Finding a balance

Sitting on the tile floor of our windowless mini-bathroom the other night, I kept the light off and opened my eyes comically wide, aiming them up towards the center of the room. As thick and still as the darkness had seemed moments earlier, it became richer and more textured, swirling the space around me into deeper and deeper blackness. Beyond your everyday lights-off dark room, this was the absolute absence of light, felt in the very core of me, mirroring some other vague missing piece that reminds me on a semi-regular basis that I am odd, too sensitive, not sensitive enough, seemingly broken beyond repair.

Monk and I had an unresolved Tense Discussion that left both of us hurting, though in all fairness (if “all fairness” means “my immature state of mind” and “to be really petty about it”), he wasn’t the one who scored less than two hours of sleep afterwards. He’s also not the one who is messed up in da head, yo, but I don’t think my problems will make very good reading today, so I will now rather obviously change the subject to something slightly more positive.

[edited to remove work-related commentary. And there was much rejoicing.]

On to the positive: I dropped a handful of money on my massage therapy tuition yesterday. Now I have to save like I’ve never saved before to come up with the very big chunk of remaining tuition in about six weeks because I’M ACTUALLY GOING THROUGH WITH THIS. Very excited about that, but a little nervous too, because it's going to be very intense and very study-study for several months, and I may do intense fairly well, but past evidence proves my ineptitude in the study-study department.

I have another good thing in the works that I said I would reveal weeks ago and then never did which is not very nice, so here it is: I haven’t smoked since October 30. Not a one, not even a puff throughout Thanksgiving celebrations, concentrated in-law time, parental visiting or Tense Discussions. I’m on my way to becoming an official Non-Smoker, and while that world seems a bit vanilla, my lungs and ageing skin will thoroughly appreciate it. And we all know that beauty and the ability to blow up many many birthday balloons in one sitting are the truly important things in life.


FIVE! GO-OLD RINGS! (sweat stains, that is)

On the 80 millionth day of Christmas with the fa-mi-leeee…

Sometimes I just have to take a moment, slack-jawed in wonder, to appreciate the way the stomach can roil anxiously throughout a parental visit, only to have the heart turn bruised and tender as their on-the-horizon departure brings a feeling of sweet relief, accompanied by the emphatic guilt kickback for feeling such relief in the first place. Bad child! Bad!

I was going to present highlights of the family holiday visit lined up with the verses from The Twelve Days of Christmas, but you know what? That song is annoying and I’m fucking exhausted.

In no particular order:

1) Brother has grown a strange frame of beard for his face, and has attempted to grow a mustache (which he thankfully shaved mid-visit). I resisted making Amish/Abe Lincoln jokes all week, mostly because my parents seemed so eager to include the facial hair in their pick-on-our-son repertoire. The main event in said repertoire was telling all in attendance at Sister’s Christmas Day dinner (meaning not only family, but also Sister's playgroup parent friends) the tale of The Day We Discovered Our Son’s Penchant for Internet Porn. Fabulous!

2) Clod had a few too many rum and cokes and consequently became very talkative, detailing Sister’s issues and their shaky marriage to me. Hey guy? I know the counselor is advocating more communication, but I’m pretty sure she means with your wife, not with your sister-in-law, who seems to be doing a terrific deer-in-the-headlights imitation right now.

3) The Christmas Eve dinner at our place was a lukewarm success. I discovered that hosting a big dinner for your family is quite different, and horrifically more stressful, than hosting a dinner party for friends. Even if you’ve used a Honey Baked Ham gift certificate to provide the turkey, vegetable, two potato dishes, etc. Because, guess what?! Heating up a pre-cooked turkey still takes about FOUR HOURS, and a person needs more than one dinky little microwave to have all the side dishes ready at the same time. Oh, and making gravy from scratch? Tedious. And not really worth it. To further complicate the ordeal, leave everything and sit your heathen ass down in a church pew for a too-long service, rush back to the house only to have your entire family show up 30 seconds later, foaming at the mouth for a “nice family picture,” but your spouse isn’t back from the liquor run and everyone’s hungry so you end up spending the next hour and a half preparing the meal with your coat on because if you don’t you’ll surely spill something on your fancy clothes (and there is no good pause point in the meal prep to go pose for a picture and then change into jeans), and the dogs are running around crazy and no one is watching the baby (in a very non-baby-proofed house), and your mother keeps popping in to “help,” but drops the ball mid-task because she has recently morphed into an easily-distracted old lady…

4) So the family picture went well, with the exception of Brother looking stoned off his face with one eye closed, Mother outdoing him with both eyes closed, Monk gritting his teeth as he attempts to keep the dog in one place (so as not to give the camera a nice dog ass shot), and me, folded into the front row with a sweaty face, matted hair and a demonic glint in my eyes.

And now, on to planning our multiple-party New Year’s Eve (yes, that’s right, we are popular. Sort of), which will probably involve a lot less alcohol than the amount consumed over the past week would suggest. Because Texas does not rock with its lack of cabs and public transportation, and also because every day I wake up a little fatter than before and I’m starting to suspect that gallons of beer and wine and rum and coke may have something to do with it. Also maybe the cake, cookies and eggnog in the refrigerator that I plan to finish off this week. Well, you shouldn’t waste food, people.

Stay tuned for the New Year’s Resolution post in which I promise to lose 15 pounds over 4 months, patting myself on the back for being realistic and optimistic at the same time.

And then stay tuned for the post whining about a serious lack of self-discipline and the siren song of beer, pizza and ice cream.


'Twas the day before Christmas...

You know how the holidays can make a person violent? Don’t we all know by now that it’s not the holiday, it’s the company? Show of hands from the people out there who, throughout any kind of family visit, have that itchy little thought running through their heads that it might be a happier holiday if they were to spend it with the folks they chose to have in their life, instead of the ones they were assigned. I cannot be the only one willing to out this scandalous opinion.

(My best Thanksgiving, for instance, was spent sitting on the floor of a roach-infested apartment with Monk and Biff, eating lasagna, garlic bread and pumpkin pie off of a cardboard box, and washing it all down with jugs of pumpkin beer. Granted, that holiday memory was made possible by several lies laid on my family the next state over, all pointing to a villain in the form of a bar owner boss (fact) and having to work Thanksgiving night (fiction). Also granted, my mother still talks about the Thanksgiving I Missed, six years later. It may end up in her memoirs, under the Traumatizing Moments chapter.)

It is Monk’s turn to tolerate a visit with the in-laws, as my parents are in town for the week. The pros and cons may differ, but the suffering remains the same. Although, to hear him tell it, my family visiting brings the weight of the world to rest on his weary shoulders…which then causes his skin to peel back and his muscles to collapse under the terrible strain. Baby.

I say we put on some music and spike the eggnog, and we’ll all get through it with a little elf-medication (har har, get it? Hmmm, seemed clever at first, but now it just doesn’t make any sense). So here’s a handful of Christmas songs on my special Family Visit Soundtrack. Some provoke conflicting emotions, and some bring about the occasional lack of confidence in my personal tastes and convictions. Just like family! First person to find a drinking game in them wins a visit from my anti-alcohol mother (or Sister, if she can find a babysitter) to tell you why you obviously have a problem.

Snoopy vs. the Red Baron: Everybody jump up and down, everybody march around! That’s not part of the song, it’s what you do in your living room to the “Christmas bells” part if you can’t execute the Snoopy dance properly.

Feliz Navidad: A three year-old could memorize this song, and if you can sing along accurately to the Spanish part, you can impress people at parties (if this is not true, someone clue me in before I put on a show at our upcoming NYE parties), and that is why I love it. As a bonus, I always seem to envision the Muppets dancing along in that bobbing, sliding side to side way of theirs with each verse.

Anything from Harry Connick Jr.’s Christmas albums: Harry Connick Jr. could sing that my bank account ceased to exist, and I think I’d be okay. I react to Harry Connick Jr. the same way Monk’s parents react to him, whether it’s experimenting with a music style, helping out in New Orleans, or running across a stage to take a flying whack at a giant bass drum.

O Holy Night: Sung by Mariah Carey. The pipes on that woman! But then, it’s Mariah Carey, so, SHAME, SHAME ON ME.

The Little Drummer Boy: Sweet baby Jesus this is the worst song ever. A pansy-assed, wet cardboard, dull-as-Ashlee-Simpson Christmas tune. I loathe the song so intensely, rage seizes my stomach when I hear it. Makes me want to pa rum pa pum pummel someone’s head in. On the other hand, I seem to be alone in my distaste, which is disturbing; I wonder if I should rethink it, maybe go for a little therapy, and join the masses on this one?

Baby It's Cold Outside: Must admit, the Barry Manilow version (duet with KT Oslin) rocks my world, with the exception (the very big, chock full o’ awkwardness exception) of all the back and forth between Bear Bear and K-love in the beginning. Then again, show me anyone who is comfortable (or even unfazed) listening to two people (who sound like they just came up for air) flirt heavily. It’s like watching your parents tongue-kiss. Anyone?

Chug a lug pooh bears, sing along to the radio and have a very merry Christmas. If you’re into that sort of thing.


Oh, and the gifts were nice, too (an epic entry, with visual aids)

I’m sorry, have I mentioned work work work? And the roadtrip to St. Louis? And then more work work work?

During the 9 hour drive last Thursday, Monk and I engaged in pleasant conversation, before and after tackling the State of the Relationship talk, and also narrowly escaped having the grill of a truck embedded in our rib cages in Small Town, Oklahoma. Due to some quick thinking (Monk’s, not mine) and even quicker driving, (again, Monk’s, not mine) we avoided danger, damage and dismay to check into what must have been either a converted natatorium/gymnasium, or an unused set left over from that Beetlejuice movie. You don’t believe me? Of course we took pictures:

I’d laugh if this were in someone’s yard. Didn’t really know what to do in this instance, however, since it was in the hotel lobby:

I'm not including the photo documentation of the mini-stages lining the perimeter of the main floor, or the cinder block flower boxes containing various fake shrubs, trees and orchids. Or the Christmas lights strangling the tops of said fake trees, which actually seemed like a year-round touch. All of this inside the building, just so we're clear. Also? We lucked out and got a room with a sex chair! Presumably.

Not what you thought? I just hope our theory was wrong, too. So then maybe that wasn’t the greased-up ass print of a low budget hooker on the headboard?

I’m sure you’re wondering why we didn’t complain and switch rooms. If you had seen the public laundry area, you’d understand that we didn’t think we were going to do any better at that point.

On a positive note, they had the world’s safest kiddie pool! Well, in terms of drowning.

Since the in-laws weren’t aware that we were in the hiz-ouse Thursday night, we went to the nearby mall to finish Christmas shopping (what? Like you all were finished with a week and a half to spare? Shut up). Monk initiated some fancy mall walking, which involves a speed at which your eyeballs dry up and people’s baseball caps get zipped around on their heads, plus muttering angrily when stalled behind the idiots that, for whatever reason, shop four across.

(Is this a power thing? No one wants to “walk bitch,” so they all walk alongside each other?)

We were walking behind a group of said idiots when we were engulfed in a hot and heavy Bad Smell. Monk stage-whispered “are we walking behind a fart?” which set us off giggling and veering around the group like lunatics. Unfortunately, we were almost immediately stuck behind another pack of dolts, and (nearing panic) discovered that yes indeed, we were again walking behind a fart. However, proving that odors, like looks, can be deceiving (an issue under much debate, I’m sure), we rounded a corner to see liquid pooling in our path. As my foot came down with a splash, we realized the fart smell was coming from the “water.” Most likely there was a toilet/pipe explosion issue. The security guards began yelling conflicting orders at the masses (“Go around!” “Jump across!” “Go back that way!” “No, don’t come this way!”). We the sheeple were herded this way and that around the sewage canal now snaking around and throughout the building, until Monk and I managed to find a way out, never to know what really happened back there.

With no one to hear the tale of the Melting Mall, we continued the strange and slap happy evening at White Castle. During the 40 minute wait for our “food,” we were entertained by a Very Angry Woman. We were first tipped off that this was a Very Angry Woman when we walked in and she shot an “excuse ME” in our direction (we were not in her way, but I’m sure SHE HAD HER REASONS). The Very Angry Woman was dressed in a festive sweater and earrings, pursing her lips and scolding the Whiteys staff for… something. Multiple times. Her earrings said Merry Christmas, her haircut said Great Clips, and her attitude said she expected first class service from White Castle.

Monk also received a weirdly familiar hello-plus-nod from an unknown man apparently arriving from a sales conference. Or a Jehovah’s Witness meeting.

The rest of the weekend was mostly filled with the usual in-law antics (i.e., Monk’s mother forgetting to include me in conversation, Monk’s father’s inability to state his opinion directly or honestly, both parents having massive orgasms of pride and joy at whatever comes out of their son’s mouth, and abruptly changing the subject after asking me a small-talk-type question that I had the gall to answer), and of course the family portrait session was a blast. The teenager taking the picture had obviously been trained well in the art of Making it Look Real! And Casual! And Fun! And Having Otherwise Dignified Adults Lie Down on the Hard Floor on Their Bellies! She was oddly surprised and at a loss when I told her “no, I’m not going to sit on Sister-in-law, actually.”

Sunday evening we arrived home to discover that half of my clothes were still hanging up in the hotel room. More accurately, they were when we left St. Louis that morning. According to the front desk manager, no clothes have been found and we should keep calling if we ever hope to reach the housekeeping supervisor, as Housekeeping is short-staffed at the moment. Yeah, no kidding.

And now, back to work work work.


Look, I'm disjointed!

I feel like I am holding the broken threads of a rope bridge railing in each hand, hoping against hope that when my sweaty fingers lose their grasp I will hit the churning water gently and be able to swim easily to shore.

Not gonna happen.

I need to give up on the idea that my ducks will be forming a neat little row anytime soon. I must accept the likelihood that I will leave loose ends untied at the close of tomorrow’s workday, before our Thursday morning road trip. The dogs may not go to the kennel on time, or they will be missing proof of some key vaccination. I might just drink heavily during our weekend visit with Monk’s family and let it slip that the scheduled family portrait hour at Sears-equivalent is not my fucking cup of tea. We will definitely not return with enough time to prepare for the visit from my parents next week. The holiday photo card is probably on the back burner for next year- this year the relatives get generic, if anything. Let’s not even talk about the abandoned holiday letter (not that anyone will miss it. Am I the only one that actually likes to get updates from people I don’t bother to keep in touch with on a regular basis?) And the list goes on, people.

And throughout it all, work work work work work work work work work work work work work work work work work.

So I have no cohesive thoughts. Here are some completely unrelated items from my week:

Dad calls me at the office:

“Please don’t mention the unemployed thing to your brother; he’s taking finals this week.”
“Why would I do that? It’s kind of your thing to tell, isn’t it?”
“Well, your sister told you...”

Decades into our relationship and I am still stamping my feet and crying “I am nothing like her!”


Monk came up with a clever ruse the other night that forced me to answer the phone when his parents called. Later, he brought it to my attention that he has spent years being annoyed that I do not pick up when I see his parents’ number on the caller ID. I guess he’d finally had enough to start a Tense Discussion about it. My philosophy is: your parents, your obligation. Kind of like your heap of food, your meal. I won’t be picking noodles off your plate. I thought it was a well known fact that I am just not a Person Who Shares Things, which does apply, thankyouverymuch, to Parental Phone Call Duty. We need to stop focusing on the brief time period seven years ago in which I was nice to you to get in your pants. We need to move on.


[edited to remove work-related commentary. And there was much rejoicing.]


That old black ice magic

When a person records Parts 1 and 2 of a two-part show, one expects to be able to watch both parts of that show. Especially when one depends on certain recorded shows to distract them from the tedium and effort of their morning exercise routine. Thank you, CBS News in Dallas, for canceling the second part of the program that had sucked me in so completely the day before that I actually went to sleep wondering how everything was going to turn out. This local event was obviously so monumental that it called for a six hour, minute-by-minute breaking news special yesterday.

Brace yourselves: The Dallas area was hit two days ago with extremely cold temperatures, sleet and freezing rain, and a resulting black ice epidemic. 98% of the schools around here were closed (I’m just making that percentage up to illustrate that there may have been a handful of schools open, but they were the schools attached to churches, so I imagine they had the salt trucks of God on their side), and the good people of Dallas were struck by despair, mass paranoia and endless news reports detailing this weather surprise.

I get that Texas isn’t supposed to be this cold. I get that ice on the roads makes for hazardous driving. I do not get why news anchors need to repeat BLACK ICE with the dread of a soon-to-be-hanged man in their voices (or perhaps it’s closer to that of a villager witnessing the advent of a new plague), or station a camera next to the highway, and return to the nearly-frozen and frankly under-dressed token minority staff member every few minutes to receive an update like “as you can see, the roads are still icy.” Back to the news room for some fun with meteorological maps, spin the radar line around a bit, superimpose some tweaked time-lapse photography, and a close-up of the news anchor with the next update: “As you can see, it is still extremely cold and icy out there, folks.”

But the recurring theme of the news program, radio reports and conversations was this BLACK ICE that struck terror in the hearts of people far and wide.

I skated to work yesterday with the other eight people in Dallas who do not have the luxury of flexible hours, “working from home” (I’m pretty sure this is actually a fictional arrangement, though) or children suddenly exiled from their schools and needing supervision. Boss’s housekeeper burst in on me sporadically to cry about the BLACK ICE (which apparently is why she had to leave mid-morning the day before. Here I thought it was better to wait a bit for the sun to do its job, but, whatever). Boss called in a few times to ask me what it was like outside (“well Boss, as you can guess, it’s still cold and icy out there”) so I obligingly told her some BLACK ICE stories that beat the pants off any dead-guy’s-hook-scraping-the-car-roof stories. Boss’s errand guy told me not to go outside without buttoning up my coat or I’d catch pneumonia, but I told him that was just an old BLACK ICE tale.

Today the below-freezing temps and the BLACK ICE have all but disappeared, and I will never know what happened to the pathetic people the good doctor planned on helping in Part 2 of my program. All that news coverage for the weather. Thanks a lot, CBS news. A BLACK ICE on both your houses.


Someone's gonna wake up with a horse head in their bed.

My dad and I were talking about radio stations recently. He and I used to listen to NPR and I was disappointed to learn he had become an avid country radio fan. This was mostly due, he claimed, to NPR “getting too liberal. They’re always interviewing poor people on that station, complaining ‘wah wah wahhh, I’m so poor.’” Well. Sounds like a good reason to me, those poor people really shouldn’t have a voice.

Despite the horribly conservative, kind of cruel sentiment behind his comment, every time I reach into my brain and hit the replay key, it still makes me chuckle. My dad and I are pretty close, despite the rage and rebellion of my childhood. He gave me my smile, my ski jump nose and my temper. He and I had our deepest, best talks over projects like building sets for the church play, or a tree house for the backyard. My dad helped me understand my mother better, find the confidence to leave a bad relationship, and the courage to tell my mother I had failed a class in college (an F! In Philosophy! Who does that?!). I was always aware, from preschool through college (and yes, into adulthood) that my dad would beat up anyone who hurt me.

My dad was laid off Monday morning. I found out when Sis called, warning me not to call my parents that evening. Monday evening I realized how alone I still am, with no one to dump my surprise and anguish on, Monk at practice, the out-of-towners’ numbers locked up tight, and no substantial relationships out here. (I did also realize this wasn’t really about me, of course. What do you take me for? Ever heard of empathy, people?!) I just wanted to sit and moan to someone over coffee, like the old days, so I wouldn't call my parents and end up sprinkling more anxiety and what ifs over the already bad start to their week.

Instead, I endured a rolling stomach and fitful sleep until I could talk to my dad the next morning. He told me how sneaky the delivery had been, how betrayed he felt (less than 3 years away from retirement), but how it was also a little liberating. He “celebrated” with a bottle of wine Monday night, under the anxious, not-amused gaze of my mother. My dad assured me that he was okay, that he would get through this unscathed, that everything would be alright. I guess I mostly believe him. He and I exchanged humor and silver linings for a while, but still the ache in me persisted, still my voice broke every few minutes as my eyes watered from pain and frustration, longing to fly “home” and hug everyone happy.

I don’t think we recognize the moment the switch is flipped. When do we begin to feel this immeasurable compulsion to make everything alright for our parents? To fix the things we haven’t even nailed down in our own lives? At what point did I start wanting to protect my dad, to beat up the people that hurt him?

Photo from Bob Sanderson's fantastic photo blog


Damaged Goods

Saddle up my last nerve, boys, the foster dog's going to climb up there and sit on it for a while.

A person should not have three dogs. A person should not have three large breed dogs. A person should not have any dog that is young enough, hyper enough and clever enough to get up on a table, take a person's cell phone down, and sneak out of the house with it in their mouth (tucked behind her ear? under her arm, all newspaper-like? How the hell didn't I see her walk out with it?).

Foster dog came to us by way of Sister's mobile rescue unit (read: picks up stray dogs in her Matrix on the way home from the grocery store). I
hinted a long time ago that I would eventually tell the internet her story, and since I am ready to pay someone, anyone, hundreds of dollars to take her off our hands, today seems to be a good day to go public with her profile.

(Coincidentally, "hundreds of dollars" seems to be the cost of a new phone without a new contract, according to the Cingular bastards who scornfully told me on Saturday how unfortunate it is that I do not have cell phone insurance. Please alert me to anyone in the Dallas area selling knockoff Motorolas out of the trunk of their car. I'm in the market for a Goatarola 220v.)

Sister happened upon an abandoned house that seemed intent on keeping a malnourished pit bull puppy in its clutches, if the chain bolted around her neck was any indication. Had there been food and water left for the dog, the chain was fastened too tight for swallowing. After much coaxing, Sister managed to lure the quivering, mangey mess into her car, to the vet, and later into her house. As the new arrival threatened to be the last straw on the overburdened camel's back of her marriage, we agreed to keep the stray on the weekends. Weekends turned into weeks, turned into fostering, turned into please-don't-tell-us-this-dog-is-here-to-stay.

I think this dog might be here to stay. She moved in nearly five months ago. She weighed less than 20 pounds at her first vet visit and is now at a temporary plateau of 50. We cleaned her up, taught her a few things and gave her a strong name that, according to its Indian significance, implies fierce determination and an unbeatable nature. Oddly enough it is also a name consistently mispronounced, despite running prominently in movie credits such as Pulp Fiction, the Kill Bills and
Be cool. The foster dog only has destruction credits; they include our walls, carpet, multiple blankets, socks, water guns and paper products, clothing, and of course her crowning achievement, a camera phone.

On the other hand, she also has a lot of (misguided, bitey) love to give and there is the slightest possibility that she is growing on us. But if anyone out there is in the market for a healthy, completely vaccinated, microchipped young tasmanian devil, just let me know. Until then, she'll be (as Supernanny says) in the Naughty Chair.


This is not my house

Neither is this.

And these are not my nails (shudder).

I do love Christmas, though, and all the overly-commercialized aspects involved. I am also quite fond of Monk, so unfortunately all the anti-Christmas venom he starts spitting around this time every year is part of the package (or so I’ve been told). It is a mismatch of mentalities of epic proportions, the kind that prompts poetry from those that haven’t penned a stanza in years.

A Christmas Poem for Monk

Why oh why do you hate this season?
You’ve ranted, you’ve raved, but you’ve given no reason.

You gave a recent “NO” to setting up the tree
but Sunday After Turkey Day’s not “too early” for me.

You sneer at Hallmark and other holiday ads
and you seem to think all carols are bad.

What, is it so terrible, all this red and green?
Are jingle bells and festive smells really that obscene?

I don’t know how I landed such a grumpy geezer.
Tell you what- from now on, I’ll call you Ebeneezer.

Maybe as a child you found socks in your stocking
(or something just as boring that kept the day from rocking)?

But now you’re grown so have a few beers
and muster up some damn Christmas cheer.

We don’t exchange gifts, I don’t ask for much
(I do like some eggnog, though- it adds a special touch).

Let’s toast the holiday with garland and a tree.
You could find a little spirit, and also? Here’s the key:

If you open your heart to fake reindeer and lights
Santa might help you get lucky tonight.


Trying to be cool

Finally (you’ll notice that most of my movie viewing is classified in the “finally” category) watched Be Cool last night. Loved it- more for the people in it than for the plot, and if I were ever to get my hands on a copy of the screenplay, I’d probably give the actual script a thumbs down. Plus, one of the main actors reminded me of a lighter version of Lark Voorhies, which caused me to think " I know that's not her, so who is that?!" throughout the whole movie, which was bothersome. Also bothersome was the Saved By The Bell theme song that then decided to skip merrily through my brain for 2 hours. Also that Uma Thurman’s gave-birth-twice body just doesn’t compute.

I am starving, but too cold and lazy to get up and fetch my lunch from the garage refrigerator. It's a truly dire situation over here, folks. The milk/dark chocolate Hershey’s kisses at my desk are the only things keeping me alive. I’m not even a huge fan of chocolate, but my hand seems to have a mind of its own today, and that mind is hell bent on chain-stuffing chocolate in my mouth.

I suspect that eating chocolate all day is not getting my ass any closer to resembling Ms. Thurman’s, but hey, at least it won’t cause any

*I had no idea that Lark Voorhies is a Jehovah’s Witness, or that she was once engaged to Martin Lawrence, who dumped her on national television (can someone find me a link to that?). I guess Martin’s been smacking his bitches around (one way or another) for quite a while now.