Oh finger, where art thou?

Sometimes I do things that, when I look back, are quite possibly the dumbest things in the history of mankind. Take for example when I fought with a police officer about how not only did I NOT deserve a ticket, but that if he ignorantly insisted upon issuing one, I would fight tooth and nail that he receive five. (I didn’t get the ticket, and yes he walked away apologizing and repeating he would pay more attention, but Jesus! What the hell was I thinking?) And then there was the time that time in high school….or all the times in high school is more like it. High school is a story unto itself. It was too ridiculous to just be a blurb. But, I do believe that me cutting off the tip of my finger may be just about the dumbest thing ever.
Back story…I had 10 wonderfully rounded, super cute, super slender phalanges. Each one more perfect than the last. And all of them were mine. This, I suppose, is the story of how one went away. Or awry. Never to be seen again. GONE. AWOL. POW. (The tip of the finger I lost was apparently in charge of getting to the story without the uber long lead in, I’m sure it will be greatly missed.)
Ok, so Monday morning, I’m at work. I got there early. There was less traffic than normal. I made the most delicious coffee. I bought frozen waffles!!! The stars were aligned that it was going to be a great day.
I skip into work and basically share a diddy with all the nearby woodland creatures. It was going to be amazing.
I end up opening a box that wasn’t addressed to me, but you know what? I am helpful. I am there early. I have nothing to worry about. It was going to be a momentous day.
(Here is what I didn’t know. Some gnomes or trolls, I think trolls, changed my normal scissors with, what can only be described as, razor sharp ninja blades.)
So I’m opening this box on what is now referred to as the day that was supposed to be the greatest ever when… (Insert knife cutting into a tomato sound) my fingertip went missing. The pain wasn’t instant. In fact, it hurt a trifle bit less than a paper cut. I didn’t realize what happened until I went to the restroom to get a Band-Aid. That’s when I saw it. Or more appropriately, I didn’t see it. The blood was secondary at this point. And the fact that that amount of blood was secondary flipped me out. So I ran out of the restroom and sat at one of my friends’ desks. I said, “ Hey, I’m just gonna chill here for a bit. Just keep doing what you’re doing. You don’t even need to talk to me. Just look at me periodically to see if I’m cool.” Well, obviously my chill method (think Spicoli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High) fell on deaf ears, because she immediately started fanning me. Then someone else came by and gave me a cookie. And then it became, “what the hell happened to Natasha” day.
I went through seven Band-Aids. And by went, I mean I bled through them. And by bled though I mean completely saturated them. I layered about 3 of them at a time. And the brilliance of this whole thing was that I didn’t show anyone. So only I knew why my caged finger was singing. I didn’t think it was that bad, but when 5 hours passed and I was STILL bleeding like it was going out of style, the editor of Ms. asked to see it.
I thought she was going to hork.
I immediately got ushered out of the office and into my car with a ton of cotton gauze thingies and was basically reprimanded for not going to the E.R. earlier.
The E.R. was a joke. I was there for 3 hours and left with a Band-Aid and a tetanus shot. And I was STILL bleeding the next day. But, I did leave work early. And my parents DID meet me in the E.R. And we DID all go to dinner that night. And I DID get a ton of sympathy the next day. But man, I miss my finger. (And I think I damaged the nerve. Of all the nerve! ) (See, I decided to do a tap dancing routine and when I did the windmill thing with my arms, I got a weird sensation at the tip. But I guess that will be another post. By the way, this post was typed with only 9 fingers.) (Sad face)

(this made me laugh out loud)

I'm a jerk, I need to write more. I know it.

Things I have come to know

The romance is over when he burps. Done, fineto, zim zam bang.

There was never a romance if I burp. Few have come to know the sounds of my bellowing intestines.

I am usually right. If I am wrong, not only will I not fight you on it, but I will want to know more about it. But ohhh doggy, if I am not backing down, it's because there is no reason for me to since you sir, are about to get schooled. End of story. Whoot Whoot.

Sometimes it is more important for the other person to believe they are right than it is for you to be right. They need the nod more than you do. I do this when friends are down. Sure, it's an apple, not a gorilla. You need this more than I do.

I have grass is always greener syndrome down to a fucking science! I got to leave early from work recently because of a migraine (I wish it was a yourgraine) and in driving home, I saw all these people seemingly happy and on the way to whatever the hell they were doing. And I didn't want a job. And I didn't want responsibilities. I wanted to go to the park. And then I remembered when I was home during the day and would have anxiety attacks all the time because what the hell was I doing with my life!? Why didn't I have a normal thing to do during the day? And now that I have it...I want to not care again. Grass is always greener.

Seeing kids doesn't make me want kids, it makes me wanna be a kid. Sorry mom.

I miss not living with my family. Yeah, my roommate is great bla bla bla, but I miss my family. I miss seeing my mom and talking to my dad and I've gone through a lot in these last 6 months. More than I ever thought I would need to go through. And sometimes, most of the time, I wish I was with my parents. Watching Persepolis did the opposite to help that.

I had an ex recently refer to me as an Ice Queen. Little did he know it was 99.8% his doing. I laughed it off and thought "he's scared cause I'm not giving in." Then I realized...ugh, and thanks a lot mom...I'm not giving in 'cause I'm scared. Self realization sucks! Sucio!

I'm hoping Cochella this weekend will help clear my head of all my stupid thoughts and feelings. Thoughts and feelings are lame. I would much rather be a robot. Kanye didn't help...Kanye, try as he might, is no Daft Punk. I was left with a feeling of, hmmm, there needed to be more Lawry's. Salty haters. Word.


Happy Birthday Day Dad!!!

I haven't felt it all in a while: next time I'll stretch

Going to kid space with the nephews has made me walk like a goblin today. all hunched over and walking slow. I climbed an 80 foot "wisteria leaf" climbing thing and feel every muscle I have neglected for the past couple of years. at the time, I had a charlie horse in my leg that made me feel as though I was dragging a fallen comrade to safety. and at one point I totally got stuck and didn't know how to move. my Nephew Jackson kept yelling "come on Tasha, come on Tasha," so much that I had to yell back, "Jackson, I have a good foot of limbs more than you, I need to figure out what to do and where to put them." he didn't get it, but at least it made me feel better. I also have a bruise on my hand and a slight twitch under my eye from where Rory smacked me as he was falling down. I had to catch the kid. I just didn't realize it would be with my eye socket. ah, the nephews always leave me feeling something. this time, it's pain.


p.s. grammar and punctuation and capitalization don't matter when you hurt this bad.
And I am going to write more often, cause otherwise I will forget everything...HA, no I wont! I'm like a freaking elephant.

When do I get my first chip?

Hello (clear throat) hi (clear throat again) oh my, hello.
Sorry, I’m a bit nervous. I mean, I’ve never admitted it out loud. And though I’m sure my friends and family have all seen the signs, I never out right said what I am.
So how do you start these things again?
Hi, my name is Natasha. And I’m inappropriate.
I guess if I had to pin point a start, it would be second grade. I know, young right? Although looking back, I don’t think I knew what I was doing. I was naïve. In fact, I don’t think that when I started I was inappropriate at all, but if I knew then what I know now, I would have never gone on this downward spiral. But I was 8. Someone should have taken heed. The warning signs were all there. Saying things without thinking. Quieting a room. Making other people feel uncomfortable with what I said. I was textbook. Telling a teacher that” nobody else likes you, but I think you’re okay” should have been the beginning and the end of my dabbling. I guess it was amusing for others.
I think I put the kibosh on it for many years. Or, at least I was so wrapped up in the whole thing, I didn’t realize I was inappropriate. I think that’s scarier. For a period of time, I was actually very P.C. But then something happened and I went right back on the inappropriate bandwagon. It started minor again, with me telling a Hasidic Jew something so vulgar I feel ashamed to repeat it. I distinctly remember the faces of everyone at the table. It seemed funny at the time, but looking back, I now realize I was the only one laughing. Seems to be the story of my inappropriate life.
I didn’t realize I had gone back to full force until about two years ago. When one of my friends died I made a ‘Weekend at Bernie’s’ joke that I didn’t even realize I said until I heard the collection of groans. But that’s usually the way it happens. I black out while saying it and then come to during the aftermath.
I guess my light bulb moment happened last week, when I realized that if I want to live, I need to stop. My boss said something to the effect of “That little dog has a cute little collar. It’s all pink and fluffy on the inside and black on the outside.” To which I replied, “Aren’t we all that way though, really?” I don’t remember saying it! I don’t remember thinking it! I just remember her face. Her poor shocked face. As though I had slapped her. When I realized I had hit bottom, I just turned around and walked away. This is my last straw. This is my Everest. I cannot live my life like this anymore. I WONT live my life like this anymore. I don’t want to be another statistic; I want to come out on the other side! I choose LIFE!!!

Say hello to the girl that I am, you're gonna have to see through my perspective

Being that I have to write an actual important thing, this is just a spew post.

Coffee is the only thing I NEED on a daily bases. Probably more than oxygen in some cases. It’s the only constant in my life.

Bluetooth makes people look insane. I know there have been many observations on this, but yesterday I was at work and a woman was inside and speaking on it and I kept responding…to her…but she wasn’t talking to me…she was wearing that stupid headpiece.

Upon further examination at the blue tooth debate, I may have looked more crazy trying to involve myself in a conversation that I obviously wasn’t a part of.

When people say, “Oh, I love that song!!!” and then attempt to sing and get the lyrics wrong, it drives me bonkers. So I start to sing their favorite song louder than them to correct the lyrics and help them follow along to the song they love. I also do this at karaoke to help the singers. I’m very popular.

I don’t worry about the present, I worry about the future. Like five years from now. It gives me anxiety attacks. I get anxiety attacks about my future mortgage payments and what school to get my, as of yet, unscheduled and un-had children in. Knowing that this is stupid and irrational doesn’t help anything. Please pass the paper bag.

I check my email and what not periodically throughout the day. If someone JUST sent an email as I’m going through my checking in phase, I debate if I should respond so I don’t look too finicky or eager.

When I was in middle school, I was voted class clown. (Didn’t see that one coming, huh?) My mother was so disappointed that she went to my school to attempt to change the title to something like, “Funny Girl.” It didn’t fly, so my mom didn’t allow me to be the class clown. And the original male class clown had just gotten expelled for…wait for it…wait for it…peeing in the corner of Foods class with Mrs. Tutt. So both of the OG class clowns had stepped down. They had to do a recount. I think about that a lot. My mom was much happier when in high school I was voted most likely to appear on Saturday Night Live. There was no debate there

I listen to “guilty pleasure” music without an ounce of guilt and with the utmost of pleasure.

I procrastinate and write other things rather than write what I need to read in front of 300 people. Natasha…go write what is important…

I do believe the term is liquid courage...

I bruise remarkably easy. And not cute little baby bruises either, I mean those wondrous bruises that contain many different colors AND change colors AND have a physical bump under as well. I’m essentially a peach. So, it’s not noteworthy if I wake up one day and see a bruise that I have no idea where it came from. These sneaky bruises are now part of a daily experience and not striking. Now… I don’t know how normal people who don’t bruise as easily react when they see bruises, but I’m pretty sure it would be like the reaction I had this morning looking in the mirror.
Here’s the tiny back-story: Yesterday my roommate and I went to a pub-crawl F-Cancer beer drinking fest. I had stopped drinking beer recently (for no reason…or at least none that I can remember) and forgot how loud and friendly I was! I also saw someone from high school…that I didn’t recognize and looked like an ass…I need to go to the moon. So, being in this altered state brought my roommate and I to a party for one of our friends. At the party there was a girl that I knew, but had not spoken to in a while. This is where things start getting a little hazy and I am piecing the actual story with pictures that were taken at the time. At some point during the party, I decided that I needed bangs and that I needed them that night. And the girl that I was speaking to was a hair gal so by placing one and one together, I figured out three and ran with it. We documented the whole thing on her digital camera. I went into the restroom looking like me and came out looking like a hipster 16 year old. The girl that did it kept reiterating how awesome I am (like I didn’t know that!) and my roommate couldn’t get over the fact that this is what happens at parties I go to. I’m just glad there was no tattoo or piercing place near by. Lord knows what I would have done.
Flash forward to this morning: wake up, go to the restroom, wash face, FINALLY look in mirror and do a double take. I actually looked behind me, as though I had forgotten how mirrors worked. Thank God it’s cute and grows back. And at least I have a story. And this is my new favorite video of all time. Until next week, probably. I can only imagine how my hair will look then.

Adele - Chasing Pavements
Uploaded by slzaza

NAH-TAH-SHAH!

When I was 15 years old, I broke up with a guy who can only be remembered fondly if I twist my memories around and think of him as an experience that I learned from…and what I would never do again. For whatever reason, he called me Natash. And looking back, it’s probably because he was too dumb to realize there was an extra “A.” After we broke up, I hated anyone shortening my name at all. It was a reminder of this moron that I dated. Well, lo and behold one fall morning at my high school. I was a sophomore and ready to learn (or ditch…maybe learn a new way to ditch? Yeah, that’s what I was learning!) and he, after a whole summer of us not speaking or seeing each other, insisted on talking to me. When he approached me, I felt like I was cornered. And we did that silly dance that you do with people who are walking in opposite directions, and yet constantly walking into the other one’s path. When I finally broke free, I walked down a stairwell…rather rapidly. And he was following me shouting, “Natash, Natash, I want to talk to you! Natash, I need to talk to you! Natash!” This shortening sent me into mega-mad overload and I yelled to him, “My name is Natah-AH you moron! It’s not like you’re so busy you need to drop one syllable!” That sidelined his progression to a halt. Don’t get me wrong, I would encounter such an episode weekly, and would even look forward to what I could yell at him. It became a game in fact. For the next 5 years or so, I insisted no one change my name or shorten it. I became lax about it when I met one of my best friends in 2001. He always called me Tash. When I got my tattoo (and that’s a WHOLE other story) he would yell to me periodically to make sure I was okay. “Tash! Tash!” When he died in 2005, again, I was apprehensive about shortening my name.
This morning’s revelation: for the last 8 months or so, everyone has somehow decided to call me Tashy. I don’t know if all my friends decided to have a meeting and decide on a new name for me or if I now exude the qualities of a Tashy they once knew, or if I exude the qualities of all the Tashy’s before me. What a conundrum. I’m sure a Sara never had to go through this. Their biggest name qualm would be along the lines of, “ No, there is no H. Sara with no H.” I guess we all have our crosses to bear.