Darlings I should warn you – eating with me can be an adventure, because for many years the buds that live on the pink slab in my mouth lacked a sense of…adventure. In my formative years I was wafer thin and many nights with concern for my well being my mother would be found in the kitchen after our dinner had been served, making up another dish – that I would eat.

A few years ago I listed some of the new things I’d introduced to my feeding habits (part 1) (part 2), today I’ll list the items I can’t eat. Codie has the list on the back of a napkin in original form as documented over dinner last week.

Cucumbers, tomatoes and peppers make my heart hurt and my stomach turn.

Strawberries and “fruit at the bottom” yogurts make me gag. A neat party trick, and one I reserve for special occasions.

I’ve O.D.’d on egg rolls and shrimp, the sight/smell of either of those items nauseates me.

The hair you can see in mushrooms ensures I will never eat one.

What can I say? I’m Irish. I like meat and potatoes, I like salami and cheese sandwiches on white bread. I like milk with my meals and bacon dragged through maple syrup. Mmmmmm.

I’m hungry.

In Europe today, it’s all the rage to use models who look like normal people. How sad is it that I even have to type that? “Normal”. Ugh.

The spot I’m thinking of is presented as a diving competition where a guy that’s two bills + does a cannonball and continues on to show azz crack when climbing out of the pool. A hilarious and not-so-subtly pointed message about the link between beer and sex appeal, mocking reality as it were, and the absence of men with smoldering eyes waiting to drop a great line on you because you ordered the right adult beverage…oh and you’re a “10″.

This is the agency supplying “real” models to the studios: http://www.ugly.org

Can I get a WOOT WOOT? Hats off to another advertising trend that doesn’t inspire self loathing.

Real women have curves.

I read an article years ago with Nicole Kidman where she was asked what one thing she would change about herself if she could. The question was offensive to me from “go”, worded the way it was implied she should change something about herself. More than that it implied that in fact there were are a multitude of things to choose from – pick one. As I read on, she completely changed my jealous-of-the-skinny-girl-hope-you-choke-on-your-diuretic opinion of her. I broke out my mental pom-poms and cheered when she answered with grace and documented instead on what she wouldn’t change. Among other things, she listed her “pooch”.

Continuing, the then Mrs. Cruise said that Tom loved it. Tra la, a man with taste. Of course it’s obviously no longer relevant and he’s since proven that he’s completely fucking batty, but whatever. I too have a pooch that no amount of running, sit-ups or starving myself will ever force into extinction. It has its admirers.

I hold this truth to be self-evident: You. Are. Beautiful.

Lisa.

Lisa, Lisa, Lisa.

The woman who designs (and redesigns) my site is a funny lady who loves coffee and lives on the frozen tundra. She also finds me amusing. We obviously have a lot in common.

http://www.justagirlintheworld.com

Visit her and clog up her commenting functionality like a fraternity commode after a kegger.

Yar.

Last night I managed to get home and drop into bed by 8, no small feat and a complete necessity if I was going to make it through another 24 hours without getting fired or physically harming someone.

Lay down, turn the TV on (timer set), close my eyes, listen to the fan whirring and I hear it. *Thump* *thump* *badump bump* *thump*.

I’ve gone through this before, and instead of doing anything about it, I just called friends to bitch and complain then cried myself to sleep in utter and overwhelming frustration. I’m so not down with confrontation.

Last night I must have been channeling my 80′s roots with the full Pat Benetar vibe ala the Legend of Billie Jean. “We’ve got the right to be angry…stand up and face the enemy”. Maybe I’ll cut my hair off to really show him I mean business. Oh, wait, that’s done. Ok, I guess I’m ready.

I walked over, used my key to access their hallway, walked up the stairs and knocked on the door.

~breathe~

In the end I had a nice conversation with “J” who was concerned about my health as his pals took photos and bong hits behind him. He wasn’t going to “go all library” but he’d turn it down. That’s all I needed.

As I walked back across the parking lot feeling relieved and hopeful, I heard him through the open window of his living room explaining to his visitors “nah, that’s my homegirl, I’ll take care of her, it’s cool”. On those grounds alone I’ll forgive the fact that I can still hear the thumping — of course it could also just be the raging zit on my temple.

Either you look at it, it’s evolution.

Identify what you want and ask for it. You might just get what you want, but then maybe that’s what terrifies me the most.

Either way, GO ME!

Kissy boo!

Then again, as you read this, it looks like the first thing. For the other two entries from today, shut up and scroll. You’re my bitch and you’ll do what I tell you.

For those of you who have been sending me e-mails and posting comments asking what my theme song wound up being (I love mail!!), it’s Punk Rock Girl by the Dead Milkmen. (lyrics here)

Thanks to Richard Benevedes and Christopher Lee Johnson (you have to say all three of his names) it was one of my songs in the 80′s, so it’s only fitting that it would make an encore appearance with super flat sneakers, fauxhawks, pegged pants and those black rubber bracelet thingies. Props to DJ Scotto for making the final call.

Damn it, that picture makes me laugh every time.

Maya thinks she’s a sled dog and since I don’t come equipped with metal tracks in lieu of feet, our “walks” wind up being 45 minute mobile power struggles during which I generally look as though I just roasted a big old gnarly crack rock. Spaztic. In the end, I’m drenched in sweat and she’s flinging foamy slobber everywhere. It’s beautiful.

Big M outweighs me by at least 20lbs bless her heart, and over the past few days it’s become painfully clear that my new/old knee issues can be traced directly back to our tug-of-wars and that infernal blue nylon leash. She’s spoiled rotten in no small part because her dad has “trained” her as a companion, not a pet. I love her anyway.

On the bright side, one of the truly great things about the two of us being the first folks through the park in the morning is that I get to de-web the pathways for all the other visitors.

Awesome.

My darling Mary Jac has been in Germany for the last 5 weeks and today she comes home. This excerpt from an email sent before boarding:

I have 24 hours left here. By this time tomorrow I’ll be in the airport, preparing myself for reality. This has been an experience I’ll never forget. I was, and still am, a little scared that the memories and effects won’t be permanent, or at least last long enough to penetrate my world back home. Sounds dramatic, but, I’m getting very very sad. I have been more detached here from the stresses of life than I might have suggested in previous letters. The burden of communicating and interacting with every stranger, even if only in pretense, has been absent. I don’t speak much of the language here, so you pretty much focus on the world you can control, if one exists, and concern yourself with what’s here and now.

No doubt we’ve all shared that feeling when on a wayward soul finding journey, but damn if she didn’t articulate it well. I also dig that she fell into my psyche from another continent and we both touched Gestalt on the same day. Sometimes we scare me.

MJ is not only my partner in crime, yoga pal and burrito eating buddy, but has also been responsible for my mop and it’s ever changing color/style for going on 4 years now… though we’ve long since cut my visits her at the salon (pun intended). She’s a good girl with a true heart, a staggering intellect and an old soul. You can see tales in her eyes that are begging to be told, of ruthless heartache and blazing triumphs. I selfishly enjoy being with her in part because I recognize those things from a place that both scares me and brings me home. For good measure I’ll add that we make up our own version of Phantom of the Opera (including cameos by goats and chickens, borderline raunchy lyrics and poo humor) when we sing along from my kitchen. We really should take that show on the road, we’re fucking amazing, man.

I’m excited to no end to have her home, not just to see the pictures and hear her tell of her travels but to see the change in her being. This on nearly the eve of Codie’s departure for Spain at the front of a ticket with a 90-day open ended return.

One door opens, another closes. I’ll leave the porch light on and put a key under a flaming chia pet for ya.