Call Me KP

KP:  I’d give my left boob to work for him.

Lot:  May I suggest…

KP:  Wait. No. Maybe my right. It’s fuller.

Lot:  Don’t.

KP:  Yeah, maybe you’re right.

Lot:  Because that’s a lot of boob.

KP:  Me and my knockers have some big dreams, you know.

Lot:  Wow.

It’s not that I strongly dislike Valentine’s Day.  Or that I even hate it.  I don’t really feel anything about it.  On the one hand, it is a celebration of love.  Well, love and consumerism.  But there’s something to be said for everyone focusing on love for one day.  The same day.  All around the world.  Or at least the country.  It’s sweet.  What’s not to like about that?  Sure, I’m single.  But I’ve got love.  Love in some form or another.

And, really, I don’t know that this one day even makes me more aware or more of being single.  Let’s be honest.  That’s one trait that’s very much present on my mind daily.  I don’t need a calendar or greeting card or love song to remind me of that.  

But as far as relationships go, the truth is, I guess I don’t know what I want.  I only know what I don’t want.  Which is always the way with me.  I know that I don’t want one of those smothering, all consuming, no room to breathe relationships.  I don’t want a big white wedding anytime soon; I’ve got too much planned.  But I wouldn’t mind the company.  I wouldn’t mind having that one person to just be with and next to and, you know, that physical attention wouldn’t be so bad either.  In fact, I welcome it.  It’s basically crucial at this point.  Really.  Crucial.

Maybe that’s part of the problem.  Maybe it’s those feelings and fears about what I think a relationship is or can be that are keeping me from really and truly being open to one.  But that might be a good thing.  I don’t know that I really want one.  I just want someone there.  Something easy and comfortable and familiar and good.  Something fun.  

Alright, I do get a little jealous when I see those great relationships, when two people are just so oddly perfect for each other.  I’d love that.  Eventually.  For right now, I just don’t want that pressure.  I don’t want the fuss or the drama or the nonsense.  No bull.  I don’t want it.

Just, you know, company.  Someone to have fun with.  Is that realistic?  Is that having my cake and making out with it too?  Or something?  Or is that too picky?  Too closed off?  Too bad?  The thing is, I’m overdosing on Hugh Grant movies.  And I think his slurring British charm is weakening my resolve.  Well, that and my grandfather had a date last night while I sat home and snuggled up with a brownie and Love Actually. So there’s that.

Regardless, for today, I’ve got love.  It may not be the romantic type that’s been missing for quite some time.  But I’ve got friends.  I’ve got family.  And chocolate.  Thanks, Dad.

So Happy Valentine’s Day to the six of you reading this.  Hugh and I wish you all the blut’y lahve in the wuld.

I have this neighbor.  Nice guy.  Always says hello.  Always asks how my day was.  Doesn’t really like to come outside too much.  Except to sit of his stoop and smoke.  He has to be outside for that because the mother of his children does not want that kind of environment for their two very young whippersnappers.  Rightfully so.  

However, every so often there comes a time in everyone’s life, my neighbor included, when they have to blow off a little steam.  Some write.  Some exercise.  Some paint.  Some drive.  Some drink.  My neighbor?

He rocks.  

Not the good kind.  The kind where your ears bleed because he’s powering Jock Jams Vol. III through his bitchin’ Bose sound system.

Yes.  On my happy little street, once or ten times in a blue moon, the melodious sounds of The Quad City DJs whip through the night air on the backs of the sparrows and squirrels, gently wafting their choo-choo in and around the ears of the sleepy residents of suburbia beneath the glowing winter moon, stars flickering in time with the 808.

That dick.

Now, mi madre is crazy.  I’ve made that clear in many previous entries.  But her actions tonight were nothing short of spectacular.  And so as this jerk is raging in his living room in celebration of the afternoon absence of his baby mama and their tots, my mom is trying to take a nap on our living room couch.  She attempts to teach the Youth of America on a daily basis so her exhaustion warranted.  But tonight, (and right now I can hear La Bouche–which, in all honesty, takes me back to fourth grade birthday parties at Skate Away) there is no rest for the weary and square.  The unhip.  My mom.

In one swift, solid movement, mid-sleep, still groggy, she flips off her quilt (and my neighbor, essentially) and storms into the kitchen, bitching all the way.  My father and I know for a fact that she’s a pretty good shot.  She’s got a pellet gun, a gift from my retired Marine grandfather, and several pierced paper plates on which she shot straight through the makeshift bulls eye.  Nine times.  From twenty-seven feet.  And so we begin to fear for The Rage Man’s prized garden ornaments.  But in recent months, my mother has become oddly rational.  We attribute it to old age.  Just not to her face.  

“Honey,” my dad groans.  ”Honey, please don’t do anything stupid.”

“Shut up, Chuck.  I’m not going shoot anything.”

“Anyone?”

“You,” she tweets.  Twenty-four years together and going strong.  ”Now be quiet.”

She grabs every set of keys we own from their respective hooks in our kitchen and sets off all three car alarms in a cacophony of honking, whooping glory.

“Got to hell, you God damned whackjob,” she shouts, hoarse, as she lazily pads back to her couch; her eyes heavily-lidded with drowsiness and the antics of asshole students.

Well, my father and I couldn’t believe that her most brilliant and most fantastic Acts Of Funny come when she’s not entirely coherent and naturally we laughed until we cried.  My neighbor stopped his music.  Victory never sounded so sweet.

Until he started up disc two.  Three decibels higher this time.

“Motherfucker,” she whimpered.  ”You dirty, dirty … fuck.”

A valiant attempt, Mamala.  Some of your best work.

And as she pulled the blankets up over her miserable head, my father and I couldn’t help but laugh.  I began to sing along with Marky Mark and The Funky Bunch (and MM’s third nip) and my father began typing in time with the boom.  Turning his hat sideways and throwing what he thinks are gang signs in between taking calls from clients, he laughs.

“Aw, hun,” he starts.  ”You really want some poor bastard to marry into this?”

Yes.  Yes, I do.  And he better be ready to dance  with me.  On my porch.  To my cracked-out neighbors collection of rage anthems.  While my mother takes target practice in the backyard.

Glorious.

Party like it’s 199why!?!

I’m nauseous.

It’s sunny and warm outside. And before I head to the car wash to de-grossify my car, I just have to voice a small, itty-bitty irk of mine. Because when I’m mad and behind the wheel, I tend to vent my frustrations by singing along with Beyonce at the top of lungs. Not dangerous, but slightly embarrassing if spotted. I’d like to avoid that.

Now…

If I pay extra money to have something shipped “Two Day Air” and I placed this order on Tuesday afternoon, it would not be wrong of me to expect my Valentine’s Day gift to myself to arrive before this weekend. Right?

Well, I guess that’s wrong. As I waited patiently for a confirmation e-mail that my order had shipped (typically less than 24 hours after my purchase has been placed from this particular company– I have ordered from here a lot) and to my surprise, Entourage has not ding’d. No mail.

So I call. And I was told that these little shipping options displayed on the site are not from the exact time of purchase. You see, you have to give them two days at the most to prepare your order. And then it’s two days from there.

I cannot find that delightful caveat anywhere on their site. Nope. So I paid extra to have it “rushed” when I could have just opted for standard delivery as it would have gotten to me at roughly the same time. Give or take a day.

$12 pissed away.

Thank you, Urban Outfitters. Thanks. Dirty little hipsters.

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Siiiiick.

It truly is a wonderful thing to have so many of my close friends studying to be doctors; osteopathic docs or surgeons or pharmacists or physical therapists or psychologists.  I always feel so well taken care of.  And they never charge me.  At least, not yet.  

But should I complain, “Tran, I’m dizzy” and sometimes, “Joe, I don’t know where this bump on my arm came from.  What is it?”  Or, “Phil, can I take an Advil if I’ve already take this?”  Or even, “Shannon, my ‘this’ hurts.”   And always, always, always, “Alli, what’s wrong with me?  Am I just afraid of getting hurt?”  There’s always an answer just a phone call, text message, e-mail, IM or visit away.

I’m just so thankful for them always being there, green as they are in their respective fields.  I’ll take what I can get for concise diagnoses at no cost whatsoever.

Psh.  WebMD…