Living the Clydesdale-Free life...

The "Clydesdale Chronicles" have ended before they began. It's true. Clydesdale and K-Fed have moved out this past weekend, so no more redecorating or vacuuming at all hours of the night. No more running circles in the living room with platform boots made of cement on. We have entered into a new era. And this era is called: Sleeping Through the Entire Night Without Having to Wonder What the HELL She is Doing Up There. That's kind of a lame name for an era but it makes its point.

Breaking up is hard to do...and OMG Johnny D's nose is falling off!!

This past weekend was an interesting one, to say the least. Whenever you have a roommate, regardless of who it is, there comes a time when you have to "break up" with them. Maybe because they are messy or a freak of nature or just plain annoying. In my case, I was the messy one, our place was too small and my roommate had a huge smelly dog...all of these factors should have been a sign at the beginning that this wouldn't work out. Oh, he was also my boyfriend. So we pretty much had to break up and one had to move out. Which made me remember how much I enjoyed living by myself in the first place.

So I moped around all weekend and watched a bunch of movies I got in the mail from Netflix. The first was "The Libertine" which I will admit, I got just because Johnny Depp was in it. He was some Earl of Something guy that drank a lot and I'm not sure what exactly happened, but he started looking bad. Like disgusting. Like he had leprosy or something. I think his nose fell off. It was very depressing and he was only attractive for the first half of the movie.

A small interesting part in the movie was when he had to write a play for the king and he didn't want to so to make everyone mad he made the play about French women and dildos. He passed out wooden dildos to the audience and made a giant one and one of the actor’s names was "Little Clitoris". I was completely lost at this point but I stuck it out through the whole thing and felt a little bit violated at the end, with all the clitoris and dildo talk and Johnny's beautiful nose falling off and him pissing his pants every five seconds. On second thought, what the hell was this movie about?? I'll have to Google it, I suppose.

Second movie that IMMEDIATELY followed the first (I wore my pajammies all day) was "Underworld: Evolution". I enjoyed the first "Underworld" a lot because I like movies about vampires and stuff, secretly hoping that Buffy or Spike will show up at any minute but they never do... Good movie, scary bat guy flying around. The werewolf wasn't as scary as the last movie. He just looked like a guy in an abominable snowman suit. Don't know how to even begin spelling "abominable" so get off my case.

Third movie was "V for Vendetta". Holy crap!!! GOOD MOVIE! I give it 2 thumbs up and 2 toes up if I could. Wait...I can give 2 toes up! (I just took my stiletto off and tried) I thought it would be stupid because I didn't like the guy’s outfit with the mask and all but the movie touched something in me. And not something naughty you nasty minded people! Rent it, watch it, love it. (I lied. I didn’t take a stiletto off and try. I really am wearing my jammies and that would be ridiculous to walk around with jammies and stilettos on. Even for me.)

"So, what do you do," asked Frankenstein

So I went to a bar as a total third wheel this weekend with Tammi and her man and a boy comes up and says, first thing, "so what do you do?" To which we laughed about all night. Like he really cares as he is staring down at my new cleavage. So that gave me time to think of a really good answer but ended up telling the truth. As his eyes gloss over with boredom I go into more interesting tales of divorce, meningitis, boob jobs and infection-riddled tattoos.

I now have a new experiment I'm going to do each time I go out. I'm going to tell the guys that inevitably ask me what I do something really random and off the wall. Like that I don't work and just sleep with rich boys. Or that I inherited a porn theater. Or that I'm a drug dealer. Or that the Virology Department at the University pays me to let them do experiments on me. Or that I get disability for having “mental issues” and then start looking around the bar all paranoid and hide under a table sucking my thumb until he goes away. Or maybe that I own a mongoose farm in Africa and I am just passing through the states trying to sell some of the little guys to zoos. Or perhaps that I’m a geneticist and I’m currently working on crossing a wolf with a duck and that my colleagues and I are arguing over whether to call the little mutant a Wock or a Dulf. Stuff like that. Takes the boredom out of being the third wheel.

*On a side note, the “so what do you do?” guy looked like Frankenstein. His head was very large and square and all he needed was a couple of bolts on each side of his neck. And some personal "head handlers" to hold up that massive noggin of his with giant poles wherever he went...

Tattoo scabs and Laguna Beach depression...

First, let me tell you how I DIDN'T spend my Labor Day weekend...having fun, bbq'ing, traveling, out of town, on a boat. Anything that equaled fun I was not doing. Just for the record. What I was doing was pretty sad, to say the least.

Now, when I got my first tattoo it was a while ago. About 9 years ago. And it was on my back, so I couldn't really see what exactly was going on back there. But I do NOT remember it being this gross...really. Infections and blood poisoning aside, humongous rose-shaped scabs falling off randomly are not in the slightest bit fun. (I never found that one by the way, mom, sorry.) After that fiasco the owner of the tattoo shop tells me to do a “dry heal” and then, when my scabs are all dried up and gone that he will do the touch up for free! Yeah, that’s gonna happen.

So I spent 3 days sitting in my dad's purple recliner (he insists they are maroon and he bought them only because they were on sale much to my mom's dismay. How WILL she decorate around those??) totally not picking my tattoo scabs, I swear, and watched the entire first season of Laguna Beach. I know, I said I wouldn't watch it but after the all day marathon of "The Hills" I just had to know how this started. And boy was I in for a treat! I was in desperate need of some chick-flick therapy and alone-time and what better place than the parents house, in Butt-*bleep* Nowhere with 6, yes I said 6, cats, to do it?

*On a side note, when I arrived at the parents house late Friday night (meaning it's dark outside and when it's dark outside in Apache Junction, it's late) I turn my brights on and warily walk up to the darkened house. I unlock the security gate, then the dead bolt of the door and slowly push it open. And of course, MY stupid bitch fat stretch pants wearing (if she wore pants) cat Lola ran right out of the place. Great. It's darker than shit outside and I have to go and chase around my fat ass cat in the dark. In Apache Junction. Where there is a meth lab one street down.

So I'm cussing and yelling at her fat ass and deep inside praying that I don't get raped over this episode. I finally caught her because, let's face it, she's a fatty. I'm sure my parent’s neighbors (who are like 100 years old and are constantly spying on my parents because I'm sure they have nothing better to do...because they are 100) got an eyeful that night. One of the crazy Childres' kids running around yelling in the middle of the night "Get back here you stupid fat bitch!!!"

So back to sitting in the purple recliner watching Laguna Beach, not picking my scabs (actually you might find that big rose shaped one in that very chair, dad). Now I'm completely invested in these damn rich kid's lives and I know them all by name and I get mad when they talk shit about LC because I really like her.

But it wasn't the fact that they are rich and live fabulous lives at the age of 17/18 that depresses me. Or even the fact that they all went off to these fabulous colleges and attended fabulous parties and went to Cabo for their senior trip. Nope. At the end of the graduation episode all the girls were sitting around drinking Evian or some shit (which, by the way, I don't think tastes any better than Fry's brand distilled water) and they are all talking about where they see themselves in 10 years.

Shit. It's been 10 years for me. I'm almost 10 years out of high school. And I'm divorced and still living in AZ. Oh my god, panic attack. I suck, my life is worthless, I've amounted to nothing, I'm a hack, a loser...etc. You get the point. I thought back to when I graduated high school and what my dreams were and where I thought I'd be and then I found myself in a deep depression and driving to McDonald's to get a damn hot fudge sundae. Seriously. I did that.

After the ice cream, I calmed down a little and realized that my life isn't that bad. It doesn't exactly suck. Then the tiniest thought crept upon me for a split second that maybe I should just stop watching shows about rich high school kids and being jealous of them? No, why would I do that? It's my vice. That's why I love Netflix. Every 2 days a new red envelope comes and no one knows what is really inside. Looks innocent enough. No one has to know it's the second season of Laguna Beach, the third season of Dawson's Creek and the 7th season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (don't judge me).

And I'm sorry I outed my dad's purple recliners here on my blog. But he had to know the truth.