Time Management

I woke up this morning with this great plan to deactivate my Facebook account and cut off the cable. I just got back from vacation with a good friend who is a doctor with four kids. Her life partner travels pretty much constantly for work and so she's a single mom to those four kids 72% of the time. All of the kids make straight A's and play travel soccer. When she's not at the hospital busy saving lives, she is flying out of town two or three nights a month to give talks for drug companies (for $3,000 a pop). She also has some sort of research grant and a research assistant that as far as I can tell, has little (or nothing) to do with her regular doctor job at the hospital. This is a whole other life-saving endeavor in and of itself. When it is one of her four kids' birthdays, she bakes the birthday cake. She sews her own curtains (and they look great). Needless to say, this bitch doesn't have Facebook and never watches television. She is well-traveled, always jetting off for a long weekend in St. Maarten or Zurich or West Virginia. She also looks great in a bikini, which begs the question, why exactly did I pick her to go on vacation with?

I have another friend who is very, very high up in the military, like one of the highest-ranking military officials in the country (world?). Despite living about ten states away, he is in Washington, D.C. two or three times every week. It is nothing to get a text from him one day from Kuwait and then the next day from Korea. When he tells me his weekly schedule, I get tired just from listening to it. And he never forgets my birthday. You guessed it, he doesn't have a Facebook account and wouldn't know who Snooki was if she slapped him in the face.

Of course I'm sure neither of them have blogs either.

Aspirations

When I grow up, I want to be a gypsy wedding planner.

PTSD

When you are a witty Alpha you get invited to a lot of parties. But you are basically unpaid help, there to entertain everyone, to be charming, tell good stories and make everyone laugh. Eventually the free alcohol isn't worth the burden of knowing that everyone's good time is dependent on your good time. Especially when you calculate how much money you spend to bitch to your therapist about said burden.

And how narcissistic are you when the other thing you pay to bitch about is being smarter than everyone you deal with on a daily basis?

Some people might worry that after a hundred or so hours of listening to such bitching, that the listener is bored to tears and barely listening at all. But a true narcissist doesn't worry about such things, and is instead convinced that their therapist wants to fuck them.

Yo Adrienne!

You know that part in Rocky IV where Rocky banishes himself to Siberia and trains for the big fight by living in a barn in Russia, lifting frozen wheel barrows and chasing chickens? Well, that's what I'm doing. Only without the big fight at the end. And I will probably never step foot in Russia.

Fuck Facebook

I'm going old skool and start blogging again.

My Eagles Are Wetter Than Your Eagles

I've very slowly and miserably been dying of pneumonia for the past several weeks. That pneumonia was very officially diagnosed by Dr. Hot Lipz. So this week I finally went to the doctor, the dermatologist. I have great skin actually, texture wise that is, but lately I've been cursed with this weird and horrible blotchy uneven skin tone. So I finally broke down and made a dermatologist appointment and then waited the 9 months until they could finally fit me in. Oddly, the dermatologist prescribed me a low dose antibiotic and said that sometimes that helps with uneven skin tone. I know, that doesn't make any sense to me either, but who am I to argue with a skincare professional? Initially I thought, Wow, this is great, I'll have flawless, even skin and get rid of my lung-plaguing pneumonia all with one copay and prescription. But that was almost a week ago, and I think my pneumonia is getting worse. I think I have just strengthened it with this bullshit skin antibiotic. So if you never hear from me again, I've succumbed to the mutated, drug-resistant, self-created lung infection. It was nice knowin' ya.

I'm currently in the process of hiring a new cleaning lady. Not a day goes by that I don't receive some poorly-punctuated flyer for a new cleaning service in my paper box. So the interview process could go on indefinitely, but I think I am just going to have to take the plunge and make a decision here in the next couple of days. So far I have it narrowed down to two. It is either going to be the two Brazilian girls who are built like brick shithouses who showed up to give me an estimate in 9 inch platform shoes and micro mini skirts and don't speak a word of English. Or it is going to be the very American (it says so on the bumper sticker on the back of her '98 Dodge Ram) redneck woman with an ass like a bag of marshmallows who is overpriced, but English is her first language. The Brazilian bombshells are a good $40 a week less than Rhonda the Redneck, which equates to $160 a month, and hell I could have a Kia for that amount of money every month. But I think being able to communicate with my house staff is really fairly important for a number of reasons. $160 a month could seem like chump change when the Brazilian bombshells fuck everything in the house because they don't understand my directions or can't read the labels on the cleaning products. But one of them did have an ass that was giving me impure thoughts as I was walking up the steps behind her. Decisions, decisions.

I hope you all had great holidays and 2008 is looking bright for all of yous. I'm going to try harder to be a better blogger in the coming months.

Well, Well, Well

Look who finally decided after a two-month absence to make an appearance on her blog.

And it only took me 346294820 attempts to remember my password.

There is pretty much nothing I can say about my absence that will explain it or forgive it. I've got some shit going on. Like mega, major, life-altering shit. And it has consumed every morsel of my time and energy for the past 8 weeks. I think the shit is going to turn into some awesomeness, but until then, the shit is just going to have to stay secret. But I'd say by spring, early summer this blog will be benefitting from the past couple months of shit. During my 8 weeks of shit, I've taken up meditating or some bastardized version there of and I've found much comfort in cliches. My two current faves are: It Is What It Is (I recently saw this painted on the back of a dumptruck and although I've heard this a million times before, it suddenly made sense and I'm pretty sure God painted it on the back of that dumptruck with his own two holy hands) and Live and Let Live. Deep, huh?

Be patient, I don't want to jinx myself, but once the appropriate amount of time has passed it will all make sense. It is what it is, after all.

And whether I blog or not, I still love the hell out of my hotties. I love ya'll more than I love my Don Miguel empanadas from the freezer section. Well, ya'll are a close second.