Of Fog and Bacon

Apparently we’re going through some strange ass weather patterns right now.  The fog that has settled over the town looks like something out of a Stephen King novel.  I’m waiting for Jack Nicholson to jump out at me or little Danny Torrance to start wagging his finger at me while yelling, “REDRUM!”  What the fuck, Mother Nature?  For reals.

Also, I want bacon.

And I put on one too many spritzes of perfume this morning and I’m giving myself a headache. On the bright side, if I get lost in the fog then people will be able to hunt for me just by smelling for the rose perfume I’m currently drowning in.  Though I guess if it’s the zombie apocalypse then I’m going to die because the zombies are going to be able to find me much sooner.

Keeping it Clean

My name is Catherinette, and I’m a Mexican who hates cleaning.  And doing yardwork.  And eating salsa, beans, or guacamole.  And I’ve never been on a donkey.  Nor have I ever slept on a dirt floor.

In short, I am the worst Mexican ever.  I bring shame on my family.  Which is just as well because we Mexicans don’t do honor killings and we’re not big on the shame thing.  Though we are big on the guilt thing.  We’re like Jews, only we eat pork and don’t keep Kosher.

How’d we get here?  Oh, right, bad Mexican.

I make a pretty good living, and the bonus is that since I’m single I can spend all my money on alcohol, overly priced food, and handbags.  No need to worry about buying shit for my kids or figuring out how I’m going to put them through college.  This is one major bonus about not being a mother.  AND one of the kick ass things about being single is I can spend my money any way I want.  I don’t have to get into an argument over whether he wants to buy golf clubs while I’d rather shell out the money for a new pair of Tory Burch flats.

Over the last few months I’ve been thinking about how much I hate cleaning my house.  My inner lazy Mexican is creeping out.  Yesterday I hired a cleaning lady – a Polish one.  My hard earned money will now be given to her so she can make me feel even more uppity and Yuppie than I already do.  So there I was feeling high and mighty about myself because:

1. I can afford a cleaning lady
2. Clearly I’d be helping her out because if you have to clean for a living, then you need the jobs

Scratch off number two.  We sat and chatted for about an hour.  Man, Inga is SMART!  She’s been in the states for a little under 7 years, and when she was in Poland she was in banking – but she had a high position.  Sweet apartment, sweet lifestyle, loads of travel.  Then she married an American man who was a little older than she was.  They had a long distance marriage and she started sensing that there was something wrong.  You can imagine her surprise when she showed up at his front door in Boston with a suitcase in hand and told him that she wasn’t doing the long distance thing anymore.  Not only was he surprised, but so was his much young mistress who was laying on the couch.

BAM!

And her life changed in that moment.  She was in a country where she didn’t speak the language, and only had her suitcase and $200 in her pocket.

As she’s telling me this story yesterday I was thinking to myself, “I’d have called my mom and told her to wire me my money for a plane ticket home.”  But she stayed.  She divorced his ass, learned the language – though her English is broken, and has done pretty well for herself.  Girlfriend may clean houses for a living, but whatever she’s doing is working out for her.  Know how I know?  She has a pretty nice apartment in Rittenhouse Square (which is the fancy party of Philly), and  I saw her pulling away from the curb in a relatively new black Volvo station wagon with leather interior.  Hands down beats my 9 year old, rinkety, Toyota Corolla.
She’s doing something right – or else she’s in the mob!

Number Two

Who knew there was actually an audience for saving your poop? Went to the Philadelphia Flower Show today and part of the exhibit focused on this.

In somewhat related news, I’m on the train on my way home and it’s filled with drunk college kids. First of all they’ve totally killed my buzz. Secondly, I hate each and every one of them. Especially the blond one with the hooked heels who seems to have forgotten how to walk. Whore.

Sweet Words

Art?  I get it.  (Except for modern abstract art.  What the hell is that about?  I too can throw pink paint on a canvas, glue a few straws to it and call it “pink lemonade in July”, but I don’t.  Why?  Because that would be a complete waste of time.)

Music?  I totally get it.  Who hasn’t turned to sad songs after a break up and wept while analyzing every single last word and thinking, “Oh my God!  Yes!  This is EXACTLY what is happening to me.  Oh, Celine Dion, you just KNOW me.”

Poetry?  Don’t get it.  Yeah yeah, so music is kind of like poetry set to music, but at least it has music in it.

I never had time for poetry when I was in high school – mainly because I found it stupid and totally useless.  Junior year my English teacher thought it would be awesome to spend an entire module on American poets.  Gag.  I wanted to spend the module gouging out my eyes so I wouldn’t have to read one more poem.  Just don’t get the allure.

There are, however, one or two poems that have stuck with me over the years.  Like the one in “Four Weddings and a Funeral” that’s given during the eulogy.  You know the one – that one that had everyone sniffling in the movie theater.

Sniffle sniffle…

The other one, strangely enough I found in a cookbook.  Random, I know.  But it’s just as good.  I won’t bore you with the entire poem, just with the good part:

Let it burn

There are some embers that will always smolder.  No matter how often you try to put them out.  There comes a day when you don’t think about the fire that once was, and it seems like it has burned out forever – and you’re at peace.  But the slightest bit of attention and those embers start to light up again.

Doesn’t matter how long it’s been, there are some people you can never let go of.  They’ll just pop up out of nowhere and the butterflies will appear.  Even if you try to rip the wings off of those bastard butterflies because you know they’re made by the devil himself, they will not die.  No matter what.

There are some people who you will love forever, even if you don’t want to anymore.

Doesn’t matter if you think of all the ways they’ve wronged you, and how your heart landed in a million pieces, and how you cried 1,000 rivers, and how you buried the dreams you once had.

You will always love them.  No matter what.

And you don’t want to – because it sucks to be pulled back into the depths of that fire.  You just want to turn it off, stop thinking about it, and just let it be.  But you can’t.  And you’ll never be able to.  No matter how much time goes by, or who comes into your life – or who comes into theirs.

Because you still find comfort in the fire and the warmth it brings you.  And there’s hope in the warmth of the flames.  Hope that will go up in smoke, as it always does with him.

I fucking hate that.

I wish it would just burn out.

Things I Will Never Do

We all have our limits.  Some people just say no to, like having anal sex with married strangers, others say no to getting on an airplane.  Whatever, to each his or her own.

For me, I have specific no-no’s.  Here’s my list, cuz I know you totally care.

• Anal:  I will NOT do it.  You can’t make me.  When I was dating 3D he used to try to talk me into it, mainly because I was so turned off by it.  Several times we made bets where if I had lost I would have had to put out the butt hole.  I, however, was smart and only took the bets when I knew I would win.  At 38 I’ve made it without it, I can easily make it the rest of my life without it.
• Shopping at Wal-mart.  I have a college degree and a pretty good salary.  I don’t care how much cheaper something is at Wal-mart, you cannot make me shop there.  Just pulling into the parking lot makes me want to vomit.  Ever notice that no matter how new the Wal-mart is it always looks dirty and there’s merchandise all over the floor?  No thank you, I pass.
• Eating oysters.  It’s like swallowing someone else’s cold loogie or a was of cold splooge.  No.
• Dating a dude with a choker.  If he’s wearing a choker, there’s something wrong with him.  Especially as you get nearer to my age.  Name one hot dude close to 38 who wears a choker ON PURPOSE without getting paid for it.  You can’t, because such a man doesn’t exist.

Now you.  I want to know what you won’t do.  Go.

I’d like to place an order for delivery

How lazy do you have to be to order Burger King for delivery?  No, really.  Okay, maybe I get it for a college student who is too stoned to drive, but not for the rest of the world.  There’s only one way to describe someone who would order Burger King for delivery: stupid.

It’s amazing what we can order these days.  Food, clothing, home goods, groceries, and yes, even strippers.  It’s amazing some people bother to leave the house.  I’m talking to you, fatty who plays Call of Duty all day.  It’s no wonder we’ve gotten so fat and lazy.  We’re too busy playing on the computer, ordering shit we don’t need, and food that’s not good for us.  I can’t believe we ever lived in time when we actually had to leave the house to go out and get the stuff we needed.  Actually had to get into the car and drive five minutes to go to the store.  Or (gasp), what about the days when people had to WALK to the store??  Oh my god!

You know what you can’t get delivered?  Prince Charming.  Trust me, I’ve looked.  Man hooker?  Yes.  Prince Charming?  No.  My guess is he’s probably at home jacking off to porn and waiting for his Domino’s to deliver.

Woe is me.

Time Flies When You’re Getting Old

It just occurred to me that 14 years ago today I graduated from college.

Man, it seems like a lifetime ago.

I clearly remember sitting out on that football field sweating to death and wishing to God that someone had told me to take water with me.  And that someone had mentioned that sitting in the blazing sun while wearing a black robe AND having a hangover sucked dog balls.