If You Have Reason to Hate Me, It’s Probably This

Today in the True Heartbreak Times, I destroyed a beautiful relationship in less than a minute of establishing it.

I went out to my car for my lunch break and noticed a little green inchworm hanging out on my car window. Being the lonely troll that I am,  I said “Hi!” to him then got in. I turned on my car so I wouldn’t die of heatstroke and, without thinking, I rolled my window down. It wasn’t until the window was almost fully down that I remembered little buddy from 45 seconds prior and tried to roll the window back up to save him. If he wasn’t chopped in half from rolling the window down, than he was 100% chopped in half now that I ravaged his sweet little body in two different directions on a piece of motorized  death glass.

I’m sure the people walking by were wondering why I had my face two inches from the window with a pained look, mouthing the word “Nooooooooooo!” I have never been more emotionally distraught while on a lunch break and that’s no exaggeration because last week I had my car towed while trying to eat my half cooked chicken in the front seat.

Now all I’m left with is a little green steak smeared across my window.

Rest in peace, little friend. I LOVED YOU.

How do you feel about killing bugs? I typically don’t unless their tying to touch me when I’m in the shower or if their trying to crawl up my butt when I’m on the toilet. RESPECT MY TERRITORY, MONSTER. But this was my friend and I betrayed his trust and smote him into oblivion.

I’m just scared that when it’s my turn, I’m going to get up to the gates and BB Jesus is going to be all smiles but then my little worm friend will lean out from behind him and will bellow “NO!” and all the angels and BB-J will gasp in horror and I will be banished from Heaven and all it’s worm loving bullcrap. IT WAS AN ACCIDENT.

Anyways, I’m barely holding onto reality and I hope you guys have a nice evening and are not falling asleep while trying to watch Inside the Actor’s Studio with James Lipton.

k love you smooch bye 143 xo

 

All or Nothing

 

An important person in your life dies, there’s a discomfort in their absence. Depending on how you deal with personal loss, it’s probably hard for you to imagine how you’ll function without them, like spending a weekend with someone – after they leave and you’re in your house by yourself and everything goes quiet.

But what happens when you experience the death of someone who was once a large part of your life?

I’m having conflicting emotions.

This weekend I found out someone who was once a very important part of my life passed away. He’s still important by way of forging the path of my dating life, a distinct honor I like the recognize for those who so bravely venture, but one that was brief and a very long time ago.

He was my very first “boyfriend”. First kiss. First crouched in the corner sobbing into my knees heartache.

We “dated” in middle school and transitioned into high school. We broke up at a school dance and I couldn’t listen to O-Town’s “All or Nothing” for a year. We remained friendly but over the years it dwindled as we grew up and went our separate ways.

I had always known he was sick, but just due to a pubescent child’s naiveté, I didn’t understand the severity of it. Even nearly a decade later though, when asked “did you hear about…” I instinctively knew what had happened. So many things I had forgotten suddenly resurfaced as I read his obituary. Names of family members and pets, dates, details of his personality.

The conflicting emotions come from partly realizing that I don’t really know that person anymore, that maybe I don’t have the right to be sad.  But I think that’s bullshit too. There’s an awkward space in me that is mourning an important figure in my timeline.

I’m down but the memories of trying to sabotage each other’s history projects or the time I was convinced to be an accomplice in killing our friend’s pet caterpillar brings the sweetest chuckle.

One of my favorite lines from queen mother Alanis, “I’m sad but I’m laughing.”

Rest in peace.

Death Becomes Her. (I’m Referring to Myself When I Say Her. I’m Her. Death Becomes Me.)

Everyone harbors special talents that really may serve no purpose except to entertain ourselves. Bragging is unattractive, but I can eat 4 pieces of Texas Toast and sit through 3 seasons of the Sopranos without blinking/exhaling/contemplating my mortality and misguided life choices.

Among giant bread scarfing, filtering my identity out of photos, and mouth breathing, I do have one hidden talent that has remained hidden, as to not frighten the kids/my mom/your nana+papi. ESPECIALLY, your nana+papi. I don’t know if that’s a real word people use for their grandfathers or if I’ve just been exposed to JLO too early in my life to know any difference.

Back to my talent, or maybe it’s more of a condition, but I  have a knack for predicting when someone is about to feel the dank kiss of death. Sometimes days before, sometimes months before they die. DON’T X OUT YET. I have a pretty solid record of being right about it. I can’t name names specifically (at least not usually) but I can tell if male/female, age range, and what type of relationship I have to them. Kind of like those cats that walk around hospitals and snuggle with the old people who are about to die.

WEIRD, RIGHT?

Feel free to ask questions. It’s weird and I don’t even really understand it, but that’s like most secret abilities and gifts, I suppose.

Normally, I would have never shared this on here but it happened when a distant relative died this past week and I was thinking about how I still hadn’t come up with a post for the week. HEHE.

Alright kids, enjoy your Monday!

Love,

Lolo von Iseedeadpeoplebutnotreallythatdbeweirdasshitsteinbergsongirl

P.S. Enjoy this picture of Peaches.

Image

Things Are Good

Hey bing-bongs!

This week has been stupendous. I thrive on inexplicable happenings and this week they have been raining down on me like I was Andy Dufresne when he’s all “PEACE Shawshankz, Imma GTFO.*”

(*Paraphrasing.)

My brother had the great fortune of being asked to open with his band Guillermo Sexo for Sky Ferreira/Smith Western at the Paradise Rock Club in Boston. It’s been a dream of his to play there and I was so honored and proud and oh god make the tears stop. But to be able to experience such an important moment in his life was incredible, to say the least.

NOW. This day was going to be special even if nothing else happened except for my brother giving his drums hell.  (Which he did, his bad was phenomenal.)

To list all the synchronicities would take 600 hours, 8 cups of coffee, and 3 bags of Funyuns to get through.

SO, here is my favorite moment of the day:

I’ve been going to the same coffee shop, every day, for the past 2 years. Every so often, when I’m in the drive-thru, I like to pay for the person behind me. I enjoy the anonymity of it, as I screw in and out of there like Darkwing Duck, but I always secretly hope it makes someone’s day.

From what I hear from the lovely ladies behind the counter- some people enjoy it, some get confused. And that’s okay! Either way I hope there is some shred of happiness brought to them.

The day of my brother’s show, I was in the drive-thru, screeching to Celine Dion as usual. I looked in my mirror and noticed an old pickup truck behind me, and fell in love with the three buck/deer bobbleheads sitting on the dashboard. That is, until I fell in love with the 70-year-old man petting and tending to their furry little heads as he waited behind me. Knowing we were kindred spirits, I paid for my order and his, and drove off to work.

I got to work, parked, and got my things together. When I stepped out, I was met with a pickup truck blocking-in my car. My panic mode stuck full force with my inner monologue coming to terms with my inevitable death. Welp, here’s where I get killed by a raging, murderous, psychopath who looks for sweet, innocent, iced-coffee-drinking girls in their work parking lot at 8am on Wednesdays.” Thankfully, I saw my 3 bobblehead friends on the dash before I started throwing elbows. I was wearing my tight jacket from last year and that puppy would’ve split clean in half if I did any jerky movements, so I mean, thank God, right?!

Delighted to see my new buddy, he thanked me for his coffee, we talked, and before he backed away, he looked me dead in the eye and threw  a peace sign. Normally, that would just be adorable, but it was so jarring the way he did it, I could feel my face drop. I swear on Tasty Burger, there was something about the look in his eyes and the way he threw his hand up, it made me feel like I was staring at my dad (died in2012).

I went into work, peeled the coat off my body, and turned on the radio. I sat for a second processing the little moment I just had. Then I realized one of my dad’s favorite songs was playing, and I was wearing a shirt with the yellow peanut m&m guy on it. My dad worked for Mars for a while, and as kids my brother got the red m&m memorabilia and I got the yellow guy. WEIRD, right?

No?

Well I think it’s weird.

I also think it’s weird how many run-on sentences I used for a grown woman. Hmmm.

But my point again, that was just one small chunk of the day leading up to my brothers show. I am so thankful and elated. No doubt in my mind that my dad was watching.

***

In other news, I have ONE MORE DAY of the Blog Challenge. Thank you guys who have been it! I love your comments and appreciate you sticking with me since I turned the 30 Day Blog Challenge into my 3-Month-Answer-At My-Leisure-Questionnaire. I appreciate it.

OKAY! It’s nap time. Do you have your fleece sheets out?

Until next time, my little Henry Rat-Finklers!

Post of Me Talking about Oreos, Stuff Gets Sad at One Point, but Then it Gets Better

I’m going to power through these last few blog challenge questions, as I’ve neglected them the past few weeks due to my busy schedule.*

(*Eating Oreos).

SEW. A difficult time in my life?

Buzzkill Belinda here will tell you ALL about it.

One of the more difficult times in my life was the 6 month span when both my grandmother and my dad died.

WAIT DON’T X-OUT YET!

Sure, it’s sad, but the whole experience has propelled me forward into a new person. Kind of like Freaky Friday but with myself. (Sounds hot, right?)

I was living life like a robot would in robot world doing robot things with my robot  brain and my robot  heart.

I never really thought for myself, or did anything that interested me. I didn’t speak up for myself and I didn’t pursue my own interests.

Even when it came time to apply to college, I thought surely I would die before having to make any major life choices! Because what do I matter?

Cue me sobbing in my bathrobe the day before Common Apps were due. I hadn’t looked at colleges. I had no idea what I was even interested in for a major.

I ended up at a college that was close to home so I could flee away from it on weekends and sob in my mother’s arms. I kept saying I would transfer once I found a college that would nurture the path I wanted to take.

That path didn’t come into focus until about 2 after I graduated. It’s still blurry, but at least my iPhone compass seems to be pointing me in a direction that isn’t straight to Hell.

I moved home and stayed there with my cats and my parents and my bed and my XBox and my bathroom with a doorlock.

The following year Nana and Dad died. After little sleep, living in hospitals, and eating all the food out of the hospice  kitchen, everything stops and you have to go back to reality. You’re left with the feeling of “now what?”

Me and Oprah did some soul searching,  and like a phoenix I flew around and brushed my feathers, threw glitter in people’s eyes, and made some rock music. Well, not really. I just decided I needed to pursue comedy because it’s been the only thing I’ve constantly gone back to whether for pleasure or for healing pain.

Without all that crud going on, I wouldn’t be the spaceship shoe-wearing, X-File loving, Nutcracker puppeteer you’ve come to sort-of like today! If you noticed my tattoo in the pictures I’ve posted in the past, I have a yellow rose on my wrist-my Nana’s favorite flower :B

Anyhoodles, until next time my little squeegee boards!

Please Haunt Me, Greg Giraldo

I’ve had a talent for willing bizarre things in my life. That includes both good and bad.

Some include:

  • Getting my favorite comedians to retweet me or mention me on a podcast.
  • Getting caught in the middle of a shootout.
  • Dancing around as a Van Halen girl on a movie set for 5 hours.
  • Having a homeless guy chase me through a parking lot and jangle his junk around while pointing at me.

All  instances that I followed coincidences to get to.

I like the idea of synchronicity and every time I’ve followed it, I’ve come out the other end with some sort of story to tell about it.

Greg Giraldo, an awesome comedian, keeps popping up.  In conversations, books,  and on TV. More than I’ve ever seen before, especially considering he died three years ago. I can’t turn a corner without someone mentioning him or some outlet referencing his stand-up.

It’s great, but it’s becoming unavoidable.

So I pulled up some video from his tribute special on Comedy Central. There’s a small segment of him describing his stand-up as “puckish.” I instantly thought of Puck from the Real World circa 1994. That and a Midsummer’s Night Dream poster with Michelle Pfeiffer on it, that hung in my 8th grade English class.

My ability to retain information has gone down since a six month stint in college, so I looked up “puckish.”

Essentially: “playful, in mischievous way.”

An adorable way to describe his comedy.

Then I thought to myself, I wish Greg Giraldo would haunt me and be my spirit guide in the world of comedy.

I thought on it for a while and thought of all the fun adventures we’d have.

Then I went and packed my crap up to go gym.

About ten minutes later, I went outside and opened the driver side door of my car and leaned across it. I threw my gym back to the passenger side, my ass is hanging out the door.

PSSST!

I turned around and looked at my house, thinking maybe my mom was trying to get my attention. Nothing was there.I turned back and started to climb into the car, ass still hanging out, I heard it again.

PSSSSST!

I turned around again, embarrassed, thinking someone was making fun of my ass and I hadn’t been sharp enough to catch them the first time. I turned back to the car.

PSST!!!

I looked around again, at the door of the house, the windows, the neighbors houses, behind the cars. I felt like an asshole. Was someone playing a joke on me and my ass?

It wasn’t an animal, there was no one around, and I haven’t smelt burning feathers recently. It sounded like someone was trying to get my attention.

Awfully, PUCKISH, amiright?

I scrambled into the car, locked the doors, and drove on the lawn.

Could this be another stepping stone on the synchronicity trail?

I’m going to meditate more on this and I’ll let you know if I conjure up anything else.

Until next time, fart-ners.

Take My Shirt

I don’t like doing mushy goo-goo posts, but I can’t ignore this.

I live in Massachusetts, and have many family and friends that live in Boston. You can imagine the lump in my throat when I read the headlines at work. My brother, my cousins, my friends, my brother’s friends, my friend’s friends, their families–any one of them could have been there. I don’t take that lightly.

I debated about writing something on the explosions because I don’t want to give attention to the person or people responsible. I do want to give attention and praise for the good people who were there, who went running towards the chaos instead of away. I can’t say that I would do the same. I run away when someone throws up. I hide when someone even begins to talk about a toenail that got ripped off a few summers ago. Surprising for a person who talks about violent diarrhea so much.

I am so thankful for doctors, nurses, police officers, fire rescue teams, emergency responders, and good-willed people in general. Sometimes I feel like a piece of shit troglodyte because I can’t contribute so powerfully in a life or death situation. I do my best to try to make people laugh, to feel better, and to get them step back and realize there is humor in nearly everything. All the hard work that people do for me and for strangers everyday, does not go unappreciated.

If you couldn’t gather, I believe in the power of positivity no matter what. I know, I know, granola girl is standing on her earth-friendly soapbox again, but bear with me. Even in tragedy I want to make you smile, even if it’s just for one smidgen of a second that you feel good, it makes me feel better. The world feeds off positivity, no matter what you believe in.

It’s like Monsters, Inc. Laughter and positivity are more powerful than fear and negativity. Instead of praying that someone doesn’t die, pray that they live. Instead of praying for tragedy to end, pray that harmony begins. I know I sound like a crackpot (or a crackhead) but I think it makes a difference. Would you believe me if I said I really don’t own anything with peace signs on it?.

I am so deeply sorry for anyone suffering right now. I hope and pray that a lot of miraculous healing goes on for the people physically afflicted. My thoughts and prayers are with families and friends of anyone who was hurt or who separated from their loved ones. Boston has some of the best hospitals, so I know everyone is getting taken care of. Boston also has some of the best people, I’m sure if you need help or just need to talk, anyone will tear the Red Sox shirt off their back for you.

I don’t mean to make light of anything. Humor is a coping mechanism, and a damn good one.

Thoughts and prayers to all.

Until we meet again, my sweet chicken tenderloins.

Cats

As I’m waiting for my hair straightener to reach white dwarf temperature levels, I’ll tell you a tale about how me and my cat were handcuffed together. This is our story.

Okay, so we weren’t “handcuffed” per say, but let me paint this rolling landscape for you. When I got home from work today, I wanted nothing more than to face plant onto my couch and recover from the last 9 hours spent without break (and without feeding my kitty faces). I walked in, turned off the alarm, and  saw Litty, my 14 year-old princess tabby, sitting like an angel from Kitten Heaven. Before I even had time to dive underneath the couch cushions, I was distracted by her soft fur, her big whiskers, and her cute meow-face. Naturally, I cooed at her and slung her over my left shoulder. She gripped her furry fingers into my shoulder blade as I scooped her bum in my hand. I was Rafiki and she was my Simba. That went on for about 30 seconds until the music stopped and  I hunched forward so she could help herself down.

Then disaster struck. One of her  jagged little claws snagged  in my H&M nine dollar pullover. A familiar tale that has only ended in peril.

I set my elbow on the arm of the couch, so she didn’t have to dangle from my shoulder, like Rose on the back of the Titanic. I knelt, she sat, staring at each other like arm wrestlers do before the match starts. Now normally, a stuck claw can be relieved by simply holding the kitty’s paw and pulling the shirt away from it. But your cat isn’t Litty. What should have been a quick fix was a seven minute foray in a Chinese finger trap hell. She pulled, I pulled, she pulled, I pulled. An intense tug-of-war. The minutes passed and I began to wonder who would die first. Would my mom come home to me laying lifeless on the floor, Litty sitting on my dead face?  I tried desperately to grab her paw to release us, but when I touched her tangled foot, she slapped me with the other one.

I contemplated taking my shirt off and  letting her keep it, but we were in front of a open window and my neighbor was out standing by his mailbox.

Then came the moment of clarity, I draped myself on the arm of the chair. Litty sat staring at me like it was somehow all my fault. I looked up at the clock, 7 minutes. “We can’t stay here forever, Litty. One of us has to make a sacrifice.”

She looked at me as if to say “Whatever, bitch” and turned to look out the window.

It was my only chance. She had looked away, and I took things into my own hands.

I grabbed her paw and ripped my shirt away and screeched, “WE’RE FREE!”

Her ears went flat and she whipped her head around, staring at me wide-eyed. I did a few victory kicks and said “What? No ‘thank you’?”

She stared at me, farted, and jumped down.

So there you have it. My straightener is sufficiently hot enough to murder curls and you’ve now heard my tale of woe for the day. Did you learn anything from it? Hopefully that love conquers all,the good guy always wins in the end, and that cat farts are the worst.