Dear Ex-Mother-in-Law,

It has come to my attention that you have some unfounded worries about Ryan’s care and wellbeing at home. I’m glad to see that you actually DO care about Ryan and what goes on in his home.

Fortunately, I am happy to report that Child Services did NOT find any cause for concern, despite the lies that you fed to them when you called them from Ohio last week. The social workers did a very thorough job of inspecting my home and rummaging through my refrigerator. Did you know that they even went through Ryan’s closet and drawers to verify that he was wearing the correct size clothes for his age? I thought it would ease your mind to know that your call did not go unheeded.

I understand that you don’t know Ryan very well. After all, you have never bothered to call him on the phone to see how he was doing in his entire eight years on this planet. Your son, Ryan’s father, chose to move 16 hours away from his children, thereby ruining any chance he ever had of being a father figure in their lives, and preventing you, his paternal grandmother, from ever developing any sort of relationship with your grandchild.

Because you have never been a part of Ryan’s life, and don’t know who he is as a person, you might not know that Ryan is a very picky eater. In order to get him to eat a hamburger pattie, I have to tell him that it’s meatloaf. He has decided that he likes meatloaf. You might not also know that Ryan likes Shake-n-Bake chicken, but only because I’ve had to tell him it’s a giant chicken nugget. Contrary to what you believe, Ryan does not eat Spaghettios at every meal. As it happens, did you know that Spaghettios now provide 8 essential vitamins for kids? Just a fun fact.

(By the way, I appreciate you sending me that information that you got from www.paranoid.com informing me that chicken nuggets and hot dogs can cause genetic mutations and cancer. I did some research of my own and I really think that’s a bit farfetched. If that was the case, 90% of the world’s population would have grown a third arm by now.)

So that you can sleep easy at night, I’d like to take this opportunity to lay your fears about Ryan’s welfare to rest.

Ryan eats a balanced meal as often as the rest of the world does. That is, when he doesn’t clamp his mouth closed and refuse to put any food at all into it, Spaghettios included.

Ryan does have a couple of pairs of shorts that are size 4T. He also has several pairs of jeans that are 7slim, and all of his shirts are size 6-8. It has been better than 30 years since you had to buy children’s clothes, you must have forgotten that all clothes are not sized the same. I try to buy what actually FITS Ryan, rather than what size the Department of Family and Children’s Services says he SHOULD be wearing.

Ryan does have a pediatrician. If you’d like his telephone number, I’ll be happy to provide it for you. However, Ryan has only seen him a couple of times since we moved here. I do my best to only take him to the doctor when he’s sick, and he just hasn’t been sick. If it will make you feel better, I’ll go sneeze on him when I finish typing this letter.

Andy is not mean to Ryan. I would not allow that. During your inquisition, had you thought to ask Ryan WHEN he thought Andy was mean, he would have told you that it was mostly when Andy told him to clean his room, take a bath, or brush his teeth. For some reason, those things are too troublesome for an 8 year old child to have to do when he is obviously too busy playing Star Wars Legos on his Playstation. However, I do understand why you didn’t go that far with your questioning. It might not have provided the answers you wanted.

In closing, I’d like to suggest that you mind your own business. For the last 7 years, I have had only the help from my parents in raising this angel child and making sure he grows up into the man that your son did not. Out of 365 days in the year, you only deign to visit with him for 14. You do not have the right to make any decisions on his life.

Should you see fit to make any more false accusations about me or my family, such as when Ryan’s father tried to tell me that he had a private investigator following me and when he told his attorney that I had abandoned Ryan, including this fiasco with Child Services, you may find yourself slapped with a mandatory drug screening.

Oh, you thought I didn’t know about your weed? We idiot rednecks from Georgia only like for you to BELIEVE we’re idiot rednecks. You dig your own graves faster that way.

Thank you for your concern, I can handle it from here.

Sincerely,
Kate

Since I don’t have internet at work and working during the day doesn’t allow me to watch Taxicab Confessions on HBO, I’ve been getting in LOTS of reading over the past couple of months.  Stephen King, Anne Rice, and the random horror novelist, mostly.

Last night, I was finishing up a copy of the ever famous, The Exorcist, by William Peter Blatty.  Yes, the one they made a movie from in the early 70’s.  (Surprisingly enough, the movie follows the book almost exactly.)

At just about the time that I got really into one of the best head-spinning, green-vomit-covered, Power-of-Christ-blasphemed moments, I heard the lobby front doors open.  I immediately flipped the book over on its spine so that I wouldn’t lose my place.  The sacrilege would have to wait five minutes.  I had a guest.

Or so I thought.

Mystery Man: “Is Michelle, The Manager, in?”
K: “No…she doesn’t usually come in on Sundays and since today is Mother’s Day, she’s at home spending time with her family.”
Mystery Man: “Oh yes.  Well, I just wanted to drop some of our Church cookbooks off to her.”

(Did he just say ‘church’?  Wonder if he’s tall enough to see my book down here on the desk?  If I move too quickly to cover it, it may draw attention to the book and then he’ll see the title…)

K: “I’ll be glad to get her a message if you’d like to leave one.  What did you say your name was?”
Mystery Man: “I’m _______ from Apostolic Tabernacle up the street.” (Heretoforth to be referred to as ‘Father Merrin’ for humor’s sake.)

It was at this point that I noticed him trying NOT to see the title of the book I was so currently engrossed in.  He was probably fighting back images of hellfire and brimstone burning my soul in the fiery pits of an endless purgatory as he struggled with what to say to me next.

Father Merrin: “You know, our church is at such and such address right up the road.  We have services at such and such time on Sunday mornings, and we welcome all new visitors.  I see that your name tag says St. Simons Island.  Is that where you’re from?”
K: “Um, well…yes?”
Father Merrin: “Here.  I’d like you to have this.  It’s a cookbook that the members of our church have put together and we are selling them for a fundraiser, but I want you to have this one.”
K: “Gosh!  Thank you!”  (It really is a cool cookbook; lots of awesome recipes that I can’t wait to try out.)

As he turned to leave, I waved at him and thanked him again for the book.

It was only later that it occurred to me what I should have said, with only the most sincere smile I could have possibly mustered.

“Have a nice day! The Power of Christ compels you!”

He might have had nightmares.

In other news, I got a ShamWow for Mother's Day.  I cannot, in all my WORDly wisdom, properly describe to you here the totality of its complete AWESOMENESS.

Stop what you're doing and go get one.

Next, I want the Titan Peeler.

I know it’s been a minute since I last posted a blog; I’ve been realizing lately that working day shift doesn’t afford me quite as much free time as working the night shift does.  I kinda got used to being able to sit down and write a blog while I was still on the clock.

Not only can I not write a blog while I’m working now, I can’t even get on the internet. 

I have decided that God created Interstate Hotels just so there really would be a place to send all the stupid people.  And He put me there so that I could write blogs about them.

Over the last few days, I’ve come up with a few additions for my “Things to Remember When Checking Into a Hotel” list.

- You can’t barter with me.  I do not work on the trade system.  My boss does not pay me NEAR enough to stand behind the desk and convince a person that the rate quoted is the rate they get, and the more you try to talk me down, the less likely you are to get a discount.  I have a certain rate that I can't go below, but if you irritate me, the sky is the limit.  The bosses like when I get $99 for a $69 room.  So watch your attitude.

- I cannot pull a parking space out of my ass.  When the nice men laid the asphalt in the parking lot, they only painted in a certain number of spaces.  Then this crazy thing happened.  The paint dried.  If you got the last room in the hotel shortly before midnight, don’t complain to me because you can’t find a place to park.  It’s not my fault you can’t think in a straight line and your family has turned into a pack of walking zombies from exhaustion because you were too much of a dumbass to pull off the Interstate 3 hours back when there were still rooms (and parking spaces) available.

On that same note, I also cannot change the layout of the parking lot for you because your husband isn’t very skilled at maneuvering the trailer that you talked him into bringing along on your trip through the South.  Please do not waltz into my lobby like the Queen of Sheba, wagging your finger at me and informing me that I’m going to have to do something about that “horrible” parking lot design.  

a) They built it before I got here, I had nothing to do with it, stop yelling at me.
b) This is south Atlanta.  There isn’t an extra inch of space in the city to just redesign a parking lot on a whim.
c) It’s your own fault that you can’t drive a car in reverse.

- This is Atlanta.  This is not the one redlight  town that you passed in south Georgia.  There are approximately 6 million people living here.  When there is an accident on the interstate, the traffic will be backed up, severely.  It may take you 2 hours to go 10 miles.  But here’s the thing: If this supposed accident happens while I’m at work, I won’t know about it.  Don’t come in and ask me why the traffic is backed up on the Interstate.  I don’t know.  I’ve been standing behind a desk for the past 6 hours answering stupid questions.

- I have to ask for your I.D. It’s my job.  Personally, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass who you are or where you live.  But I can’t afford to lose my job because you're only 17 years old and you decided it would be fun to steal the curtains off the wall and piss on the carpet in the corner, your credit card conveniently declined for incidentals, and I didn’t get your name and address because I chose not to follow procedure and ask for your identification.  TCB and CYA.


- Don’t ask me what the elevator is for.  We usually use it to get to the second and third floors, but you can just ride it if you want to.  I don’t even need your I.D. or credit card for that, but if you piss on the floor in there, I might have to call the cops.  It’s your call. 

- Last but not least, I feel the need to clarify exactly what my title here at this lovely interstate hotel actually is.

I am Kate’s Motel, Front Desk Clerk.  

I am NOT Kate’s Motel, Personal Slave to Guests.

When I get there, housekeeping is gone.  I will be more than happy to provide you with fresh towels, should you need them, fresh soap or more coffee.  I will even take the trash to the dumpster for you if your trash can is full.  But here is the catch.

I don’t HAVE to do any of that crap.  It’s not my job.  My job is to check you in, give you keys, set your wakeup call, and take your money when you check out.  If you’re not nice to me, you’ll be drying yourself with wet towels for the next 2 days.

K: “Ms. Williams, I’m so sorry that housekeeping didn’t make your bed today.  Let me explain.  Because you’re staying for 2 days, you’re considered a “Stayover”.  Housekeeping doesn’t change the bed linens for 2 night Stayovers.  Did you get fresh towels this morning?”
Ms. W: “Yes, but I’ll need more.”
K: “If you’ll give me five minutes to get everything together, I’ll be right up with those things.”

(Important note: I have a “hotel voice” that I can turn on and off as needed.  Imagine the Barbie airline stewardess from the Toy Story movie.  Or the receptionist in the movie Office Space. ‘Corporate Accounts, Nina speaking.  Just a moment.’  I use this voice when speaking to ANY guest, be they bitches or no.  There is no such thing as race or ethnicity on my side of the desk.  A guest is a guest.)

What happened over the next 15 minutes was meant to humiliate me.  There can be no other explanation.  Who knows, maybe it’s my own fault for being nice.

I gathered two sets of fresh towels including wash cloths, hand towels, and a new bath mat.  Along with that, I brought fresh soap, shampoo, coffee, and coffee cups.  I DID NOT bring fresh sheets because, as I’d already explained to Ms. W, we did not change the sheets for 2 night Stayovers.  And because my manager had instructed me not to change her sheets.  TCB and CYA.  Great rules to live by.  (Take Care of Business and Cover Your Ass)

I knocked on her second floor door.  The sound of her cell phone conversation came back to me through the door.  When she opened it, I got barely a second glance from her.  She was too busy on her bluetooth.

Instead of waiting for instruction, I went into the bathroom and noticed that before I was going to be able to deposit her clean towels, I was going to have to remove the nasty, wet, used towels all over the floor.  Absolutely. Fucking. Gross.

I bit my tongue and did it.  I even changed the bathroom trash that had remnants of sanitary pads stuck to the bottom.  I placed the coffee and coffee cups next to the coffee maker and the soap on the shelf in the shower.  I did all of these things (these things that are NOT listed in my job description) while she stood and watched me from the corner of her eye.

When I was finished, I waited for her to get off the phone.

K: “I’ve brought you fresh towels, new soap and shampoo, more coffee and coffee cups.  If there should be anything else that you need, feel free to call the front desk.  I’ll be here until 11pm tonight.”
Ms. W: “Um...you’re not going to make my bed?”

(It’s also important to note here that she was SITTING on the bed the whole time I was cleaning her nastiness.  Besides the fact that it’s not my job to make her bed, and I was told not to.)

For a split second, I couldn’t speak.  In that brief fugue moment, it dawned on me what this was all about.  I’m white.  This is Atlanta.  The person standing in front of me is treating me like some odd reverse scene of Mammy in Gone With the Wind where I’m Mammy and she’s Scarlett O’Hara.

K: “Well, I’m the only one here right now.  Housekeeping has gone, and I have guests waiting for me at the desk.  I’m not even supposed to leave the desk at all.  I see you have your purse, are you getting ready to go shopping?”
Ms. W: “Yes.”  (with an exaggerated roll of her eyes)
K: “I can’t guarantee anything because it’s Saturday night, but IF I get a chance while you’re gone, I will do my best to get up here and make your bed.”

I could feel my dignity going out the window.  As far as I was concerned, it left when I tied up the bag with her sanitary pads in the bottom.  I did manage to hang on to a tiny shred by offering no commitment.

She shrugged me out of the room, rolling her eyes as I left.

The night passed, a typical Saturday night at an interstate hotel, and I was busy.  Guests back to back, phone reservations, and stupid questions that simply MUST be answered before the end of the world comes and we’re all dead.

Then she came back.  I watched her walk up to her room and I watched her come back down to the desk five minutes later.

K: “Yes ma’am?”
Ms W: “I just need to know the reason you didn’t get a chance to come and make my bed.”  (tapping her longer-than-necessary acrylic nails on my nice pretty granite countertop)

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

K: “It IS Saturday night.  Like I told you before, I am not supposed to leave the desk.  I have been too busy to leave the desk for any amount of time.  I do apologize.”
Ms W: “Is that my fault?”

Bite your tongue, Kate.  It could cost you your job.

K: “No ma’am, it’s not your fault.  Again, I apologize.”
Ms W: “We won’t be staying here again.”

WELL THANK FUCKING GOD.  Please tell me where you’re going next so I can call the hotels there and warn them.

The thing is, if she’d just been nice to me, I’d have made a point to go up there and make her stupid bed.

Tip of the day:  Be nice to everyone you meet.  You never know when someone is writing about you on Myspace.

And to Ms. W, I just wanted to let you know that I was really disturbed by this past Saturday's events.  So much so that I actually lost sleep over it Saturday night.  You'll be glad to know that, after I was able to purge myself and get it all off my chest here on Myspace, confessing your guilt and nastiness to the Free World, I feel much better now.  I'm totally over it.  Thank you so much!

My new hotel opens its doors to guests for the first time tomorrow morning at 7am.  The reservations are in place, and the keys are already made for all of the rooms.  There is, however, one tiny problem.

The hotel isn’t finished.

The hotel offers a complimentary breakfast with your room, but since none of the food has been delivered and part of the countertop in the Breakfast Room isn’t laid yet, you can’t have any.  We kindly recommend the McDonald’s next door.  Be sure to take your wallet with you.

Our amenities include a business center (which you can’t use because there are no computers in there), a fitness room (that is still under construction - I don’t think that heavy breathing and sheetrock dust mesh well.), a game room (no games), and a guest laundry (that actually works).

Oh, and we don’t have a pool.

But if you stand outside in the parking lot, I’ll be more than happy to spray you down with the water hose.  For an extra fee, of course.

Before you ask, the Corporate rate, Senior Citizens discount, and the AAA rate are all the same.  You are not special.  But if you ask for any of these discounts, I will make you think you are.

This ought to be interesting.









ps: I’m opening my blog back up to the public.  New inspiration like this shouldn’t go unshared.

Kate's Motel is back in business.

When I started this jobhunt, I went into it with the appropriate amount of confidence.  OF COURSE I would get a job at the very first hotel I sauntered into.  OF COURSE these people would recognize my brilliance and skill.  I AM Kate’s Motel, after all.  

Apparently, none of those people are on Myspace.  27 hotel applications later, I was still without a job.

They all smiled at me and gave me the standard, “We might have something part-time available…we’ll call you.”

Yeah…that doesn’t work for me.  Don’t they know who I am?!?!?

By Thursday morning I was most depressed.  Only two more days of jobhunting, and I would be out of time.


Then they called.

“Kate, I’m sorry to call so late in the evening.”  (It was almost 8pm.)  “I’ve run into a situation, and after looking deeper into your application, I see that you have very extensive experience in hotels.  I’d like to offer you a job.”

/cue Secret Happy Victory Dance

I start tomorrow.

Kate’s Motel is now moving from the tourist trap of St. Simons Island, Georgia, to the thriving metropolis of McDonough, Georgia in precisely 24 hours.  Twenty minutes south of Atlanta, and five hours away from this tiny island where the highest speed limit is 35mph and they roll up the sidewalks at 10pm.

To ice the cake, the job they are giving me is Monday thru Friday, 8a-4p.  I get my nights and weekends off to be home with Ryan and Andy.  Even further good news, the school that Ryan will be attending is literally right across the street from our apartment.

Oh yes.  I have an apartment.  I worked hard and used my own money to make all the deposits necessary.  Now I have a place that I can share with my two main men.

I did it.

What was that you used to always tell me mom?  When you’re doing the right thing, everything will fall into place.

I guess that speaks for itself.

You may have to forgive me in advance.  I bought the good stuff from behind the counter for this stinkin’ cold I got.  Is it normal to be wired and tired at the same time?

Wired and tired rhyme.


So I have a story to tell you.  I’ve been holding off on this story for a month or so, mostly because I was waiting for the other shoe to drop on it.  Now it has and I’ve got a complete story to tell you.  No need for updates.

Let’s start at the beginning.  This is going to be a long one.

Last June, my wonderful, loving, excellent, nominee-for-best-sibling-award, auto mechanic brother gave me an even trade on God’s First Truck.  Since the radiator was going bad on the truck and I could no longer drive it anywhere, it was a good deal for me.  In exchange for my truck, that the owner of the shop could fix, I got a 1999 Ford Taurus in pretty decent working condition.

However, the previous owner pimped it up a bit.  He wanted to be a cop.  (That’s another blog.)  He’d installed a spotlight on the driver’s side, just like the one’s you see on police cars.  There were flashers in the headlights, and the windows were tinted so dark that you absolutely COULD NOT see through into the car if you were on the outside.

I still have the spotlight.


This was not much of an issue for me during the day, but it did pose a slight problem if I had to drive at night.  Most of the time I just rolled the windows down.  Problem solved.

But, contrary to popular belief, it does get cold in Georgia in the winter.  I can’t really roll the windows down when it’s 20 degrees outside and I’m driving up the interstate at 75mph.

Such was the case one bright, chilly, sunny morning about 6 weeks ago.

I’d left work that morning to drive five hours north to see Andy for the weekend.  No sleep, since I’d worked all night the night before, but I’m always so excited to see Andy that I couldn’t sleep if I wanted to on the days that I get to go up there.

It was cold and I was listening to an audio book on CD about Marie Antoinette, so I had the windows rolled up.  It was about noon.  I only had another hour and a half to go before I pulled into Andy’s driveway.

Or so I thought.

There were flashing red and blue lights in my rearview mirror.  I was being pulled over.


Holy shit.  What the FUCK was I doing wrong?  I had my seatbelt on, my cruise control was set at 75 in a 70mph zone…there is no way that I should be getting pulled over for going 5 miles over the speed limit!

KNOCK KNOCK (on the window)

K: “What was I doing wrong? Was I going to fast?”
Officer Dooright: “No Ma’am, you weren’t going too fast.”
K: “I am wearing my seatbelt…was I doing something that I don’t know about?”
Officer Dooright: “Well, uh…your windows are tinted kinda dark, dontcha think?”
K: “Oh, I didn’t tint these windows.  The guy that owned this car before me did.”
Officer Dooright: “Well you’re the one driving it.”
K: “I assumed that it was alright, the guy that tinted these windows is a policeman in Glynn County.”
Officer Dooright: “Let’s just test the windows then, and we’ll see.”

So he pulls out this nifty little device that slides onto the glass and gauges the tint.  The legal limit in Georgia is 32% or above.

I was sitting at 2%.

Mother fuck.

K: “Well that’s just great.  I’m so sorry.  If I’d known they were too dark, I would have had it removed.  I don’t really like it all that much anyway.  Makes it hard to see at night.”
Officer Dooright: (chuckles) “I understand.  Let me see your license and I’ll see what I can do.”

*sigh*

After about 5 minutes, Officer Dooright comes back.


Officer Dooright: “Ma’am, can you step out of the car please?  We seem to have a problem.”
K: (immediate panic…every episode of Cops that I ever watched is now flashing through my brain.  As long as I remember not to proposition him or try to knock him out at any point, I should be fine.)
Officer Dooright: “Your license is suspended.  Seems there was a seatbelt ticket in Macon in 2006...”
K: (blank stare/shock)
Officer Dooright: “Um, I’m going to have to take you to jail.  Do you have any guns or knives in the car or on your person?”
K: (under my breath) “If I had a gun right now, I’d probably shoot myself in the head with it.”
Officer Dooright: “What was that?”
K: “Nothing.”

shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit

Officer Dooright: “I’m not going to put you in handcuffs.”
K: “I’m not going to do anything to make you HAVE to put me in handcuffs.”


So there I sat.  In the back of a police car, being chauffeured to some jail out in the middle of nowhere.  I thought I paid that damned seatbelt ticket…

When we got to the jail, I sat in the booking area for about an hour.  Officer Dooright left to go find someone else with tinted windows, and I sat in a metal folding chair waiting for my turn to be fingerprinted.  Did you know that the days of pressing your finger to an inkpad are over?  They have this neat little computer that can scan your fingerprints automatically.  This gave me what is probably the only opportunity to use the best line I have ever heard in my life.

K: (to the booking officer) “If I wasn’t about to shit my pants, I’d be fucking fascinated.”

After I made a very panicked and tearful phone call to Andy, letting him know that I needed him to bust me out, they put me in a holding cell with none other than Luanne, The Pantyless Stripper Divorcee.

I know she had no panties because she showed me.  Right after she told me that she was only in there because she and her sister had been fist-fighting because her sister told her she’d fucked Luanne’s 5th husband.  She had to show me the bruise on her hip that her sister gave her.

Luanne, The Pantyless Stripper Divorcee: “If I’m not anything else, I’m a damn good mama.  When I get to see my kids (they were taked away from me 2 years ago) I’m a good mama to those babies.”
K: “Um, could you not talk to me?”


Folks, if any of you ever had doubts that Andy might not love me as much as he says, or that he wasn’t good as gold, I am here right now to set things straight.

If there ever was a knight in shining armor, Andy was that knight on that cold afternoon.

He bailed me out and took me home.  He didn’t even get mad at me.

So next in line of things to do is PAY THAT DAMNED TICKET FROM 3 YEARS AGO THAT I THOUGHT I ALREADY PAID and get my license reinstated.  I called Macon.

K: “I need you to just tell me how much the ticket is so I can pay it.”
Probate Court: “Hmm…I’m showing here that this ticket was paid.”
K: “Oh no, no, no.  They told me my license was suspended.  They. Took. Me. To. JAIL.”
PC: “I don’t know anything about that, all I know is that we show the ticket as paid.”

To shorten this part of the story and to eliminate a lot of confusion, the ticket WAS paid back in 2006.  But it wasn’t paid until a month AFTER they suspended my license.  Not having received any notification that my license was suspended, I paid the ticket and thought everything was straight and went about my business for the next 3 FRICKING YEARS.

I got a ticket for my window tint being to dark.  I got a ticket for driving on a suspended license.  In a few hours, both of those tickets are going to be paid.  I got my license reinstated, and the bail bondsman that Andy had to pay to bust me out of the slammer is taken care of.  

On Friday, February 20, 2009, I will be free and clear.


What’s the moral of this story?

Wear your fucking seatbelt.  Otherwise, you could be forced to sit in a tiny, windowless room infested with God knows what, listening to a 45 year old stripper with no panties tell you how her sister kicked her ass.  

But the fingerprint thingy was kinda cool.

I’m getting a tattoo for my birthday.

Theoretically, I could go get one now.  Nothing is really stopping me, other than the fact that it’s the middle of the night and it’s storming so bad out there that I’m a bit nervous of the flagpole on the balcony that could come crashing into my lobby at any moment from the 50mph wind gusts outside.

But I figure if I wait until my birthday, not only will it make a most excellent birthday present that Andy can take credit for without feeling guilty, I will have time to firmly decide on where I want to put it since it will go with me to my grave.

If you don’t have a tattoo, you either have absolutely no desire to get one or you are nervous about getting one.  If you DO have one, you cannot WAIT to get the next one.  They’re addictive.  The pain is relative and easily forgotten.


Did you know that the parts of your brain that process pain and pleasure are right next to each other?  That could explain why so many people find pleasure in pain.  The pain is being processed so close to the pleasure center of the brain…one can’t tell the difference.

I wonder if we follow that same theory, would it explain why so many people thrive on drama?  

For example: (I’m guilty of doing this myself from time to time.  I think everyone is.)
Say there is someone in your life that you thoroughly dislike, or has done you wrong.  At every turn, this person does nothing but screw your life up even more.  Everything they say and do pisses you off royally.  And for some reason, you can’t leave them alone.  

You keep track of everything they do, getting more and more pissed.  You read everything they have to say in their asinine blogs on the internet, and every time they post something, you are right on top of it.  Knowing that it’s going to ruin your entire day, you MUST know everything they say.

After all, they just might say something about you.

Is it really so hard to ignore toxic people?  Could the pleasure and pain centers in your brain be having some technical difficulties?  

Pain is relative and easily forgotten.


Moms, remember the day you gave birth to your first child?  Dear holy Jesus in heaven that was some messed up shit.  No one told you it was going to hurt that bad, did they?  Sure, you had every female that had ever given birth before give you their own personal experience with the event, not that you cared AT ALL, and they probably told you that it wasn’t that bad.  You would be just fine.  

They lied.

I know you remember laying in that hospital bed, sweating through that contraction, thinking that any minute now, you were going to shoot a jumbo sized pumpkin out of your uterus and hoping that you didn’t make too much of a mess on the floor before you died a horrible, painful, terrifying, and humiliating death.

That shit hurts.

Mom was the only person that could accurately describe the pain to me before I went into labor.  She said it would feel like my menstrual cramps, only 1000x worse.  Well that’s just great.  At least I knew what to expect.  It still took me by surprise.

The thing is…even though it’s been a while since I felt those labor pains, the worst physical pain I have ever experienced in my ENTIRE life, I would do it all over again in a heartbeat.  No hesitation.  Because it wasn’t really that bad.  I did just fine.

Pain is relative and easily forgotten.


When I got the tattoo on my leg, the tattoo guy asked me if I was okay.  I told him it felt like he was slicing my leg open, slowly, with a butter knife.  He told me that, in essence, he was.

I CAN’T WAIT to do it again.

hehe

1. I graduated 2nd in my class at sniper school. I decided to use my
powers for the greater good, however, and became a social worker. (But
I still have my AR15, bitches.)



2. I studied under Royce Gracie, himself. In Brazil. I'll knock your ass out.



3. The night that I spent in Bangkok with those 3 Italians and that
half pound of Buddah will always live in my fondest memories. (You'll
be able to read about this in the memoirs, coming soon.)



4. I am no longer allowed entry into the country of Uzbekistan for
reasons that are still classified and can't be divulged here. I would
tell you, but I don't want to have to kill you.



5. I pulled an "Ozzy at the Alamo" on the Eiffel Tower, but it was cold
and it was a long elevator ride and I just couldn't hold it any longer.



6. I still have 2 warrants in the state of Alabama for lewd and
lascivious acts. I tried to tell them we were just shooting a
documentary. They didn't believe me. Bastards.



7. Vicente Fox and I used to chop it up back in the day.



8. The song "Don't Stand So Close To Me," was dedicated to me. What can
I say? I was hot for teacher. And Sting has a crush on me.



9. On certain islands in the south Pacific that shall remain unnamed, I am still worshipped as a goddess.



10. Ex-Vice President Cheney called one evening and informed me that if
things didn't start going better for for the U.N. regarding the torture
issues, that he and Rumsfeld may need me to supply their baby regime
for 40 to life.



11. I was once asked to be a Feature Performer on American Idol, but
because I lost partial hearing due to a cockroach getting lodged in my
ear canal while I was imprisoned in a women's concentration camp in
Thailand, I had to turn down the offer.



12. I used to be employed with a Top Secret Government agency, and was
the head of a department involving Area 51, Watergate, and the illegal
breeding of chinchillas. I can't tell you any more or I'd have to have
you erased.



13. I once bought a Black Market fantail goldfish for $25 from a lady
in the back of a 1975 Eldorado. His name was Fat Nemo and he died two
weeks later.



14. I once drank two bottles of Southern Comfort and woke up in Vegas
with pasties on my nipples and a 454 Casull in my right hand.



15. I rode a moose over the Canadian border while being chased by a
Yeti because I'd unknowingly Interrupted his mating ceremony.



16. I've been shot at three times before. Twice on purpose, once by accident.



17. I once owed $3,000,000 to a loan shark. He threatened to encase my
feet in concrete and make me swim with the fishes unless I paid my debt
by Bush bond, but I was saved at the last minute by the Japanese
Yakuza. We're tight.



18. During a Satanic ritual for mind control, I accidentally sacrificed
the wrong animal and was temporarily hunted by the Marxists because the
head of the cult was really attached to his Schitzu.



19. I was involved in the development of undercover Antigravity
technology, but since Obama’s Memoranda will make it easier for the
release of such files to the public, I was forced to resign from the
project to keep from compromising national security.



20. There is a map to the lost city of Atlantis tattooed in the crack of my ass in ultraviolet ink.



21. I have slowly built up an immunity to cyanide and arsenic by
systematically sprinkling all of my food with the stuff, just in case
someone thinks they're going to "off" me.



22. I used to have Van Gogh's ear in a box that I kept in my underwear
drawer until a shady member of the family stole it from me and wrote
his name on it.



23. There used to be a midget in my pottery class that constantly
ruined my projects just before I could finish them. He's missing now.
I'm really proud of the 2-foot vase that sits in the corner of my
living room.



24. I once pretended to be Spiderman and scaled the wall of my hotel to
climb from balcony to balcony, risking life and limb, only to find out
that all of the doors on the second floor were locked from the inside
and I would NOT be sneaking into any of the rooms that way.



25. My Evil Plan:

Objective: Soul Accumulation.



My motive is a little bit more complex: Madness



Stage One


To begin my plan, I must first traumatize a military general. This
will cause the world to sign up for life insurance policies, terrified
by my arrival. Who is this demon straight out of hell? Where did they
come from? And why do they look so good as an evil twin/opposite?



Stage Two


Next, I must poison the eiffel tower. This will all be done from
Hell, a mysterious place of unrivaled dark glory. Upon seeing this, the
world will weep uncontrollably, as countless hordes of ninjas hasten to
do my every bidding.



Stage Three


Finally, I must send forth my needlessly big weather machine,
bringing about the end of all things. My name shall become synonymous
with all that is wrong with the world, and no man will ever again dare
refuse to be my prom date. Everyone will bow before my mind-boggling
insanity, and the world will have no choice but to whisper my name in
fear.






(One of these things actually IS true. Guess which one.)

Number 24 is the one that's true.  I accidentally locked myself out on the balcony off the lobby, and after scaling the wall once and realizing that the doors were locked there too, I had to do it all over again just to get back to where I was to begin with.  I did finally get the attention of someone staying on the next floor up to come down and open the door for me. 

It was highly mortifying.

I got this idea from Jessica, who did this blog a few months ago.  Go through your instant message archive and pull out parts.  You never realized just how hilarious your friends really are...

(not all of these are the same person)



them: why the hell is there a video of WhatchyaWhatchyaWhatchyaWant? on my home page?!
me: um..because youre gay?
them: touché



them: Who knew there were so many temptations in a hospital?



me: im watching children of the corn
them: pervert



me: good. end of discussion.
them: you're sucking all the fun outta this conversation, you know this?



them: BOO wharrrrrrrrr thats my scary voice



me: that man has panties on his head
them: I do that every Thursday



me: theres a bunch of cool street names on the island...sanddollar lane
them: is that how the whores get paid?



me: i have decided that i am a free bleeder



them: i'll give ya $10,000 if you kill me in the next 15 hours
me: hmmmm
them: i'll need 10 hours to dish out in prostitution to raise the money so lemme know
me: lol



them: did you know that sea cucumbers eat thru their asses?
them: and star fishes puke out their stomachs
them: wrap the stomach around the food
them: and then suck it all back inside them
me: sounds like me when im pregnant

I heard that if you watch this video all the way to the end, you'll receive a phone call and then die a week later.