Just Make It Stop

I don’t know how to make new friends. I really only have two speeds: “meh.” and “ZOMG YOU’RE THE SUPER COOLEST BE MY FRIEND NOOOOOOW.” So I kind of force myself on people. I don’t know how to work up to being friends, so when I meet someone cool I just basically tell them: we are going to be friends now. The end. 

And then I harass them until we hang out enough for my satisfaction. I go in waves. I spend a few months spending all my time with one or two specific people and then they fall off and then I find new people and then the circle goes around and around. 

Right now I am attempting to woo my wedding photographer. I’m not trying to be her friend to get her to give me free pictures. (Actually being someones friend makes me want to pay them extra for things, you should see how redonk I tip my server friends.) I just really like her and think she’s super cool and artsy and fabulous and want us to drink whiskey and giggle all the time. ALL THE TIME. 

When I became friends with the now Infamous Liz it was kind of the same thing. “She seems cool.” I says to myself. “We should be friends.” And then I basically told her she was my new dinner companion and spend all weekend every weekend with her for weeks. Then infiltrated her weeks as well. And now if I don’t call/email/text her all day every day I feel like a part of my soul has fallen off. 

I think I learned this from Shannon. When we met 15 years ago she plopped down next to me on the couch at school and announced that we would be friends. I was resistant at first, but she won me over with fried foods and an infectiously bubbly demeanor. We’ve had turmoil over the years, but now she’s family. Without her life is less bright. Much much less bright. I think she was the first friend I made that way, the first friend I made in a way that wasn’t predetermined because of a shared delusion or proximity. She lived on the other side of town from me, we weren’t in any classes together. She picked me out of the entire school, singled me out and forced me to be her friend. I’ve never thanked her for that. Thank you, buttercup. 

People have pretty intense reactions to me. One of immediate dislike, distrust or love. Sometimes it’s two of those at a time. Usually distrust and love. They go hand in hand with me. 

Anyways, this was a useless blog post. Mostly I just wanted to talk about how awesome my friends are and how awkward I am at making friends. It’s a miracle I have any friends to begin with, let alone decent ones. Amazing. 

I have had three hours of sleep. It was Vegas hot in my attic apartment last night. Hot Cuban was snoring like some kind of mythical beast. The dog was hogging the bed and also he’s a billion degrees hot and was adding to the general tropical heat wave going on last night. I attempted to sleep on the couch for a minute but it’s lumpy and horrible. Then I went back to the bed and considered murdering my future husband with his own pillow. Or smothering him with the dog and killing two birds with one…dog. 

It was a rough night. 

This morning there has been a lot of wedding talk. I wrote a poem about my experience picking out table clothes yesterday:

Tables are round/linens are white/why the fuck am I here?

That basically sums up how I feel about standing in a dirty room looking at pathetic linen choices. We went with white. Because our other options where Ugly, Uglier and Shiny Ugly. So white it is. Whatever. It’s a table cloth. How do people get worked up about decisions like this? I don’t care what the chairs look like or what the tables look like. I just want to dance with my friends and my husband and have a cocktail and eat some snacks and be done with it. 

Other things that are bothering me: 

I’m addicted to terrible television. I figured this out somewhere between the lackluster series finale for House and the saccharine cliche that was the Glee season finale/graduation episode. I have no idea how many hours of my life I have wasted watching horrible television just because I got too invested in the fucked up plot lines 5-7 years ago. 

Also, when I feel lazy and just throw on clothes those are the days I get the most compliments. When I try to dress nice, no one notices. I think my fashion sense is fucked up. Or fashion in general is fucked up and as a society we favor an aesthetic that caters to a ‘devil may care’ attitude. There’s something about feminism and pop culture consumerism in there somewhere but I’m too lazy to wear real pants today, so I’m clearly too lazy to get all ‘why my outfits popularity was pre-determined by a fucked up social climate’ on you guys. 

So yeah. Full blown ranty blog post today. Guess I had some shit to get off my chest. 

Maurice Sendak has long been a hero of mine. His books when I was a child were ever present. His stories always spoke to me in a way other childrens’ books never did. I was a child who did not want to be a child. I was a child who was tormented and most of the time I preferred it that way. Where The Wild Things Are is one of maybe two or three books I read when I was little that I remember vividly. (The others are either other works of his or Shell Silverstein books.) I was then and am now a weird kid. 

And so was Sendak. He was a big gay, grumpy old man who wrote books for children without realizing he was writing for children. He never had children, didn’t particularly want them either. But here he is, this ever present voice from my childhood. Telling me that scary things happen and that’s okay, but children have the wisdom to get through it and make it back to their beds safely. I like that message. And I think it’s a message that is important to tell kids. We don’t tell children how strong they are. We coddle them and hope they don’t break. 

Sendak sent them into the wild in nothing but jammies and a crown and expected them to conquer worlds before the night was over. He believed in the strength of children. 

I hope some day I am a tenth of the writer he was. Is. Will forever be. I know this seems sappy, but today my hero died. And I am heart broken. Rest in peace weird man. I love you.

“I have nothing now but praise for my life. I’m not unhappy. I cry a lot because I miss people. They die and I can’t stop them. They leave me and I love them more. … What I dread is the isolation. … There are so many beautiful things in the world which I will have to leave when I die, but I’m ready, I’m ready, I’m ready.” - Maurice Sendak 

You guys remember the depression nest right? The post break up bear den of sadness that you feather with tissues and Brat Pack DVDs? Right. Imagine that, but pepper it now with Vicodin and a Kindle, featuring not only an unshowered sad sack of snot but also a puffy face and a physical inability to eat solid foods. Sounds super emo, right?

Right. 

Two days ago I had my lone wisdom tooth removed. It came in about six years ago but was fine really and didn’t cause any problems. I only got the one. I hate, let me repeat HATE, the dentist so I had it checked then when it started coming in and then left it alone. Back then the dentist told me I should probably pull it as a precaution because eventually it would cause problems. I shrugged it off with a “we’ll see about that, pointy stick voodoo man” and when it started getting achey and throbby a few months ago I just chewed on the other side of my mouth. Problem solved. 

Two weeks ago it started causing problems that couldn’t be solved by soft foods and aversion so I scheduled an appointment to get it extracted. Generally I have to be sedated before I even get to the office for a cleaning, so I made it clear the only way this was going down is if they put me all the way out to take the tooth out. A little xanax before the appointment and off I went. The doc introduced himself to me and I caught “Hi, I’m Doctor….” before I passed the fuck out. I woke up to a nurse telling me I had a panic attack coming out of anesthesia (which is normal for me) and they gave me valium. Woo. Bonus. 

Half way home I look in the vanity mirror and notice I have strings hanging out of my mouth. At this point it’s been 10 hours since I’ve had any food or drink so the only thing in my system is Xanax, IV anesthesia and Valium. In my delirious state I assume they’ve used a tampon to pack the socket where my tooth used to be. I also decide to take my confusion to Facebook (natch.) and post a picture of myself looking smokin’ hot with no make up, puffy faced, druggy eyes and what I assume to be tampon strings hanging out of my mouth. 

Hot. 

Fast forward to today. (Mostly because I don’t remember yesterday at all.) I wake up this morning with every intention of going to work. Then I realize a few things: 1) I look like Marlin Brando 2) I sound like I’ve been smoking unfiltered tobacco and fiberglass for at least 40 years and 3) my guts are threatening actions akin to Pompeii. Obviously I call in sick. I lay back down. I pray for sweet sweet death. 

Then the worst thing that has ever happened to me happens: I throw up. I throw up without being able to open my mouth more than about a half inch because of aforementioned Brando Face. Pompeii has erupted through the eye of a needle. It is horrible. It is the worst possible conclusion to a morning fraught with agony and pain. 

I clean myself up, I swish with salt water. I pray to Sky Wizard for the end to be near. And then I do what comes naturally, I make myself a cup of tea and bring it to the blog. 

Let me tell you folks, after my harrowing experience this morning I want nothing more than to bury myself in pain killers and fro yo, but I can’t get comfortable and the idea of ingesting anything that could possible come back on me sounds like a losing bet. So I’m writing it all out and hoping that focusing on the blinking cursor keeps the ick at bay. So far so good. 

What I should be doing is writing an article that is due by this weekend to my editor. Or maybe putting away the ironing board that has become a receptacle for all the mail I have ever received in my life. Or showering. Showering could be beneficial too. 

Yeah. None of those are going to happen so I’ll go back to watching 30 Rock and spooning the dog. If ya’ll have any tips for how to survive the seventh ring of hell that is post wisdom teeth extraction, hit me up. What can I eat that isn’t chicken broth or pudding?

I have some more thoughts on weddings. (Naturally.) We are now roughly 3.5 months out from our wedding date. We have a venue secured (thank Sky Wizard.), our invitations are being printed and shipped this week, we have our guest list pretty much hammered out, we have our wedding parties and I think we may have booked a photographer. (My plan is to meet her next week, make her love me and want to be my new BFF and then have her follow us around taking pictures for the rest of our lives. Plan is flawless and fail proof.) So basically, we have everything pretty much lined up. We are go for Super Awesome Nuptials Extravaganza 2012; the Party Rock Edition. (The title changes regularly, this is what I’m going with today.) 

Things I’m still struggling with: the words ‘fiance’ and ‘bride’. The word fiance makes me gag a little every time I use it. It doesn’t bother me when I hear other people refer to their betrothed that way, just in our context it seems icky somehow. I almost kind of giggle a little bit when I say it. I usually still refer to Hot Cuban as my boyfriend or ‘that guy I’m going to marry’ and somehow this seems okay. Bride is equally icky to me. When someone refers to me as ‘The Bride’ I cringe. 

Here’s what happens when people become The Bride. It takes on a life of its own. You start demanding things that don’t come in periwinkle be shown to you only in periwinkle. You try out elaborate updo’s for every day occasions. You wear two different shoes at the same time with your pants rolled up to see which one you like better. You ‘test’ cake. 

Let me say that again, you TEST cake. Listen, you don’t need to test cake. All cake is amazing. End of story. Just pick one and put some fancy shit on it and you have a wedding cake. When you get to the point in your life where you’re debating the merits of fondant over marzipan your life has gone off the rails and you need to get your shit together. (Also, obviously, you’re insane because nothing beats butter cream. Just sayin’.) 

I don’t want to be a fiance. I can’t figure out how to make my keyboard do the like ’ thing over the e and I keep reading it as finance. Which is what it’s starting to feel like after posting all these checks to cover venues and invitations. I am not affianced, I am ah financed. 

I don’t want to be The Bride. I don’t want to be anything but Mrs. Cortez Alvarez. And for the love of all things holy and/or tentacley if anyone refers to me as ‘wifey’ I will punch them in the throat. 

Honestly I just want this to be over. I feel as disconnected from my wedding as one can possibly get while they’re in the thick of planning it. I love being with Hot Cuban, I love love love the idea of dancing around in a pretty dress and eating fancy cake and having all my friends and loved ones in the same room together so I’m not wedding opposed, I’m just real leery of getting too excited about it lest I turn into one of those obnoxious women who doesn’t believe all cake is good cake. 

Sj and I are going to find an island where we can live like Swiss Family Robinson in palm frond tree houses and cook all our meals in hallowed out coconut shells. On this island there is no IRS or dentists. We intend to adopt a small monkey will balance issues and allow our menfolk occasional visits to the island, but mostly we’ll keep in touch via Skype. 

Because you know what? The IRS and dentist suck. Pretty much on the same level. The dentists in some cases are mildly cheaper but have more pointy things. The IRS is just mean. 

This is an excellent plan with absolutely no flaws. We leave at dawn.