The first part of waking up

I don’t think I have woken up in the past two months without muttering the phrase, “I don’t want to go to work today.” I like work. But it seems as though I really need to get into a catch phrase. When I was in high school, every single day I would somehow try to convince my mom to turn around and go somewhere else. This lasted until the last day of school, senior year. When my mom finally said yes, I looked at her and said, “Wow, talk about Pavlov’s dogs! I don’t even realize I say it anymore. It’s like I see the gate and it’s a knee jerk reaction.” I’m fairly certain that my not wanting to go to work thing is the same.
I sleep with three pillows. Two are fluffy and you can actually sink into them. One is firmer and would probably be great to smother someone in their sleep…if that’s the kinda thing you’re into. Which I most certainly am not. Moving on. The two fluffy ones are always in the same color pillowcase and I place them side-by-side. The firm pillow is usually in a childhood pillowcase. Right now Mr. Firm pillow is in a super old Disney pillowcase that has Daisy making the bed of one of those Huey, Dewey or Louie characters. Not Louie, Louie is green. This guy is red. And on the flip side, Donald and Minnie are cleaning up some room. When I sleep, I sleep on my stomach with my head on the fluffies and my arm holding on to the firmie. Every single morning I wake up, and before I can mutter that I don’t want to go to work, I realize that I have removed the pillowcase cover of the firm one that I have been clutching to the entire night. I have done this since I was a baby, apparently. My mom says my dad does the same thing. My mom is baffled by it still. She sleeps in one place. I’m a mover and a shaker, and rumor has it, a giggler.
When I finally get up, I go to my computer, tippityy type out stories, or dreams or whatever feels the need to be saved on my hard-drive. I drink my coffee (3 sugars, no milk) and start texting people. I usually update my Facebook status. Somewhere in there a shower and dressing usually occur. By the time I actually need to leave the house, I have already had 3 cups of coffee and a substantial conversation. (Mind you, last night my substantial conversation was singing the Oscar Mayer song in a low baritone to my friend who was then trying to harmonize with me. Birds of a feather, I guess)
I am writing all this because this is what I am used to. This is my daily ritual. This is my “Get the day started” routine. I am used to this. But as of next week, someone new is going to be privy to this. I guess this just seemed easier than writing out a list of quirks to watch out for. And I am sure there will be a list of quirks that get written. But as far as next week, Bodhi, please take note of how I like my coffee.

Last Goodbye

After my dad read my 2nd fainting post in as many days, he said I was coming across as a sickie. Totally not my goal. I just said that I was writing part two in the post before, and like a wonderful person that always makes good on promises, I did just that. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a BLT waiting for me with extra mayo.

Do you poop out at parties?

So as not to make this story a “woe is me,” story, I am imagining myself wearing a gorilla mask. It’s WAYYYY funnier now.
Ok, second pass out story:
September 2006- So I’m wearing a gorilla mask…and stressing again. Appetite gone, conglomerate of issues that are slowly getting out of control, and to add insult to injury…a bowling party. After the bowling party, one of the friends decides to have a shindig at her house. Much to my date’s opposition, I convince him we should go. At the party, I am talking to all of his friends and he's brooding in the corner. In an instant, I get overwhelmingly tired. I drag my tired self to him and say, “We need to leave. I REALLY need to sleep.” Now he has ammo against me, “ Then go outside and say goodbye to everyone.” “Are you serious? I am going to fall asleep at the table. Please, lets just go.” “Nope,” and he walks out to the porch area to say goodbye to his friends. In my gorilla mask, I walk down the stairs and hug the friend’s goodbye. As I get to the last person, everything goes black this time, and I hear my date say,” Are you okay?” I try to shake the black from my eyes, but it’s as though Ursula the Sea Witch has already inked me. “I don’t think so.”
I’m down.
I’m woken to my date lightly slapping my face and calling my name. All of the friends are around us and my first thought, “Jesus, was I really that tired that I fell asleep in the middle of a freaking party??” My first thoughts are always the funniest. As I try to sit up and laugh and pretend it’s no big deal, I get interrogated! “ When was the last time you ate? “ “What are you on right now?” “When was the last time you slept?” Rather than answer anything, I say,” Can I get some juice? Something with sugar?” When the juice is brought back, I take a sip and spit it out, “This is sugarless!” I’m now laughing. This whole situation is ridiculous. I pull my dates collar close to my face, “All I want to freaking do is go back home and go to bed. Can we do that now, please?” Can you believe I STILL got a ‘nope’? So I go to the girl’s bedroom and lay down, periodically getting interrogated with Nancy Drew wannabes. My date is freaking out, and lying next to me. I turn over and say,” I’m going to go wash my face.” I get out of what may possibly be the highest bed in world and make my way to the restroom. I wash my face, look in the mirror and start laughing. What a freaking night! This wasn’t supposed to happen! I didn’t even want to go bowling. In truth, this was the night I had planned to breakup with the guy. Talk about throwing a wrench in my plans! Ok, so as I’m looking at my self in the mirror and laughing about how I actually am fortunes fool, the girl who owned the house came in. I quickly put back on my gorilla mask and sit on the edge of the tub.
“Hey, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure, whatever. But if I pass out again, it’s your own fault.” Ha ha? Ha? Hmm, no.
“Do you think you’re fat?”
“No. I mean I think I have trouble areas. But we all do, we’re girls. Like you and your tum…”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Really? What else could ‘do you think you’re fat’ mean?”
“Let’s be serious”
I am, at once, completely in awe of her trying to string together something that makes her feel like she’s Oprah. Yet at the same time, I am rather disgusted by the fact that she also believes she has the skills of Dr. Phil.
“No one here thinks you’re fat.”
“Um, thanks?”
“So you don’t need to not eat.”
Inside my gorilla mask, I’m doing a WTF face.
“You think I’m anorexic?”
“Either that or tweaking.”
“Wow, well, I assure you I am neither.” I get up to stand, get light headed, and sit back down. I start laughing again. “Thank you for your concern.”
This good cop, bad cop thing keeps going on until my date finally comes in and I beg and plead that we leave. I didn’t feel the need to explain what was going on in my life to people who only flip out when their dealer doesn’t answer his phone. He finally says ok, and he helps me to the car, being jell-o leggy still. In the car he tells me that I scared the shit out of him, but that he realized he needed to work out more since when he tried to pick me up, I was a tad too heavy for him. “Are you calling me fat? Are you saying I need to lose weight? Jesus! After what happened tonight, you have some nerve!” He turns to me and before he can say anything I insist I’m joking. I adjust my gorilla mask and stare out the window in a pregnant silence.

Dancing with the Floor

Something kinda funny about me: stress affects me physically, not mentally. Is that funny? Hmm, not really. Say it in an Italian accent. There, now it’s kinda funny. I have a couple of back-stories, that we can laugh about now, but at the time they were terrible.
April 2006: I had just been accepted to Art Center, I was in the midst of a firestorm of controversy at the middle school I was working at, my two best friends had broken up…with each other (time management, trying to be unbiased, and having to be the shoulder to cry on…suck fest ’99!) (as I am trying to hone in on all the things, I realized there was a crap load! More than I had even thought initially. Wow, I’m amazing! But this isn’t a Debbie Downer story, so I'll leave you with those.)
Ok, new paragraph, new start.
So when I’m stressed, I don’t eat. I have no appetite. Some people cuddle up with a pint of Ben and Jerry’s, and watch reruns of friends. I, instead, try to remain as normal as possible and do things that I would normally do, but without…you know…people fuel. Ok, so back to story at hand. We were invited to some music recital for a friend that was getting her Masters in Public Performance from USC. As we were sitting in the non-denominational church that also doubled as a piano recital place, I started feeling hot. No big whoop, everyone thought it was hot. But then, during the intermission, when we were all outside, I started really getting hot. So I took off my jacket and sweater. Mind you, it was about 63 degrees out. Very odd for me to NEED to cool down. Anywho, intermission over, we all trudge back in. The church is unbearably hot and I feel…unusual. I ask around for water. Water ain’t helping nuthin’. I get panicky. The guy I was with looks at me and says,” are you okay?” “I just need to use the restroom, I’m okay.” I push my way through the pews and bolt through the doors. I desperately try to find the restroom and when I do, I curse that it’s down a long hall. I start running down the hall thinking, “Please please please just don’t let me puke in a fucking hall.”
Everything goes white.
I open my eyes. Really heavy eyelids. This process takes minutes. I’m staring at the wood molding on the floor. I’m on a marble floor. First thought that comes to mind, “ I CANNOT believe that asshat took me to a party and just let me sleep in some weird room!” I hear music. I have no idea where I am. My head is sore and my knee is bleeding. I try to sit up. That’s when I realize I had fainted. I get up, kinda, and make my way to the restroom. I look in the mirror and have a massive goose egg on the side of my forehead that is just getting bigger by the minute. All veiny and throbbing. I wash my face, wash my knee (that now has a scar from this night) and place my hair in such a way that my new bump wont be visible. I go back to the main hall, steal a cookie (for sugar) and wait for the song to be over to go sit back inside. When I sit down, my date asks me if I’m ok. I say, "Yeah, I was just tired." He smiles and, like he had a freaking bump detector, kisses my freaking forehead bump. I flinch and make a tiny noise. He gives me a look and like moves my hair aside. “Did you get into a fight in there? What the hell happened?” “Nothing, I’ll explain later.” I guess I like being stoic.
Recital is over, we all pile out. I’m feeling uber weak and jell-o leggy. I sit down and, much to my chagrin, start telling him what happened. But not as dramatic. “Eh, I passed out. Not a big deal. Are you going to eat that strawberry?” Before he could get another word out of me, I jam the strawberry in my mouth and take about 10 minutes to consume it. And when anyone came by to ask me questions, I shrugged and pointed to my mouth. This fun encounter also left me with a fun concussion. For three weeks I wasn’t able to decipher personalized license plates (on of my FAVORITE things in the world.) and I was not funny at all. Nor did I understand jokes. It was a very bizarre time.
I have another pass out story, but this got too long. I’ll write it tomorrow.
Anyway, I recently celebrated the fact that it had been an entire year since I last passed out.
And then today…due to everything going on in my stupid world, (which I totally thought I was handling nicely, considering) I get up from my seat to get water and immediately see white and made myself sit down. I didn’t pass out. Imagine: me and Marie Osmond in the same week. At least I would have been in good company…kinda.

Tires make me tired

Barely after noon and I already have had my fill of shenanigans today. After putting off getting tires for my car for a ridiculously long amount of time, I finally buckled down and did it. Kinda. I called my dad on the way over and he said he would go with me tomorrow morning, so just get the estimate and work my womanly ways to get a discount and whatever. Ok, this seems like a task I that should include no story, right? Wrong. So I pull in, park, get out, walk in and stand in line. I wait my turn, and then proceed to Rick’s station. “Rick,” I say, “I need tires. Are you a man that can help me? By the way Rick, I am not getting tires today, as I am already late for work (lie) and I would really just need an estimate.” Rick looks at my tires, asks me about the mileage and INSISTS that I will not only have one blow out today, but that I will have two! Two freaking blowouts! One freaking day! Holy crap! I feign terror. Then I say, “Ok, what time do you open tomorrow?” “I don’t think you get it, Natasha, you will have two blowouts today.” Ok, this is where I am no longer playing the innocent southern belle and am starting to act more like…me. “Well, Rick, considering that I’ve driven like this for a while, I’m sure one more day wont hurt.” “No, I am sure that you will have a blowout. And in this heat? Are you sure you wanna take that chance?” “Ok Rick, I’ll make you a deal. If God forbid, I get a blowout or even :::insert fake gasp here::: two blowouts, you can totally say ‘I told you so’ tomorrow. Now, may I get my estimate, please?”
Rick, at this point, tells me I have a one hundred dollar rebate on my yokuhamoashin whatever tires. Just when I think I am ready to leave, Rick decides to bring in reinforcements. He goes to some guy (I don’t remember his name, lets call him Grease Monkey. Or how about GM for short) and brings him to talk to me. “We can get you out of here in 20 minutes.” “GM, that’s very nice, but as I’ve already told Rick, I’m late for work.”
GM-15 minutes
Me- no
GM-10 minutes
Me-No
GM-5 minutes
Me-NO
GM-We can even drive you.
Me- Why would you drive me for a 5-minute procedure 30 minutes out? And as much as I LOVE awkward chitchat in cars with strangers, I am fairly certain that I have made clear that I am coming back tomorrow. Now, GM, Rick, may I please have my estimate before I end up being even later than I already am?
Rick-Are you sure…
At this point Rick’s words trail off because I am fairly certain he saw my “I swear to God I’m going to cut your throat” face. And yes, I have one, as should everyone else. It helps in situations like this, ‘cause I actually don’t have to cut throats. I just need to look like I could. Thank God I’m going to the zoo on Sunday…then I can get a wax gorilla with Mowgli.

This could easily be a Morrissey lyric

Sometimes I feel overwhelmed by the stories I have in my head. I have beginnings, a ton of ends, and a couple of middles. Lines I hear slowly make their way into plots that have no idea where the bases were formed. Sometimes a friend will say something I get so moved by that I need to just jot it down immediately and then get bombarded by story lines. The latest one, in an uber miniscule nutshell, has been keeping me awake at night.
It was just a line.
Something that she said to me in passing. It probably wasn’t even a line to her. Just a free flowing stream of thought that somehow managed to navigate towards my inner ear. It was so heart wrenching and so profound and so painful that I already have it being my “As God as my witness, I will never go hungry again,” line. It resonates to the very core, and what is most excruciating is that I can’t just jump right out and say it. It’s too good. It’s as though I need to surround it with Easter grass as to not break how very fragile the wording is.
The wording.
It is in and of itself an English professor’s, “Cellar Door.” The most beautiful combination of words ever placed next to each other in the English language as collectively thought of by the great minds of our time.
Ugh, I sound like Mirada July.
To live in ones head is not always as charming as it may seem from the outside, even when the contemplation has to deal with attempting to invite someone into your world. Fuck peace.

My gradual decent into a life I never meant

Disneyland is always fun. When I was younger and would see adults there without kids and I would think, “ What the hell? They aren’t going to have any fun!” Now that I’m older I don’t think I’ve gone with kiddos at all. So imagine my surprise when my brother and sister-in-law invited me this Thursday to Disneyland. They have three little boys. Jackson is turning six on Tuesday (Hence the Disneyland trip) Rory is four and Tanner is three. Jackson is a lot of talk and more than not will not want to go on anything. Rory is renegade and will ride anything. Tanner…hmmmm, Tanner will probably sit next to me and tell me baby jokes. Or talk about poop. That’s all he does now. I think the adult to kid ratio will work out. Jackson will want toys, Rory will want food and Tanner will want me to sing him songs about Spiderman being a baby and needing a diaper change. The more I think about this, the more I wonder if this is going to be enjoyable. I bet it will totally be fun and exhausting and challenging and at worst, I will have a crap load of amazing stories. Maybe I can convince my sister-in-law to dress them up in their Halloween costumes! One fact remains though, regardless of what kid has what meltdown or whatnot: I am not going on those stupid teacups! That’s not a freaking ride, that’s a torture chamber!

Consider yourself warned.

Have you ever watched or listened to something somewhere where you knew no good can come out of it because you'll laugh? Or what's worse/lamer is when you just remember a funny thing? I distinctly remember being in 8th grade and constantly recalling what happened during lunch or whatever and having to put my head down in class and just shake uncontrollably, desperatly trying to calm down and catch my breath. This dumb habit has stuck with me. I remember being in a Pro-Tools class battling with some guy next to me, making faces at each other JUST to make the other person laugh. We found out the best way to stop laughing was to pinch your nose and just stop breathing. It gives you time to cool down and revert your attention to what you needed to pay attention to in the first place. The whole lack of oxygen to the brain thing really makes you think, ironically enough. Ok, so now comes today. I get an email. I click. I end up not only hunched over and shaking, I started desperatly trying to clutch my nose and then my mouth. When that didn't work, I actually tried to strangle myself. I was in such a bad, painful laugh I thought if I try to inflict injury, it will divert my attention. No such luck. Now I'm bruised on my inner arms. And I will never click on an email link again...yeah right. Who am I kidding? I love crap like this.

Meet me in Montauk

Football season is now upon us, and this season I have decided I’m going to be hardcore. I’ve always liked watching football, and have been known to yell at television sets (especially in sports bars) but I’ve never really had a team of my own. I usually rooted for the underdog or better yet, during the whole U.S.C. vs. Longhorns game, I rooted for the Longhorns. I think I was the only one in Los Angeles to root for Texas. That may have been the sweetest win, too. Well, anywho, I’ve come to the conclusion that I need an actual team to root for this season. I have narrowed it down to three teams, giving me a better chance to have a team in the Super Bowl, and therefore me yelling at the TV. I am ready to jump on the New England bandwagon because (and yes, this was the actual reasoning) I’ve never met a clam chowder I didn’t like. Except Manhattan clam chowder, blech. I am also considering the Buccaneers. ‘Cause they’re pirates. They’ll fight for a just cause, just ‘cause. The third team, I feel, was chosen because I decided to go classic Americana. The Dallas Cowboys. How very J. Crew of me.
I think I totally got my bases covered. I think I have a fighting chance to make it all the way to the Super Bowl this year. I think I need my friends to humor me by going with me to Hooters, drinking beer, and chowing on wings.

I mutate it my way!

If I were to have an esophagus that became irritated, I would be pissed. If I had an esophagus that became MUTATED I would be overjoyed. I already decided what I want my esophagus to mutate into. An awesome robot that sings Frank Sinatra songs. Can I choose what I want my mutated esophagus to turn into? I would be so sad if it turned into a basketball. I hate basketball. And chances are I would dribble all over. BA ZING!

Tanner is wise beyond his three years

Last night one of my friends spent the night. This means I have to entertain someone else in the morning and not just entertain myself. Well, in my half-sleep/ half awake state, I started telling her a story about when I was five. My mom had closed an account and had all these blank checks that were useless, so she gave them to me to play with. I’m sure she thought I was going to write checks to the grocery store, or the mechanic or somewhere where I actually saw her write checks. She was more than a little amused when she saw that I wrote out a check for one million dollars to Toys ‘R’ Us. When she asked me why I wrote it out to there, I calmly stated that it was because I liked toys. Now, if I base this little episode on my nephew Tanner’s logic, that means that I was, in fact, a little kid and not the young lady I was constantly reminded to behave like. My mom still has the check. I still like toys.

road rage is all the rage

I never get mad at who I should get mad at. In fact, when I used to see a therapist (long story, sad story, not a blog story) she said that the reason I have road rage is because I am not able to tell the people in my life how mad they make me, so I take it out on random people that I know I’ll never see again anyway. Ok, this little tidbit of info was made relevant again on Friday. After a bad day at work that left me feeling defeated and deflated, I walked to my car. When I get off of work now, it’s dark. So here I am, this angry little girl, walking to my car in the dark. As I’m walking, there were about five teenage boys walking down the street. One was skateboarding, one was wearing ridiculously tight pants, and the others were just there. In other words, mad Natasha was not scared. As I approach my car, they had to walk past me, and one of these teenage hooligans said, “ hello there young lady.” Wow, what a nice chap. I’m sure he didn’t expect me to yell back, “ I’m old enough to be your mother!!!” and slam the door to my car. As I’m sitting in my car asking myself why the hell I did that, I turn the car on, and much to my chagrin, I started blaring Jay- Z rapping about ladies being pimps too, and getting that dirt off your shoulder. I’m sure they want me as their mother now.

The Lovers, The Dreamers, and Me

When I decided I was going to go to Art Center, I kinda went into creativity overload. I was constantly analyzing movies, dreaming up commercials and music videos in my head, writing stories and scripts, etc, etc, etc. It got so intense at one point, my friends couldn’t stand to be around me cause I was speaking as though I was a cartoon. Not voice wise, but as in talking about anvils falling and dodging raindrops and slipping on banana peels. (Okay, that last one wasn’t so cartoony, but I’m not in that mode anymore, so lay off.) Well, during that period, I came up with something that still “haunts” me. I came up with this kick ass music video for the Gorillaz song “ Dare.” I mean I came up with the choreography, the characters (it was a bear dancing and singing with daisies… I’m not going into specifics. I still may do it) and all of the main shots, lighting and location. I was a woman obsessed! So, every time I hear the song, even now, I picture my video, and not the horrible one that the band actually put out for it.
I honestly thought I was the only person who did this. Last night at dinner though, I was informed that not only am I not the only person that does this, but that their “video” is all they picture when they hear the song too. And now, when I hear the song (which for some reason was a TON of times today) all I can “see” is their interpretation for it. And their rendition, even if it only really exists in my head, is 10 times better than the actual video for the song.

Sorry Dad

So this morning, as I was getting ready for work, a couple neurons in my brain started rapidly firing. The memory that they conjured up made me realize I am way cooler than even I thought. So as I get ready, I listen to my music on random. A song I didn’t remember I had came on.
Ok, first back story…last summer I went to Greece. During my trip, I found out that The Bloodhound Gang is HUGE there. Like massively huge. All I really knew of them was The Bad Touch and that Fire Water Burn song. But the song that was being played at all the bars and stuff was new and was actually kind of good. I blamed the ouzo. So when I came back to the states, I was really sad that they never played The Bloodhound Gang. I downloaded a couple of their songs and changed my Myspace page around, including making my song a BHG song and wrote a bulletin about it. I got a tad OCD about them.
Back to this morning…a BHG song came on my random itunes thingy. I forgot how much I liked them. So I went to their website to see when their next album was coming out. They had a new video. They had a new song. I listened to the new song. I loved the new song. They are apparently on tour. I looked to see when they would be coming to a town near me. They aren’t. Apparently Evil Jared Hasselhoff (who is my Myspace friend…OCD) refuses to come to the states until George Dubya is out of office. (He lives in Germany…OCD) I got sad, felt defeated by Dubya, (again) and put my itunes back to random. Soundgarden came on.
Second back-story…when I was 14 I saw Soundgarden in their last ever Los Angeles concert. It was an okay concert considering the company I was with. (Megan, I’m looking at you) It was sponsored by K-ROQ and that’s where I met Carson Daly. (That’s another story unto itself!) Okay, so since it was being sponsored, K-ROQ brought some up and coming band. I hated the band. They were uber frat-boyesk and only into the ladies with big fake boobs. (I was 14…I don’t know why I was comparing myself, but I did.) Then they played one song that I actually knew. My friend and I got excited like giddy little girls and started screaming along since we could yell out “burn mother fucker, burn.”
Back to this morning…when I realized this, I actually said out loud, “ Holy shit! I did see them live.” And then I got jealous of myself. I am too cool, son.