Merry Christmas! Where's the Tylenol?!

Cody, Me holding Bennett, Lauren, (Bennett's mommy,) and Caleigh

Christmas was wonderful this year.  For my family it is not a matter of seeing how many presents we can give or receive, it's a matter of all of us being together.



Ashley, Hamilton, Ma, Nicholas and I



The rundown of Dane's Family Christmas:

First off is Christmas Eve is dinner at MomMom B's with my father's side of the family, usually around 3.  Then around 6:30 my Mom's family starts to come over to our house, where we proceed to eat, drink, open presents, take pictures in front of the tree, maybe rearrange the neighbors' reindeer into compromising positions.  Everyone is usually gone by 11:00 and Ma and I are snuggled in our beds waiting for Santa.



Ma and Aunt Mare drinking the Boone's

Christmas morning my brother and his wife bring the baby over, my Pop comes over and we all have coffee and various Christmas treats and exchange gifts.
Dinner is at my Mom's sister's house at 4:00, and we are all together again, eating and drinking and being merry, usually dancing in the kitchen as well.


Nicholas playing with his new toy



It blows my mind how much things have changed over the years, though.

When I was little we had the Feast of Seven Fishes on Christmas Eve at my mom's parents' and we would all exchange gifts that night.  Christmas day my mom had my brother and I dressed in our holiday finest and we were at my father's parents' for a turkey dinner at 1:00, and then onto to her parents' again, for wedding soup and lasagna at 4:00.  We never knew who would be joining us either, from my MomMom's relatives that live in Daisytown, to her brothers and sisters and their families, to my PopPop's brothers and their families that lived down the street and various cousins that would drop by.


MomMom and PopPop lived in a tiny end-unit row home with no off street parking.  A tiny little kitchen and dining room, and we'd cram in there like sardines, happier than pigs in shit.  The running joke for years was how my brother and I would show up sulking because we had already gotten our toys from Santa taken away since we fought like cats and dogs.  It's even on video.

Now things are wholly different, but it's okay, because we are all still together during the holidays.  We still pass around a bottle of Boone's Farm wrapped in a paper bag while opening gifts with Ma's family.  We don't do the Seven Fishes or have lasagna anymore, but when my aunt says that MomMom is rolling over in her grave my Ma points out that she's happy to know that we are all together.

Caleigh, Cody and I

The family exchanging gifts, from left - Tina, Paul, Lauren, Cody, Bennett, Steve, Caleigh



"Just Keep Your Pants On"

So one of my boys put it into some sort of perspective for me the day my dirty laundry was aired to my Mama.


Me:  So after our conversation at the diner yesterday I now realize how much of a trainwreck I am.
Him:  Why baby??
Me:  Cuz you're right...I got my issues and my craziness and if I keep on going this way it's only gonna get worse.
Me:  -That one- got his official welcoming to the band last night.
Him:  Awwwwww
Him:  Listen this -anonymous- shit taught me NOT to second guess myself. You KNOW you. No one else does.
Me:  That's the problem. I USED to know myself. It's hard to believe but I used to have my shit together!
Him:  Well my darling, it's NEVER too late to make ANY changes you want or need.
Me:  Easier said than done. While it's all fun and games in the moment at the end of the day it kind of sucks.
Him:  -sad face-
Me:  Don't you feel that way sometimes?
Him:  Yea....I do.
Him:  A lot actually.
Me:  I wanna be a lil rockstar all the time and drink and fuck and party but it seems I can't do that and have any self respect at the same time.
Me:  Does that make sense?
Him:  Yes, it does, just STOP the whore-y stuff. Hang out with us and JUST be our drinking rock 'n roll friend. :)
Me:  Ha! I thought that was part of my charm! lol jk
Him:  No! We LOVE YOU! For YOU! You're one of US! Forever baby, forever!
Me:  Do you know how sweet that is?  It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside haha.
Him:  I'm NOT kidding, I'm DEAD serious.  You ARE -his band's name here- JUST like us.  Seriously!
Him:  You're NOT a fan, you ARE a part of our organization.
Me:  I'm not kidding either!  I LOVE being a part of the band!  Why else would I trudge my ass all over the tristate area when you guys play?
Him:  :)  You found a HOME baby :)
Me:  I did.  :)

The real test will be just being the drinking rock 'n roll friend.  Stayed tuned...

Talk About A Wake Up Call

Define irony.

Right after this post was published, someone very close to me, someone who I choose to not share my sexual exploits with, discovered way too much for her own good.

My beloved Mama read a few pages of my journal.
Yes, I keep an actual journal.  That I write in with an actual pen.  That has actual pages.  I have since my senior year of high school and it's the only form of therapy I can afford right now.
She confronted me the other morning, one of the mornings I had happened to stumble through the front door around 5 am, after engaging in yet another night of risky behavior.
At first I was angry.  Very, very angry.  My mother has never, ever, been a snoop.  But honestly?  I can't blame her.  It's one of the downsides to still living at home.  She's there when I leave at night and if I end up not coming home, she deserves a phone call.

Let me run down the list of things I'm okay with my mother knowing:

• I drink alot.
• I dated guys 10+ years older than me.
• The man I was with for five years and I were, in fact, having sex (she's not stupid.)
• That occasionally I do sleep with a guy that I'm into

And a list of things I am not okay with her knowing:

• It's usually different guys (too late.)
• I was involved in the BDSM scene for a while.
• I drink alot more than I let on.
• I am, in fact, in someone else's bed, naked, when I don't come home (too late.)

She said to me that she knows I don't tell her everything in order to protect her.  But I cannot imagine the heartbreak she was going through sitting on my bed reading those pages, thinking that her daughter does not respect herself or her body in the least.  To see my mother, who does not cry, break down in tears right in front of me, was a knife in my heart.  The fact that she came over to me, put her arms around me, and said, through her tears, that she cannot fathom what it must be like to not have a father to look up to or lean on, twisted that knife hard.

Maybe I do need to do some soul searching.  Clean up my act, per se.  Maybe I need to realize that I can't fucking do it on my own.  And that my addictive personality will catch up with me one day.

I Wanna See It!

This post is about cock.  Yes.  That incredible, pleasure-and-pain-inducing, body part that has the power to make me scream and the power to destroy my mind.  You've been forewarned.  Cock, and that wonderful place called 'The Land Of Fuck.'

You know what they say about tits?  The same goes for cock.  Once you've seen one...you want to see the rest of them.

I used to beat myself up over my promiscuity.  I had my reasons - it was pretty bad there for a while.  But I haven't jumped into bed with a complete stranger (my Drugstore Cowboy doesn't count, even though after a year we still don't know shit about each other,) in a while.  As fun as the take-down-and-capture can be, I like to stick with my rotation.

The only real problem I have with the cock is the power it sometimes manages to exercise over me.  My sexual mentality is so much more male than female, (for lack of a better description; I hate to dumb it down by contrasting the males and the females.)

"What is my best option tonight?"
"Okay, -this one- is telling me he wants it later, but if that falls through, who can I have lined up?"
"Why isn't -that one- answering his fucking phone?"
"Sure, if I get woken up by -this one- I will crawl the fuck out of bed and be on his doorstep within a half an hour."
"Just because you succeeded in making my brains ooze out through my ears when I orgasmed doesn't mean I want to cuddle, baby."

I want it, I need it, I love it.  And I become a real bitch if I don't get it.

Driving Home From Port Richmond On No Sleep Is NOT A Good Idea

The other night one of my boys and I were talking, and I pointed out his love of crazy bitches. More specifically, the love most guys have for those psychopathic, unstable women that will turn around and slash your tires out of the blue. 

"I may be slightly crazy, but I am not about to throw a brick through your front window."  (I said this specifically because I was referring to a story we both knew well.)
Unless you give me a valid reason to make sure your big, pretty truck somehow how manages to wind up at the bottom of the Christiana River.  Whatever.  That only happened once. 
He looked at me with wide eyes and replied, "You and I are the same!  We are huge sluts and that means we automatically have huge issues!"  He made a big, sweeping gesture with his arms to emphasize the word huge.  At least, I'm pretty sure he did.  I was a couple of drinks in at this point.

It's a concept I will never understand.  Granted, I used to be much worse off than I am now.  But I've realized that wasting crazy energy on men is simply not worth my time.  I'd rather utilize that energy and put it into writing, partying, or any kind of physical labor that leaves my muscles sore and gives me reason to be proud of myself.  Because truthfully, no one out there is worth my mental stability.
So why do the boys always go crawling back to the tire-slashing bitches?  I really want to understand this.

One guy I dated started seeing this psychopathic, fucked up, raging bitch of a...woman, who I believe was an alcoholic and I'm pretty sure she was some form of junkie, right after I severed all ties with him.  (Yeah yeah, we eventually started "seeing" each other again...)  Apparently she had him arrested on more than one occasion for terroristic threatening.  I remember pissing this guy off quite a few times, but terroristic threatening?  Nah.  Did I hate his guts and want to hurt him after he scorned me?  Sure.  But to fucking call the cops and deal with going to court and all of that bullshit?  No thanks.
"Why do you put up with her?"
"She's good in the sack."
"So you'd risk having your cock fall off (because she was, let's face it, skanky,) and going to jail just to keep sleeping with her?"
No response.

Another guy I was involved with had a psycho, alcoholic girlfriend who would get trashed in public and make an ass of herself and he was the poor sap who had to deal with her.  She was the brick-throwing bitch.  One time she wrecked the entire front end of his truck.  Another time, we were stripping down to get busy and I noticed claw marks across his chest. 
"Dude, really?"
He gives me this stupid, sheepish look.
"Yeah she came at me the other day.  I know, I know, but it's kind of...hot."
Oh sure, destruction of personal property and physical harm to one's significant other is hot.  But I must say here that the claw marks I left on his back after a particularly intense round of fucking were so much hotter. 

Am I the only one that sees something wrong with this picture?  I don't want to go off the deep end, (even though I'm pretty much there already,) just to keep some guy around.  Sometimes I feel like throwing up my hands and saying, "You want crazy?  I'll give you fucking crazy."
Even though I will keep you on your toes and there will never be a dull moment when you're with me.  You know, minus involving the police and making your life a living hell.

I'll Be There For You...Not

Every day I get more and more fed up.  People and their bullshit antics are tiring me out.  No one holds any amount of dependability, especially those I call my "friends."  It's a very rude awakening to turn around and realize you are completely alone. 
No, I'm not being a drama queen.  My best friend of 16 years?  Can't remember the last time we talked.  Same goes for the girls in high school I stayed tight with up until about 2 years ago.  Growing apart because of marriages and babies and careers is understandable.  A friend you know you can call even if you haven't spoken in months and not skip a beat is a rare gem.  I'm down to one of those kinds of friends.  And she lives two and half hours away now.
When you get to the point where you would feel uncomfortable picking up the phone to call the person who used to be there for you through thick & thin and vice versa, then you know the friendship has just about gone down the shitter.  If it is salvagable, it's going to take alot of work.
It's so much easier to walk away from a friend in need than to be there for them when their world has come crashing down I guess?  Because that's what all of mine did.  Sure, my girls were there for me when MomMom got sick, when I ripped my Ex's heart out of his chest and smashed it on the floor, and then when I had the same thing done to me.  But when it all boils down, when the demons start waking up in my own head, I'm on my own.
I'm getting used to it.  But it fucking sucks.  I'm now deathly afraid to get close to anyone because I believe they will eventually desert me.  (It is kind of strange - I'm not a needy girlfriend per se, but I am an incredibly needy friend.) Sure, A & T call me their "road dawg," but I'm terrified of having them abandon me.  I had to explain this to T after he started lecturing me when I would wig out about A not calling me every day anymore because he's seeing someone now.
You don't understand, you guys are all I've got.  You take care of me, you look out for me, you help me to forget all that is fucked up and the crumpled mess my life is in when we're all together.

If you tell me I can depend on you, I am going to take you up on that so you better mean it.  Because I will return the favor tenfold.  Lately though, I can't say I'm much better.  Why invest in relationships when everyone else around you takes the easy way out and walks away when the shit hits the fan?

It's turned me into a cold, cynical bitch that no one is allowed to get close to.

Oh, You're Such A Dirty Sexy Pig

I discovered this band last March at the Croc Rock up in Allentown, PA when they opened for Charm City Devils.  They're a rock and roll quartet out of New York City, and it wasn't until I saw them play again the day after Thanksgiving down in Baltimore that I realized I was missing out, so I bought both of their albums, (as yet unreleased under a major record label,) and a tee shirt as I chatted up the band's manager.



Rockin' my Sweet Cyanide tee. And yes, I'm in the bathroom of a strip club.



Dane's Discography Breakdown

Their first self-titled release under Breakdown Lane Music is edgy and catchy at the same time.  Vocalist Sal Soca has a voice that fits the rock and roll genre perfectly.  The band's musicianship is tight, and in my personal opinion, they just fucking rock.

"And all I'll say is don't let her get in your head -

cuz when she goes down

She's a suicide love machine

Like it or not she'll do what she pleases

She's a suicide love machine

living it up in daddy's big dream"

Songs worth a listen - SLM, Black & White, and Between Us (which puts the relationship I have with my Drugstore Cowboy into wonderful, musical perspective.)

Their second release, Sweet Cyanide II, under Breakdown Lane Music is just as good, if not better, than the first.  The intro, Pay the Piper, sets the mood for the rest of the album and leads flawlessly into the second track.  The same tight musicianship can be found on this album as well.  Some of the songs are lengthy, but they don't get boring or repetitive.  They experiment a little more, and it enhances the listener's experience, like the ending of Walk On Water.  It's a little darker, lyric-wise, but still catchy and addictive. (I've been stopped in my tracks several times while listening to their music because there are songs that hit me right in the gut.) Seriously, it's the first thing I listen to when I get into the car to head to work before the sun comes up.

"Pull, pull, pull the trigger

Shoot me down when I need it

The hardest part of this

Is saying no"

Songs worth a listen - Bad Jesus, Cooler Than A Car Crash, and Dirty Sexy Pig.

I'm a big fan of multiple tempo and key changes within a song, and Sweet Cyanide do a very good job in this department.  They don't tamper with as many key changes, which is fine because I think that's a music tool that should be used sparingly, but they nail pulling off changing up the tempo in a song with grace.  311 is another band who uses this technique, and uses it well. 

Now, if you know anything about me, you wouldn't be surprised to learn that I noticed this guy first.  I had never heard of the band before, but that's one of the reasons I love to go to shows/concerts.  The opening acts usually spark my fancy and new music is immediately added to my collection.

The first time I saw Sweet Cyanide play live, I wasn't really paying attention.  Okay, okay, my girl and I were busy getting drunk, scoping out the scene and gearing up for Charm City Devils (who are definitely worth a listen.)  After their set I had my eyes on the bass player, (more like my hand on his crotch, but it's all the same isn't it?) and I chatted with the drummer and their manager about the band and the upcoming show they had in Dewey Beach, which is my stomping ground. 



Mike Bambace (drums,) me, and Angelo Fariello (bass)



My second show at Rams Head Live sealed the deal for me.  And yes, I did tell the bass player that I would like him in my pants.  Can you blame me?  Look at this motherfucker!  Those dark, Italian eyes?  That hair that's just begging to be pulled?

Bottom line is, check them out.  With all the bullshit we hear on the radio these days, I'd say Sweet Cyanide is keeing it real in the world of rock and fucking roll.

Someone Read My Mind

Since I am such a head case, I always have to make sure I have things planned that I can be excited for.  Otherwise my mind starts to idle and the demons inside come out to play.  So I thought I'd share that I am going to this come hell or high water.  I mean, how can I not when it combines two of my favorite things, Buckcherry and Jagermeister??

Also, Sweet Cyanide has a show in NYC this Saturday night that I really, really,  really want to go to, but I'm not hiking up there without a partner in crime, and my friends, well, can really suck sometimes.

Then the Neighbors Would Start to Trickle Over

When I hear the beginning guitar strains of Rocky Raccoon, I'm transported back to when I was very young, and all was well and good within my family.  At least that's what it looked like to outsiders. 

My father had been in a band called New Beginnings from before I was born until I was about 10.  He was very close with the guys, my mother was close with all of their wives, and my brother and I grew up tagging along with my dad to band practice and playing, (read:  getting in trouble,) with the children of various band members.  Every summer we'd have a "New Beginnings" cook-out, even long after they stopped playing as a band.  They were all very talented musicians, and after the food had been put away, the sun would start to go down, out would come the instruments and the jam session would begin.  An acoustic guitar or two, one snare drum, an acoustic bass, no mics, a tambourine, and Danny's trumpet (they could cover Chicago tunes like it was no one's business.)

When I learned that the Beatles' music had been released to purchase on iTunes, this was the first song I added to my cart.  (Yes, every album they ever made is upstairs, boxed up in the closet of the spare bedroom, but I don't know where the record player is and I don't have the energy to convert vinyl to digital.) 

I hear the opening notes and Paul McCartney's storyteller voice start - "Well somewhere in the Black Mine hilltop of South Dakota there lived a young boy named Rocky Raccoon..."


I immediately picture my father sitting on the back deck, plucking at his guitar, surrounded by old band buddies and all of our families. I was too young to ever pay attention to the words or grasp the irony of the story being told within the song. But I would sing along nonetheless.

"But Daniel was hot, and he drew first and shot..."

I picture him, not the adulterer, not the alcoholic, but my daddy, the man who still calls me Angel, the man who would take my brother and I on Saturday morning errands in his little red truck, blasting Styx or Boston while doing his over-exaggerated version of air-drumming on the steering wheel, doing his best McCartney impression, forgetting the words, (no pun intended, really,) chuckling his way through the song, because I swear Doc, it's only a scratch.

I hold onto this song and the memories I've attached to it so tight.  It's the only thing I've got left.

"Gideon checked out, and he left him no doubt, to help with good Rocky's revival..."

If They Didn't Like Chubby Girls, I Wouldn't Be Such A Slut

So I've never been one of those "skinny girls."

Thick
Curvy
Solid
Voluptuous

But I've never really battled with my weight either.  When I was in my early twenties though, I was a fucking porker.  And of course I'm going to blame it on my Ex.  Not because I figured, Hey, I've got a man, he's not going anywhere, fuck it, but because at that time in my life I ate when I was stressed out, I was on birth control, and he was a big guy who could and did eat anything he wanted.  Lots of it.  So when I was sitting across from him at the dinner table, my subconscious was matching him bite for bite.

In November of 2007, I got my bridesmaid's dress for my brother's wedding, which was taking place in March of 2008.  When I tried it on, it just fit.  But I didn't think to myself, Oh my God!  I have to lose 74209732 lbs before the wedding!

My job that I started in November of 2007 as well required lots of walking.  So I'd be lapping seven floors of Christiana Hospital several times during one shift.  Great, I was exercising.  And I joined the gym there, so I'd work out before or after my shifts.  But my "taking lunch" consisting of getting into my car and driving across the street to smoke as many cigarettes as I could in a half an hour. 

Right after Christmas, my relationship started on a downhill slide.  I was getting very restless and unhappy.  I wanted a ring on my finger and a baby in my belly, but I was starting to think that I didn't want it all to be with the Ex.  So my anxiousness and unhappiness manifested itself by way of me losing my appetite.  Completely.  And everything that was missing in my current relationship, I was looking for in other places.

I really wasn't making a conscious effort to lose weight.  I was still healthy, even with the extra weight and the fact that I smoke up to a pack and a half of Camels a day.  My blood pressure was on point, my cholesterol and all the other vitals were fantastic, and my immune system was something to be envious of.  (Everything still is, BTW.)  But my clothes started getting baggier and I had to tighten my belt a notch...then two...then three. 

By the time I put the bridesmaid's dress on for the actual wedding it fit me much better - I could breathe and not have to worry about the zipper ripping loose in the middle of the ceremony.

I ended my relationship with the Ex two weeks after my brother's wedding.  There was nuclear fallout.  Stalking, cops being called, tears, fights, drama drama drama.  I had started sleeping with Buzzard, and by then my diet consisted of diet Pepsi, a cookie every once in a while, and alcohol.  Lots of alcohol.  My form of exercise?  Sex.  Because with Buzzard, I think I burned more calories than if I had run 5 or even 10 Ks.  My personal life was in shambles and the weight kept coming off.  I look back at that time now and am not proud of what I see.

When I finally got most of my shit together, I managed to maintain, which is better than nothing.  I'm still not considered thin, in fact, I think I'm ranked among the "morbidly obese," even though I don't jiggle when I walk and can kick your ass if you pissed me off enough.  I am solid, sturdy, strong, and pretty well-proportioned for a girl my height.  But now I feel another avalanche coming on, I'm tightening my belt again, and it's being fueled by cheese & crackers and Jagerbombs.

The Hardest Part Of This Will Be Saying No

The thing that sucks about the fact that my relationship with Buzzard will never be wholly restored is that I can't just call him up at 9:30 in the morning and ask him to bring me a pack of smokes.  Or call him up and tell him that I haven't eaten in two days so that he'll take me to get some food.

He's got ulterior motives, and I knew this hadn't changed the second I looked at my phone the other night and saw that he was texting me.

Because, you see, I made the mistake of texting him on the way home from Baltimore the other night while I was still a shit-faced trainwreck.  (Thank God Chrissy was driving.)

I hate you because I'm hearing songs that make me think about you and I'm drunk as fuck [sic].

Oops.  His first response, that came at 4:00 Sunday morning, was "You want my cock [sic]."  Ugh.  NO.  That's not what I meant.  But when I discovered on Saturday that I had made the awful mistake of drunk texting him, I knew that was how he was going to take it.  I figured it best to just let it be.  But he wasn't having that.  So we spent all day Sunday afternoon going back and forth:

Him:  You texted me the other night do you remember?
Me:  Yea I found it the next day.
Him:  What's up you ok
Me:  I'm fine it was just a moment of weakness and lapse of judgement on my behalf.
(I was 4 Jagerbombs and 4 Bud Lights in at that point, remember.)
Him:  Laps [sic] of judgement lol so professional.
Him:  What are you doing
Me:  Laying in bed.
Him:  I'm lying on the couch playing with my cock
Him:  R u asleep
Me:  No sorry I'm on the other line with Tyler
(I was really talking to my friend, and I named him specifically because I can push Buzzard's buttons just by casually mentioning other males that I interact with, and Buzzard doesn't need to know that my friendship with Tyler is purely platonic.)
Him:  Who's Tyler
(Exactly.)
Me:  One of my friends
Him:  U should cum suck my cock
Me:  Really
Me:  I want to hot tub
Him:  It's not clean right now
Me:  :(
Him:  Sorry my cock could use you
Me:  Where's [your girlfriend]?
Him:  Home
Me:  Why do you want me to suck your cock
Him:  Cause you suck it so good
Me:  Mhm
Him:  I'm watching porn and rock hard
Me:  What else is new
Him:  Lol
Him:  Do u still like eating cum?
(Seriously?  I can't believe you're bringing this kind of shit up, you asshole.  But what do I do?  I play along, like an asshole.)
Me:  You could say that
Him:  Well if you hurry you can eat mine
(Ew.)
Me:  I just rolled out of bed

It goes back and forth like this for a while, as I keep delaying it, hoping he'll just finish jerking off and stop asking me to come over.  Because seriously, I was not going to get out of my pajamas just to go over there and suck his dick.  I managed to throw it in his face, that I thought he might actually want to hang out as friends since we haven't seen each other in almost five months, and I received a real-time picture of his dick in response.

I attempted to clear some shit up though -

Me:  I'd rather just hang out than suck your cock.
Him:  Thats cool too, has to be between us
(??)
Him:  Be a good little slut and drink me and go home
Me:  (after seething for a good ten minutes) Good to know you still think so highly of me
Him:  Of course I do, goes both ways right
(Yeah except if I actually did want to use you for sex, you wouldn't be able to get your dick hard because your emotion towards me is still frighteningly strong.)
Him:  I don't think I can wait much longer
Me:  I'm not sucking dick unless I get something in return and I still smell like strippers
(I did, I was at a strip club the night before getting wasted and throwing dollar bills at questionable dancers.  Good times.)
Him:  Lol.  What do you want
Me:  I dunno
Him:  How about one day this week I do some really nasty shit to you, want to?
Me:  (after more hesitation and deliberation) Sure what the hell.

He's breaking me down and he doesn't even know it.  Or, he does and he doesn't give a shit.  I don't know what the fuck I want, a friendship, a fuck-ship, or nothing at all.  I spent five months realizing I could breathe again because he was no longer a part of my life.  But I am the type of girl who will disregard everything I've told myself and plunge headfirst into a sea of regret.

No Fucking Trucks or Buses In the Left Lane!

It's getting old.  People really really really cannot handle driving on the interstates anymore.  I know I'm not the best driver out there, but when I'm attempting to merge on 476 and there's a big mack truck that decides it's going to cruise on over into the left lane and stay there so no one can pass it?  I get ugly.  Throwing up middle fingers, cursing, cutting other innocent drivers off, basically morphing into Queen Bitch of the Road.

There's no reason for an 18-wheeler to be hanging out in the left lane.  If I'm in that lane, and notice people are starting to scream past me?  I move the fuck over.  Because the left lane is for passing.

How Much Do I Love My Girls? Let Me Count the Ways

In the subway after a show at the Highline Ballroom

This girl is amazing, my road dawg from college

We can never keep our tongues in our mouths

It's a family affair

There Is A Hell, Believe Me, She's Seen It

I know I've been ranting about the whole mortgage nightmare that my mother's going through.  And I'm sure I come off as thinking she's entitled to a government hand out.  But here's the thing, that's not what I mean when I say she deserves some fucking help. 

It's not that she's asking for money.  She's not asking to have the mortgage company just forgive the entire balance due, on the second mortgage my father went ahead and put on the house under my mother's name without her consent.  She wants to pay it because she wants to stay in her home.  All she wants is to be able to write the fucking mortgage check every month without losing sleep at night.

This woman has been through it all.  I used to have a lot of faith, but not so much anymore.  I don't go to church anymore, and it's not that I don't believe in God or am bitter or anything, but if there's any example of demonstrating faith through hard times, it's my mother.  She doesn't give up.  She hasn't given up, and she won't.  There's those sayings that the meek shall inherit the earth, and that those who have suffered nothing but trials and tribulations on this earth, yet manage to stay strong in their faith, will redeem their reward in Heaven.  If that's the case Mama will have her own posse of angels waiting on her hand and foot when she gets there.

Her first marriage ended because of alcoholism.  Then my father came along and things were good for a while.  Then his alcoholism reared its head, along with his infidelity towards her with countless other women, among them her best friend.  So she was not only betrayed by her husband, but her best girl friend as well.

She's fought so many physical ailments over the years, but to look at her you'd never know.  You never hear her complain.  I have to yell at her when I catch her lugging some heavy-ass box up from the basement or I come home and she's cutting the fucking grass.  (Well, that's my job, so I'd yell at her anyway.)

She lost both of her parents before she was 50 years old.  She's got no one to lean on, because everyone leans on her.  When I bitch and moan about the fact that I still live at home, I stop myself mid-rant because right now, Ma and I need each other.  I don't think I'd leave even if I could afford to.  No matter how much shit I alone have put her through, (and trust me, it's been alot,) she will never disown me.  I jest that I will hand over my firstborn to her one day, but I'm kind of serious.

The other day I was going over some paperwork that my bank sent me concering life insurance.  It's not a bad idea to get some, no?  So I was talking to Ma about it, trying to decide how much to get, because if I got $300,000 worth, and I kick the bucket tomorrow, she can take the check to the bank and tell the mortgage brokers to fuck off.  But she looked at me and said, "If you go tomorrow they better dig a second hole right next to you to put me in."

I cried a little.




Mama with her grandson, Nicholas, August 2010

 

How Much Do I Love My Boys? Let Me Count the Ways

Toga Toga Toga!



Go Phils!




I really don't have any words...




Halloween 2010 could have passed for White Trash Senior Prom 2010



Great Times I May or May Not Remember

Don't Piss Off the Wrong One

I'm living two separate lives over here.  Dr.  Jekyll and Mr.  Fucking Hyde.  How long am I going to be able to keep up this facade?  I go from one personality, The Angel, to the other, The Devil, in the blink of an eye.

To break it down, we have -

The Angel

• Typically hangs around during the week
• A school portrait photographer that works with the kiddies and gushes all over them when they are absolutely precious
• An aunt that adores her nephew and plays with him, sings to him, and smothers him with kisses whenever he's in her arms
• Wholesome and nice
• Tee-shirt and jeans or sweats, minimal makeup and jewelry, hair pulled up 90% of the time
• Frugal with her money and balances her checkbook to the penny
• In bed by 10 or 11
• Generally unrecognizable to those who are more acquainted with The Devil

The Devil

• Comes out to play at night, usually on the weekends
• A trashy, brass, and generally slutty rock & roll groupie
• Will sleep with the guitar player, or the bass player, or the drummer, or all three at the same time
• Loud and obnoxious with a drink always in her hand
• Dressed to kill, in stilettos 24/7
• Makeup and hair done to a T, loaded down with jewelry that usually gets lost or left on someone's nightstand
• Did someone say shots?  Can be found stuffing money down the bartender's pants or throwing dollar bills at the ladies
• Stumbles in the front door around 5 am
• Generally unrecognizable to those who are more acquainted with The Angel

This past Saturday night I engaged in absolute debauchery with a few band members after the show.  (Gimme some credit though, I've known these guys and have been partying with them for a while now.)  Then I stopped off at another one's house for some more even later night action.  The other night one of the regulars at the bar did a double take after asking me my name for the 100th time because I was wearing yoga pants, a hoodie, my glasses, very little makeup, and my everyday jewelry.  *shrug* It happens.

I Know A Drugstore Cowboy, So Afraid Of Getting Bored...

Well, I don't really know if he's actually afraid of getting bored, but that's a line from a great 311 song.  This guy works at the drugstore down the street from my house, so I gave him an appropiate nickname.  I can't get this fucker out of my mind, and it's driving me crazy.

He's 23.  Sure at first I was like, 23?  And still working part time at Walgreen's?  That's what we all did in high school and maybe while we were in college, (seriously, tons of people my age did that, including myself, my brother, my best friend, a few other friends, and even some people I work with now,) but I learned he's got his Associate's in biology and is now working on his bachelor's at U of D.  Brownie points.

He is fucking gorgeous.  And he has no idea.  He's painfully shy but when the clothes come off he's a total rockstar.  I don't quite think he'd make a suitable partner for me, because he is so damn quiet sometimes.  In most cases quiet = passive, and we all know how much of a disaster that can turn into with me, but he does have jerk-potential, and of course that turns me on.  Plus our babies would be relentlessly beautiful.

I cannot get enough.  

FUCK, he makes my head spin.  Every time I walk into that damn store and see him I am reduced to a puddle of mush and I get a crazy tingling sensation in my belly.  I hate that he's got that kind of power over me, but it's okay because he doesn't know.  I have to play it cool and try not to trip over my own feet and make sure I wipe the drool from my chin before he sees me, and this is just at his place of employment.  I really don't know how I manage to keep my composure when I'm standing naked in front of him in his bedroom.

It's as simple as that.  I cannot get enough.  When I'm ridiculously horny, he's the only one I fantasize about.  We've been fucking around for about a year, and I still can't get over how beautiful he is, and the fact that I have actually managed to get him into bed.  It never, ever, occurs to me that someone as attractive as him would even give me a second look.  But he did. (Well, he had no choice because the night he walked into my bar I made a beeline for him, I introduced myself while running my hand through his shoulder-length hair, and charmed the pants right off of him.  Literally.)

I can't say I'd be surprised that I'm on his mind alot, too.  The booty calls at 3 or 4 in the morning a couple times a week give me that impression.  Usually I'm passed the fuck out, but that's okay, right?  If I jump at his beck and call then he'd get too used to it.  And we all know this girl doesn't want that.

So That My Kids Have A Place To Call MomMom's

Ma just ran next door to fax her 2009 tax return over to the mortgage company.  This is one of the million other things she's had to do since filing for a loan remodification.  For the second time.

Last October she applied for help through one of Obama's programs designed to help people refinance their mortgages so they can afford to stay in their homes.  Thousands of people got screwed over by shitty mortgage companies by unknowingly signing over their lives to loans that inevitably end in inammitorization.  (The interest keeps going up, the principle keeps going down, and you end up owing more over time than the house is even worth.)  I'm not going to get into the long, drawn out story of how my mother got involved in one of these scams, let's just say my father makes lousy business decisions and Ma is now suffering because she was married to him for 25 years.  I will also not go into detail about how much shit she has had to do when it comes to applying for any kind of help to get this fucked up mortgage back in check.  Discovering the meaning of life or climbing Mount Everest would be easier.  Trust me.

The first time she applied for refinancing, she was rejected.  Here is why:

MY MOTHER HAS PERFECT CREDIT.  ALL OF HER BILLS, INCLUDING THE ASTRONOMICAL MORTGAGE PAYMENT, ARE CURRENT.  WE HAVE LEARNED THAT ONE MUST DEFAULT AND EITHER ENTER A SHORT-SALE OF THEIR HOME OR HAVE THE BANK FORECLOSE ON IT BEFORE THEY WILL EVEN BE CONSIDERED FOR A LOAN MODIFICATION. 

The government will not help those who obey the laws, those who pay their bills on time, or those who have worked hard their entire lives to create and keep a home for their family.  Because, you know, my mother isn't some crackhead that keeps popping out babies, she's not unemployed, she's not looking for hand outs.  But because her and my father are now divorced and she wants to sever any financial ties completely with him, she can't afford the mortgage payments on her own.  I do what I can to help, giving her money for the electric or water bills, or writing her a check if something breaks, (read:  if I break something.)  Half of the mortgage payment would be an entire paycheck for me, and I don't ask for help with any of my own bills.

So, in other words, you have to be a real fuck-up before someone will help you. My mother would like to avoid fucking up her credit and losing her house. But the government won't help you until you have become totally destitute, and even then, your chances of any kind of break? Are slim to none.

We might be able to make it if I just give in and start robbing banks or selling drugs and/or my body.  Because honestly?  It's getting to the point where I would seriously consider doing any of those things just to give my mama some relief.  And maybe if I do end up a junkie whore with ten kids, one of us could get some fucking help.

Work Is Not Something I Can Take Home With Me

Work has been kicking my ass lately.  I've been driving up and back down from New York, northern New Jersey, southern New Jersey, and one day this week I'm down in Charles Co Maryland.  All of this driving is eating away at my sanity and it's hell on my lungs.

The other day I was at a job in Chester, PA.  If you're not familiar with Chester, it's pretty much the asshole of Pennsylvania.  It's run-down, it's ghetto, and my co-workers and I were joking about whether or not we should have just left our car doors unlocked so that we wouldn't have to worry about broken windows.

I was dreading work that day.  I had been to this school once before, a few years ago, and was gearing up to deal with asshole little kids who have no disregard for other human beings, chaos, it being so loud that I wouldn't be able to hear myself think, over all a giant clusterfuck.

And it was.  But I had the help of those handy little yellow pills my doctor gave me to take if I feel a panic attack coming on.  I popped one before we even started.  And I was even keel for the rest of the day.

"Okay, sit up straight for me?  Can you sit up straight?  Do you know how to sit up straight?  No, don't scoot forward, make your back straight.  Can you handle this?  Are you sure?"  The whole time in my head I'm thinking, "You fucking little asshole I cannot wait until you get out of my face and your picture is going to be bad no matter what because you are a sorry-looking motherfucker."  But I just put a sickeningly sweet smile on my face and do my job.

One particular thing about schools like this that sticks out in my head is that alot of these kids are poor.  Not just money-is-tight-right-now poor, their clothes are ratty and they're dirty.  Like one has to wonder when the last time some of these children were bathed.  And that breaks my heart.  Are mommy and daddy spending all their money on crack?  Or putting dubs on their piece of shit cars or getting their nails done instead of buying their child a decent pair of shoes and feeding them?  It makes me want to scoop them up and take them away from the hell they are living in.

I see this shit all the time, and there's not a Goddamn thing I can do about it.

Nice To Meet You, Please Call Me Deranged

I've come to realize that I've been conditioned to think that all men are whores.  Nothing but big, fucking sluts.  I don't know why or how this happened, but I cannot help it.  I do not like that I think this way, because I always end up refusing to give any man the benefit of the doubt.
It's not necessarily in a bad way, though.  Because I'm a whore.  A big, fucking slut.  Is that why I expect my lovers to be the same?  When my drugstore cowboy tells me that he hasn't had sex since the last time we hooked up, do I  believe him?  I don't really know.  (Actually I do kind of believe him because he's relatively shy; the only reason we ever made contact in the first place was because as soon as he walked into my bar I went right up to him and worked my charm as best and as hard as I could.  That was about a year ago, and we're still going at it, so I think I did a pretty good job.)  The other day P told me the last time he had sex was with me.  That was almost two months ago.  And he has a girlfriend.
When these boys of mine tell me this stuff I keep my mouth shut.  In my head I'm thinking, Really?  -This one- fucked my brains out last night.  Or -this one- and I fucked for like, four hours the other day.  But all I do is say, "No way," giggling, and proceed to do what I do best, and that is go down.

I assume this is the reason I'm single.  I'm not complaining though.  My last attempt at a relationship failed miserably, bringing me to the conclusion that right now, at this point in my life, every member of the opposite sex, with the exception of my two best guy friends, are only good for what's hanging between their legs.  Or, better yet, how good they can make me feel between mine.

Am I wrong?  Am I deranged for having this line of thinking?  Really, please tell me, does this make me a heartless bitch that uses and abuses men just to get her rocks off?

Oh God, Not Again!

11:30 last night I was laying in bed, attemtpting to fall asleep.  I hear my phone beep.  Actually, it goes "whoa whoa whoa whoa...", a clip from Above the Clouds by Slightly Stoopid, and it's fucking awesome.  I rolled over, figuring my Drugstore Cowboy was hitting me up for a booty call.

IT WAS BUZZARD.

The infamous douchebag that I dated right after I split up with my ex and who fucked my head UP.  The "friend" that I haven't spoken to since the fourth of July, for reasons I am still unenlightened about.

Him:  "What are you up to, ho?"
Me:  "Um, work.  Life.  Partying.  And you?"
Him:  "The same.  I have a raging hard-on and I'm stroking it right now lol."
Me:  "Some things never change.  Where's [your girlfriend]?
Him:  "Lol I know."
Him:  "She's at home."
Him:  "I heard you had a train run on you on Halloween."
Me:  "What are you talking about?  There was no train."
Him:  "On you, dork."
Me:  "I know what you meant.  Just because I was with guys all night doesn't mean I fucked them all."
Me:  "Just one."
Him:  "Oh ok."
Him:  "So when are you gonna suck my cock like a good little whore?"
Me:  "Yeah I don't know about that."

It went on a little more; he told me he wanted to see how work was going and how I was doing.  Part of me is really fucking pissed that he had the nerve to contact me, and the other part of me is indifferent to it.  I don't want to fall back into the same cycle with him.  I don't want to start sleeping with him again.  He knows how to push all the right buttons.  But I've learned how he works over the years and have had time to sharpen my skills.  If I do decide to give in, it's not going to be easy for him.  I do not have the time nor the energy for his bullshit antics.  I refuse to be sucked into his sick little world of sex and mindfucking again.

So until I figure out if he really was just checking up on me or has ulterior motives, I will be struggling with my decision on how to react.

Fuck.

Pity Party Much?

There's a half empty glass of Pinot Grigio sitting in front of me and a cigarette burning in the ashtray.

It is Friday fucking night.

I do not like sitting at home.  Ever.  I've done too much of it in the past to let any opportunity to get loud and rowdy pass me by.  But sometimes the opportunities are just not there.  See, most of my friends are all "settled down" and married and have kids and all that happy horseshit.  Yeah that's not my cup of tea, thanks. 

I guess what I don't get is that we're all fucking young so why shouldn't we be tearing it up as much as possible?  I've got stories of nights with Andy and Tyler where we have had a blast and some of it we might remember, some of it we might not.  (And I've only slept with one of them, never have and never will be in the middle of those two, thank you very much.)  I've woken up mornings wondering whose clothes I was wearing and why there was a naked guy spooning me.  There is a reason we're called the Shit-Show of Wilmington.  We've tried to rehash the night before, wondering if we're still welcome in certain establishments.

It's all in good fun, you see.  We work hard, so we party even harder.

That's What I'm Saying...

Please Tell BMTH Not To Wash Their Dicks

So I discovered this band over the summer. Not my typical style of music, but damn. Okay, I'll be honest, I saw him first, and my curiosity was piqued. I mean, fuck. The things I wouldn't do to this boy.

I tentatively started checking them out, making absolutely sure I wanted to spend something like $25 on iTunes for their sophomore album, Suicide Season Deluxe Edition. I dig it. And once the new album, There Is A Hell Believe Me I've Seen It, There Is A Heaven Let's Keep It A Secret, dropped, I was hooked.

Before the third album came out, I was super-hesitant to categorize this band as "metal." The first album, Count Your Blessings, maybe. But seriously? I can't resist that throaty, sexy growl of his.  Sykes' "Ohhwhhh!" is like the heavy metal version of Andrew Dice Clay's (and I know you know what I'm talking about.)  It's so hard to believe all that screaming and growling comes out of that pretty little mouth of his. But I'd have to say the only reason I hesitate to declare them officially "heavy metal" is the teenybopper-esque following that Oliver Skyes has gained. It's quite sickening. I will not put this band among the ranks of Metallica, Slayer, Judas Priest or Iron Maiden simply because of this fact.

Dane's Discography Breakdown:

Pretty good. The most "metal" out of their three albums, I'd say. Lots of fast guitars and drums.

"I whispered in her ear:
You better fear me dear, for I am Death,
And I'll take that shit you call a life,
In a single fucking breath

I'll take your hope,
I'll take your fucking dreams,
I'll take your love,

         I'll take everything you fucking bitch."

More of a trainwreck, but makes for good party music, especially the Cut Up! disc that comes with the deluxe edition. Some songs make me go, "Aw, c'mon boys, my ears are not trashcans!" but with lyrics like
"Party til you pass out
Drink til you're dead
Dance all night til you can't feel your legs"

with some angst such as

"If I had it my way
I'd slit your throat with the knife
That you left in my back"

And of course there's

"After all the shit you put me through
  I should have fucking pissed on you"

thrown in for good measure, it's kind of irresistable.

The boys I think have finally found their element. This album is more mature, very well-written, more melodic and holy shit, I cannot wait to have dirty, angry sex with it blasting in the background. Plus the double bass drum licks are enough to get me wet between the legs every time.

"Let's play a game of Russian Roulette
I'll load the guns,
You place the bets."

The Sadness Will Never End

This week is always the hardest one of the year.  Sunday, November 14, will be six years since my grandmother passed away.  It has never stopped feeling like it was only yesterday, but for some reason this year it feels like it's been a very long time.  You might think, Six years is a long fucking time girl, but you never got the chance to meet my MomMom, only the most wonderful woman to ever have graced the face of this earth.

I think this year it seems like so long ago that the entire family was camped out at my Aunt Mare's house, taking turns sitting next to my grandmother as she slipped away from us in the hospice bed, because we've had two new additions to the family in the past sixteen months.

Doesn't change the fact that it really fucking sucks that MomMom isn't here with us to enjoy these babies, even though she's up there looking down and smiling.  She still should have been here to hold them as soon as they were born, to spoil them with her awesome MomMom-love and to threaten them with the paca-paca if they get out of line.  It is not fucking fair.

Oh, Nickle Pickle

Seriously.  He's gorgeous.  (And yes, that's a Bobbi from Cappriotti's on his high chair.)

I can't smooch on him enough when I've got him in my arms.

Shut Up and Drive

I like my job. Most of the time. But lately things are getting a little ridiculous. I've lost count of how many times I've had to drive 3+ hours and overnight in some cruddy town in New York. I'm getting my oil changed every month instead of every three because the miles just rack up. Yes, I get reimbursed, but not sufficiently enough. Sometimes I spend more time in my car than I do at any given job. And since I smoke, it's hell on my lungs, because what do I do when I drive? I smoke. And then I smoke another. And another. And if I'm stuck in traffic, I yell and curse and smoke some more. For instance, tonight I have to drive to drive up to Long Island and overnight to work a job tomorrow that will probably be nothing less than an absolute clusterfuck, and then fight New York and New Jersey traffic on a Friday afternoon just to get home.

Do not get me wrong, I am thankful that I even have a job. But I do bitch and complain, just like anyone else. Some days I want to leave my equipment on the side of the road in some Godforsaken town a million miles away, other days are a total cakewalk and I'm reminded of why I do what I do and the fact that I love it.

Shape Up or Ship Out

It never ceases to amaze me that as we get to know someone, they shed those onion layers one by one and all of the sudden it's time for the break-up talk, aka, "It's not me baby, it's you."

I liked this guy. He was a decent one. Really fucking attractive. And good in the sack. But I abruptly learned that just because you need to be schooling the masses on the tricks and techniques of oral sex, doesn't mean we should get married and start popping out babies.

I laid out the Good, the Bad, and most of the Ugly on our first date. He returned the favor enough to satisfy me and lead me to decide to go home with him. (Yeah so? I'm a big girl and I can make my own decisions.) As we started spending more time together, (especially after I decided, Okay, you're my boyfriend now and you can call me your girlfriend,) all the things he seemed to be? Like, aggressive, motivated, willing to take on the world one battle at a time? Nowhere to be found.

I was very disappointed. I had friends tell me that if I really wanted to settle down with someone who A) doesn't have a rap sheet, and B) isn't married, then I should just accept his passive nature. "He's a nice guy and he sexes you good right?"

Not good enough for me.

If I'm going to be someone's girl, he better be head over fucking heels crazy about me and prove it, not be worried he's going to scare me off. I don't care how nice you are, grow some fucking balls and 1) Stand up and defend yourself when you've been wronged by someone, (especially your fucking employer!) and 2) Fight with me! I'm stubborn, I'm obnoxious, and I will swear the sky is purple so you better prepared to tell me I'm wrong, no matter how many punches I may throw.

Bottom line is, he didn't step up to the plate and keep me in check. If you act like you don't care what I do, where I go, who I go out with, then it seems to me you simply don't care about ME.

My personality is dominant and I am the shot-caller in my everyday life. Sometimes I want to hand over the reigns and just be pretty on his arm.

Oh yeah, and after I told him I didn't want to sever ties with him totally, I still wanted to keep in touch because things could change so don't be a drama queen and delete me from your Facebook friends, what did I discover this morning? The bastard de-friended me. Fuck you, fuck you very much. Grow the fuck up.