I’m Buying a Motorcycle. And Joining A Club.

It was less than 24 hours ago that I was sitting in a bar with D, telling her that I officially had nothing to blog about because I had a very close to non-existent love life.  Okay, it is non-existent unless you count that guy I make out with sometimes who’s adorable but an absolute idiot.  Think Jason Stackhouse (if you watch True Blood), and if you don’t (you suck) think Ken Doll.  Anyway… I was fully prepared to take a break from blogging, I didn’t think my mom would miss reading my blathering that much anyway.

And then God felt bad for me (because I’m going to be a cat lady) and stuffed the hours following that conversation full of blogworthy awesomeness that I no doubt will wreck while trying to explain. 

I hung out with members of a known biker gang last night.  What did YOU do? 

I don’t do drugs, or ride motorcycles, or have a history of self-destructive behavior (ish)… but I love A&E and all those shows about people who do any combination of those things.  Last night, I got to recreate one of those shows with my new friends Creeper, Tombstone, Jeff and the other ones whose names I don’t remember.  (Jeff got kind of screwed as far as the naming went).  Tombstone looked like Santa- if Santa had a serious meth problem and an affinity for leather and Creeper was missing a prominent tooth…But it’s cool cuz he had shit tons of tattoos. ON HIS FACE.  One of which being a tear drop that I may or may not have stared at the entire time I talked to him.

Because I was thinking what an awesome blog this would be (and because when I drink I don’t think about how ridiculous I am), I took a picture of Tombstone and Little Black on my phone.  Then they made me delete it, and show them all the pictures on my phone to make sure I didn’t have any evidence of some of the scariest mother fuckers I’ve ever seen, let alone drank with.  And since I have a sincere love of awkward, and a sincere love of people who are bat-shit crazy- last night those two loves met, and gave birth to some awesome conversations.  Conversations actually may not be the best word, as a lot of it consisted of me badgering these old dudes about what the patches meant, why he had a tear drop, if he sold drugs, if he’d, “like, ever killed someone”, if they believed in God, what their *real* jobs were, and if they were ever on A&E.  Most of the answers consisted of some shocking shit, but some of them were just a scary smile and a “You don’t wanna know, little girl.” 

And then D pimped it up and gave her number out like it was on sale and I watched and drank and watched some more.  Lesson of this whole thing: biker clubs (the term “biker gang” I’ve learned is actually not very politically correct nowadays) are not blackberry friendly, but aside from that, they’re really quite pleasant.

**Oh yeah, and one of my roommates may have given her number to the youngest one and now I think we’re gonna get stalked because it turns out he’s married and some other stuff so if I stop blogging, I either died or I actually did just run out of shit to say.  Good luck figuring that out.**

The King’s Speech and My Lame Resolution… Not as Important As Epic Wartime Speeches.

*This was an awful post, written a few days ago and then forgotten about… But I need to put something on this blog that doesn’t reek of 2010 crappiness, so whatever.  I promise to make up for this blogtastrophe with better posts for the entire year.  I hope*

2011 has been a raging success so far.  In the 48 hours since it began, I believe I spent 30 of them drunk.  The other 18 were spent sleeping.  I think.  It’s hard to do math very well when your head feels like mine does right now.

People love to talk about resolutions… and I dread that I’ll have that conversation about 80 times in the next week with people too lazy to come up with something legitimate to talk about.  It doesn’t bode well for those conversations that I actually don’t have a resolution.  I resolve to do nothing except try not to die, which I’ve done every other year (some years with more enthusiasm than others) so I don’t mention it to people.  My roommate has taken me on as a cause and keeps hurling resolutions at me that I didn’t ask for, I’m nervous I’ve become the girl who needs to be saved from herself.  More on that later because that’s deeper than my current brain capacity can handle.  But probably not- I’ll more than likely forget.

Obviously I’d like plenty of things to happen in 2011 and I hope a shit-ton of things DON’T happen in 2011.  I would enjoy being named Princess of the United States (finally), and I would like to lose 8 pounds while eating cheesecake and drinking beer.  I hope I don’t get AIDS or get fat or evicted.  In essence I’m much too lazy to resolve to do anything, or resolve to STOP doing anything else.  Like I said- Big Things in 2011!

I did, however manage to already accomplish something.  I went to the movies…. which, I agree, sounds worthless and like an everyday thing that anyone can do.  But!  I went to the movies alone.  Let that sink in for a second.  On Sunday, I mustered the guts, energy and actual desire to walk my stocky little butt up to the theater all by my lonesome and sit through almost two hours of awesomeness BY MY SELF.  Which makes me officially ready to be a cat-lady.  Or officially independent… depending on how highly I’d like to think of myself, I switch between the two.

It was actually quite enjoyable.  I brought extra socks so I could keep my feet warm (which I normally just suffer through so I don’t look like a fucktard wearing two pairs of socks and flip flops), and nobody bothered me with inane commentary while I sat along the back (I’m not so ready to flaunt my loser-y aloneness just yet).  But on a serious note: it was a step toward shirking the general idea that people are always judging me, and furthermore, shirking whatever judgements they formed about the short girl wandering around without a companion and questionable foot-wear.  Because it’s true what people say: you’re really not as important as you think, and you’d be surprised to know how little people think of you.

Okay, so maybe I just blogged my way into a resolution: stop overestimating myself and keep my toes warm, and let everyone else be damned.  Easily the most ridiculous resolutions I’ve ever heard, let alone written for myself.

PS: go see the King’s Speech.  Promise.

The Night Charlie Almost Died.

Lots to write about… this weekend in its entirety and the interesting lessons stemming from these past 72 hours, the awkward run-in dinner with my ex, the dog’s near-death experience, an update on Mr. Pretty, and of course- Yahoo! just predicted the date of extinction for Wild Tigers… Needless to say, I have a lot on my mind this evening.

But because of reasons known only to God and the Wild Tigers, I choose to write about the damned dog that I can’t stand.

Charlie is my roommate, M’s dog.  M, it should be mentioned, is a lackluster dog mom.  She’s home for maybe 5 hours of the week at best and ignores the animal more than I do.  My roommate and I pick up the slack; we walk and feed Charlie when we get home and deal with him as necessary.  So when I got home on Saturday night, I grudgingly did so.

Upon getting in the door, he was jumping up on my thighs and anxiously letting me know that he needed to be walked.  I sat my bags on the couch and dug for a plastic bag that didn’t have holes in the bottom and secured him to his leash.  We were a few feet from returning home when he managed to shake out of the leash and realized he was free.  Shit.

I knew from experience that chasing him would be hell on my feet and largely unsuccesful.  I also knew from experience that he would undoubtedly be a few houses down having  a feeding frenzy in the neighbor’s cat bowl.  It was a few minutes before I could coax him back home and regularly reminded him for the next ten minutes how unwanted he was and how much I hated his mom for being so absent a parent.

And then he started shaking.  And then, I started worrying.

After a few minutes of his weird shaking, I convinced myself he was cold.  Upstairs I found a huge beach towel and wrapped him up in it on the couch- which was unnerving because this dog has ADD and doesn’t sit still for anything.  The apocolypse could hit and he’d still try to eat a hole through your favorite pair of heels.  A few more minutes of shaking and I knew there was a problem.  I hadn’t noticed the blue marks on his face until this moment and thought that I was in for quite a night.

On a whim I called my mom (it’s what I do), who said “eh…. just wait 30 minutes and call me if it doesn’t get any better… I’m sure he’s fine.”  Unfortunately, ten minutes after hanging up the phone, Charlie’s shaking got noticeably worse and his tongue was out the side of his mouth.  Bundled up in the towel and on my lap, I knew the dog wasn’t cold.  I knew this was much, much worse than I was prepared to deal with.

And then his limbs stuck out like somebody had pulled some sort of cord that I couldn’t see and his eyes rolled back violently in his tiny head.  Holy shit, I thought, I killed him.  Kneeling down on the couch next to him, I did what I saw on Grey’s Anatomy: make sure he was able to drain the fluid from his mouth so he didn’t choke, in case he did live.  Dating protocol I couldn’t manage, but learning how to cope with seizures (even in canines), I apparently had acquired.

While holding Charlie’s head off the side of the couch and coaxing him to stay alive, I saw my phone lighting up.  Tears were streaming steadily down my cheeks while I explained to my mom that Charlie was dead, or near dead anyway.  After figuring out the next steps, she agreed to contact M at work and explain what was going on, and hung up the phone leaving me with an almost dead, very rigid and frothing at the mouth dog.  M called shortly after to say she would leave work as fast as she could and meet me at the following animal hospital… it was on me to find a way to get him there.

As soon as I rolled Charlie onto the floor he started seizing again.  Even though I was certain there was no way he would live through yet another episode, his tiny heart was still beating when I placed my hand on his rib cage.  Funnily enough, as much as I was present for all this, I was having incredibly significant conversations with myself on some other level.  Of course I was physically consumed by keeping him alive and reminding him he just needed to “hold on.”  But on some other level, it occured to me that I have never seen anything die.  Yes, I had attended a funeral or four in my life.  Those were hard enough… but I had never witnessed anything passing on, and I sure as hell wasn’t prepared for it then.  Something switched on in that instance.  I decided I wasn’t going to watch Charlie die, even if I couldn’t stand him and his mom owed me money for three months of bills.

I was running out of options at this point and knew I couldn’t carry him alone without triggering another seizure.  It’s hard to guess how pathetic a sight I was when my neighboors answered their door, but they did.  I had run accross the lawn to the only people who had seemed friendly in our apartment complex and the two co-eds came sprinting after me as I tearfully explained Charlie’s situation.  One very gently helped me carry the rigid animal to my car and the other followed behind, closing doors and picking up cups and things we spilled along the way while we bulldozed our path toward the front door.

Alone again with Charlie while he panted and shook on the way to the animal hospital, I kept one hand firmly on his rib cage.   As if I could keep him alive by forcing my life into his.  I swerved down unfamiliar roads without lifting my fingers- half out of a need to ensure his heart was still beating and half in a way to remind him he wasn’t alone.  He didn’t get to die because of me.  I didn’t even like him, I sure as hell wouldn’t give him the option to blame me for his death.

And in the end, I got Charlie to the hospital in time.  I ripped the door open in hopes of finding help to lift him from the car, and didn’t find it.  Fine, I thought, I’ll figure this out.  My keys dropped to the floor with my cell phone and I lifted a quickly fading puppy into my arms and ran back through the doors.  The sense of relief I had when I was able to hand over a half-alive dog to the hands of a seemingly capable vet-tech at that instance is kind of inexplicable.  I didn’t kill him.  I kept him alive.  He held on.

He’s just a dog, and I understand how insignificant it seems.  But I had never seen anything die, let alone close to die.  And struggling to keep something that I so sincerely disliked was an emotional rollercoaster for me… I knew that I had (as bad as it sounds) found a way out of the continual hassle that this dog was.  But watching him struggle, and seeing his big brown eyes look at me like he had faith that I could get him through this didn’t leave me very many options.  In fact, for the first time in a long time, I prayed.  Through my tears and curse words and confusion, I managed a prayer to God that he just show me, guide me, make sure I didn’t do more damage to this poor puppy than he already had suffered.

And generally, I’m not a largely religious person.  But, I believe miracles come in all sizes.  This dog is a moron, and eats all kinds of otherwise inedible things.  But, he lived through three seizures in my presence that evening and various other ills for reasons I don’t understand.  Yeah, it’s just a dog… but it goes to show, sometimes life comes in dog-sized miracles.

PS. Charlie ate snail poison.  I never said he was a smart dog.  I’m glad he lived, and I’ll be trying to convince his mom to find a more suitable home as soon as I’m prepared to have that conversation.

Charlie Said So.

Mr. GOP came to visit me…. well, came to do a variety of campaign things in Orange County and consequently got to visit me.  A few months back, GOP said he loved me.  Well, I’m unsure still if he genuinely does love me, but he most definitely does not love the dog that I live with. 

Charlie the Puggle is by all definitions a very odd dog.  He’s fat and snores and barks at people, but generally means well and is loved by all visitors to our apartment.  (PS- I moved.)

So when GOP showed up at my door and Charlie was clearly not digging him, I was alarmed.  Never has a guy been here without Charlie loving up all over them… until he met GOP.  And GOP’s response was fairly ridiculous.  The dog is fucking 25 pounds, and GOP acted like it was a grimey, dirty stray animal.  He shoved the dog off of him a few times and with a disgusted face just said “Ugh, Charlie!”

And then I knew- time to send GOP on his way.

The relationship I have with Charlie is strained.  He eats my stuff, pees everywhere and barks.  Because of him, my neighbors think myself and my 2 roommates are worthless.  But he has very sweet moments and he does mean well, so I forgive him and just tell him how much he sucks.  He gets me, and I walk him and feed him.  So I get that not everyone will love my four-legged roomie, and I forgive them that.  Most of the time, I don’t like him.

Never did I think that Charlie would weasel his way into my love life criteria…. But it’s a list of criteria that admittedly could use some additions, so I’ll take it.  And it’s not that they have to immediately bond with him, but for God’s sake, don’t be put off by something that takes up two-square feet of room and just wants to love you.  Plus, aren’t all guys dog people?  Don’t they inherently dig all dogs except for lame ones that double as accessories for spoiled rich slut bags?  Maybe GOP became less of a man in my eyes.  Regardless, his stay with me was cut short.  I feel fine with this.

But the criteria thing is an interesting idea.  It goes hand in hand with all these talks of ‘types’ and what we’re attracted to.  I’m attracted to people with issues, and people who like crazies are attracted to me.  Why my relationships all end poorly is explained well by that equation, I guess.  Unfortunately, it’s been recently revealed to me that my “type” is not quite as specific as I would like it to be.  I’ve been surprised numerous times by the men I find myself drawn to.  Well, I surprise myself and give my friends plenty of ammo to make fun of me.

And ultimately, none of this matters.  I am dating quite a bit, some more worthy than others.  But I don’t want a relationship.  I’m too tired, too frustrated, too unsure of everything to begin some search for ‘permanent.’ This will fade I’m sure, just like my other phases, but for now… I think I just want to be left alone.  Well, except for dumb-ass Charlie.