this lucid dream.  It was a weird semi-out of body lucid dream.  It started with odd sounds in my bedroom, but being too tired to wake myself up, I let it slide.  Then I floated out of bed and looked out my window to see the sun shining and reflecting shimmering wads of cash raining down outside.

“Oh that should be a good sign.  I have to remember to look up money in my dream dictionary.”

Then I was traveling at warp speed.  I had a brilliant idea to use this sacred time to prophesize my Nepal trip.  So I asked the question, “Will I have fun on my Nepal trip?”

Then I was some place dark.  I got scared, but a tribesman picked me up and started running me away from the darkness.  He had a deadpan face, looking straight ahead and running at a brilliant clip.

Once we were safe, he put me down and I asked him the question, “How will my Nepal trip go?”

He starts laughing.  He had short dreads matted down on his forehead, a big smile.

Tribesman – “Ha ha, I’m sorry but I don’t usually get people like you here asking me questions.”

I studied him closely to see if my brain could ever conjure up such a man.  I looked at him expectantly.  He pleasantly came closer to my face and said in a clear, crystal voice;

Tribesman – “Be your experience.”

I had no idea what he meant.  I still don’t.

Then he slipped away back into what looked like another dimension separated by a thick membrane between his world and mine.  I could hear his fellow tribesmen snickering at me and trying to scare me by grabbing at me from the other side of the membrane.  So I ran away and that’s when I woke up.

It was weird.  I’m weird.  Shit.

Reasons why I’m a dope

1)  Some woman took a picture of my license plate today because I was supposedly “swerving out of control” in front of her.  Yes it got a little dicey for a while, but come on…..it’s not like I was continually swerving out of control and driving onto people’s lawns.  It was only once!  I only glanced down for a second to check my phone, but she held her phone up at eye level while she drove trying to take a picture of my car.  Who is more irresponsible hmmm?

2)  I was having horrible anxiety for weeks and just figured out today that it’s because of my electronic cigarette.  I’ve been vaping non-stop lately.  Nicotine gives me unfathomable amounts of anxiety (shivering in a fetal position and having hellish thoughts about my parents dying and being alone and unloved for the rest of my life) – it messes me up BIG time.  I’m a dope because this has happened before in the past, I just completely forgot about it.

3)  I bought a box of Vplensih for my 20 day trek thru Nepal.  I thought I was buying 200 little packets of powered electrolytes to sprinkle in my nalgene bottle, but I instead got a huge box of 2,000 packets.  I don’t even think there are any electrolytes in them.  Just small amounts of vitamins.

3.5)  I used to call nalgene bottles, algene bottles.  And still do sometime.

4)  The nicotine in my electronic cigarette is giving me heart palpitations, but I’m still vaping it as we speak.

5)  I bought a box of Jack Link’s (50 count) for my Nepal trek, but found out they are too heavy and bulky to carry in my pack.  So I’ve been eating 4 or 5 of them daily and wondering why my stomach’s been hurting me lately.

6)  I bought an australian canvas dover hat because I thought it would help me look cool.

I was going to wear it out for my birthday dinner to the Outback Steakhouse, but changed my mind because I didn’t want my brother to make fun of me.  Although, he’s the one to make fun of since he ate way too much and projectile vomited all over his bedroom last week.

7)  I’m an avid believer in yoga face.

It works!  It actually works!

I discovered this YouTube video over the summer and did the exercises for a week or two and actually started seeing a change in my face – a good change.  But then I forgot about it until just recently (after seeing my new drivers license photo) and decided to give it a shot again and holy crap I swear it works!

Please watch the video it’s hilarious, and not BS.  I call it the poor mans face lift.

8)  I can never remember how to spell the word EXERCIZE.  Excersize, exercise, excersize?

9)  I’m going to stop blogging now so I can watch Naruto.