yeahimadork.com

I did nothing productive this weekend. And I’m strangely exhausted by it. I watched RAM for a few hours today, and went to Target, but that’s about it.

I’ve been on a bit of a rollercoaster of moods recently. I don’t know what it is. I’m happy, then sad. Then confused.

Or, happy. Sad. Angry.

Happy. Sad. Horny.

Happy. Sad. Frustrated.

Happy. Sad. Lonely.

Happy. Sad. Stupid.

Happy. Sad. Blah.

I am not used to these hormones and all these weird feelings I’ve been having in the last few months. It was easier being bitter and bitchy all the time.

At least my emotions were consistent then.

Since I was feeling mopey, and my friends were in Arizona for the Rams/Cardinals game (DMX is a huge Rams/Kurt Warner fan), I decided to go to Target. Nothing makes me happier than shopping at Target. Seriously. I don’t know what it is, but there’s healing powers in that damn store. I get to spend an hour in the make-up aisle, looking at all the lipstick, and eye shadow, and nail polish, and eye liner. I am not a very girly girl, but I love make-up. I like to browse in the linen aisles, and convince myself that this is the perfect time to redo my bathroom in different colors, even though I never do. Or look at the bedding, and all the pretty lacey sheets, and then get pissed to think that if those were on my bed like I wanted, they’d be ruined by my cat using my bed as his urine depository, which then reminds me to go back to the bathroom aisle and get a couple of shower curtains to save my mattress from my incontinent pussy* (goddamn, do I know how to bring the funny, OR WHAT?).

Finally, after about three hours (I kid you not - that’s about how long I’m there if I’m alone without anyone rushing me), I decided I would have to prostitute myself if I bought anymore, so I got in one of the lines to check out. The cashier was chatting with me, and we were laughing. I noticed a guy behind me looked all kinds of cranky and asshole-y and made faces that he couldn’t fit his crap on the counter because mine was still on it. After she rang up everything, I saw my total was $126. She asked me, “Is that everything, miss?”

To which I laughingly replied, “Yes, thankfully. I couldn’t afford anything else! Ha ha ha ha ha ha.” Whatever. I was making dumb conversation. I was being friendly with the cashier.

Then Mr. Personality behind me jumped in with “Well, maybe if you didn’t buy so much crap you wouldn’t have spent so much. And god knows I wouldn’t be waiting in line forever to pay for a fucking broom.”

Uh. Ok. Jackhole.

“Excuse me?”

“The world doesn’t revolve around you and your bloated consumerism.”

I am not sure what this guy’s problem was, but he was a total dick.

“Excuse the hell out of me for being friendly and making conversation. And, I think you know where you can put that broom. Have a great day.”

Oh, yeah:

It clearly is about me.

Duh.

*I took Ike to the vet because he peed out of the box again. The vet checked him, said there was nothing wrong with him, and that he was clearly very mad about something. Great. I’ve put my life upside down for this fucking cat, including buying his punkass $30 food, and now I have to worry about keeping him happy.

Asshole.

I’ve discovered he has a purse fetish, though (aww, just like his mommy).

I have this one pink bag that he rubs himself against like a maniac whenever I use it. I should get a picture of it next time, because it’s both funny and creepy. It looks like those weirdo shoe fetish guys who rub high heels up against their face (or other parts) and get off on it. That’s Ike and the pink fake Kate.

Kay is having a fake purse party at the end of the month, and I am so excited I may piss myself (but at least I won’t do it in my bed, unlike other members of my household). I love love LOVE purses. Especially when they are as cute as the real ones and only cost $20 - $50, instead of hundreds or thousands. I probably don’t need anymore purses, since I’ve got a closet full already, but I don’t care. I could never have enough, if you ask me.

She’s also having a toy party next month, which I am also looking forward to, because I am always looking to add more fun to my goodie drawer. I told her it would be perfect to combine the two. I mean, how fun would it be to pass around the Coach bag and the Pocket Rocket at the same time? That’s my kind of party.

I watched RAM this morning. He’s getting at the age now where he likes a lot of music, and he really loves Gorillaz, and is always singing “Feel Good, Inc.” So we were listening to it, and he was dancing and singing the line “It’s my chocolate attack” over and over, which made me laugh.

So I asked him, “RAM, why do you only sing that part?”

“Cause I like it. And I like chocolate.”

“I don’t think they’re talking about that kind of chocolate.”

“What other kind of chocolate is there?” Then I realized I was about to have one of those uncomfortable moments where I don’t quite know what to say, that would probably end in me saying “go ask your parents.”

“What kind of chocolate are they talking about, TT?”

“Well, because the guys who sing that part are black, I think they were talking about them. Being black.”

“What? Black?”

Fuck. “Well, you know, their skin is brown. Sort of like chocolate.”

“But if they’re called black, why is their skin brown? Why aren’t they called brown?”

“I don’t know. They’re just black. And you’re white. That’s just how it is.” As soon as I said that, I knew how stupid it was.

“But my skin’s not white. TT, I’m confused.”

“So am I, kid.”

“So, if they’re black, and the chocolate in the song is about them, why don’t the other people in the song sing about it? Are they white? Or black? And if black people are chocolate, what are white people?”

ARGH!!!

Why is a six year-old asking me shit like this? WHY?!

“I don’t know. Wouldn’t you rather know where babies come from??”

“No.”

Fucker.