What a great couple of days. No, I'm serious. I'm not going to write a heart wrenching post that leaves you hiding in your office with smeary mascara from all the sobbing then needing a cup of chamomile tea to help you calm down — though I do feel humbled that you could share my pain.
I've had some people in the past question my motives for blogging and belittle it because they either didn't like what I've written, didn't understand it or took personal offense to it when it had nothing to do with them. While it's true I am a writer — a published writer on a couple of different platforms — and I do plan to make a lifelong career out of it, I don't blog for shock value. The things on here are real events in my life and thoughts in my head that I write down so they can stop swirling around in my brain and harassing me so I can sleep. It's my form of therapy and a hobby I love just like somebody might love painting or pottery or scratching their ass while they lay around and watch football on a Saturday afternoon. It's an added bonus that I'm supported by some readers and commenters. I think this recent tragedy in my life is a huge, glaring example of this. Thank you to those that read this then understand and support my reasoning..and to those that don't, just know that I'll be taking a very Uncle Pete embodying piece of advice from Marky Mark:
“Keep away from those who try to belittle your ambitions. Small people always do that, but the really great make you believe that you too can become great.” ~ Mark Twain
...And then I'll also probably tell you to fuck off — just saying...
Anyway, I spent last night watching the season premiere of "Big Love," (SQUEEEEE!) one of the only shows I follow, and being introduced to the first two episodes of the vampire porn known as "True Blood." I have some major catching up to do, but only if a huge fan of the show sits with me to warn me when the bloody parts are, so I can hide my eyes to avoid passing out over a T.V. show.
I spent most of my day today doing one of the things that usually makes me euphorically happy...yes, my "vice" — SHOPPING! I'm such a chick. A chick who loves gift cards, sales and weekday afternoons at the mall because there are far smaller crowds of inconsiderate doucherockets and sullen teenagers with their Uggs tucked into their "PINK" sweatpants there to piss me off. I realized that I may have a small problem because not only do I have a photographic map of the mall burned into my brain, but I also know exactly where the women's/juniors and shoes sections are in every department store — yes, I said juniors because I'm basically the size of 10-year-old only with hips, boobs and a ghetto booty...a miniature woman, if you will — along with the location of every sale rack in all the stores I frequent. I actually thought this was normal until I went with my friend Lacey, guided her to these places to help her buy a suit for job interview and realized that perhaps I'm a bit of an addict. Eh, if it makes you happy, it can't be that bad, right? Especially when you feed your addiction responsibly by using gift cards and finding sales that allow you to buy cute shirts for $6. Seriously, $6! Oh, euphoric sale shopping tingles...
After changing out off my stiletto boots of death that I so stupidly wore while prancing around the mall, I had dinner with my Mom and Aunt Maryo, then spent the evening and night at my aunt's house keeping her company. We chatted about all things family — mainly funny stories that revealed where at least part of my ornery nature comes from and Pete of course — while I read through the stacks of sympathy cards that just keep coming in the mail every day. The number of lives Pete touched is nothing short of mind boggling. I'm truly in awe.
I'm also really happy that my aunt is doing so well. She still seems sad, but accepting now and ready to continue living her own life rather than giving up. She talks candidly about what she thinks and wants and her mixture of progressive and old fashioned views make me shake my head and smile at the same time. True one on one time is pleasingly eye opening. You just have to love her...
While talking, I finally got this letter I got in the mail open. One might ask: How hard is it to open a letter? Quite difficult when it's completely covered in probably an entire roll of Scotch tape. When it arrived at my parents' house last week, my Dad sent me an e-mail about it that concluded with "We're dying to know what's in it!" which automatically made me picture my parents sitting there together, holding it up to the light and pondering this strangely addressed, tape covered letter. And, I do mean strangely addressed. The writing was kind of juvenile looking with the mailing address all the way over to the left of the legal sized envelope and the stamp was basically stuck smack in the middle of it...oh and did I mention it was COVERED in a fucking roll of tape? I knew exactly what is was — the money for one of my True To You wrist cuffs somebody ordered online and asked if they could pay by sending me "well concealed cash." Eh, why not? I've sold a grand total of eight of these things now. As I was opening it I found a large piece of notebook paper wrapped around a smaller envelope and thought, when I get to the center of this Tootsie Pop, will there be razors and Anthrax? Inside the smaller envelope was some foil and inside the foil was...DUN DUN DUUUUUN! A $20 bill. It looks like I'll be sending "well concealed" change along with my bracelet since it only costs $15. How bizarre...but I'm not complaining. I'm happy that people like my stuff enough to pay for it, even if the method of payment is all old school-like.
When it was time for bed, I went into the bathroom for the nightly ritual and as I was pulling my purple, So Long Saloon T-shirt courtesy of Manhattan, Kansas — one of the happiest places on earth, over my head, I saw a strange sight in the mirror in the form of weird marks on my boobs. At first I thought they were the most hideous and spontaneous stretch marks ever, but then I realized that was next to impossible and had a closer look. I had been wearing a Victoria's Secret "PINK" bra, purchased at a past semi annual sale of course, that had the word "PINK" in raised letters on the inside of both cups. Yes, my friends, my bra branded my boobies like a rancher to a cow's ass except far less burn-y, sizzle-y and permanent, yet just as frightening. The sullen, Ugg wearing, mall rat teenagers wear it scrawled across their ass and I wear it embedded into my cans. I'm not sure what that says about either of us, but all I know is that Victoria's Secret has one skank-tastic, yet brilliant and far reaching marketing strategy going on...Smart, you trendy little bitches.