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MsUnderstand
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Name: MsUnderstand
Birthday: 12/5/1980
Gender: Female
Interests: How do I summarize myself in a box? I like to think I'm far too complex to summarize...hmmph. I think. I talk too much. I like words and puns and well-used language. I'm a wannabe artist and musician, but I spend far too much energy analyzing everything into minute detail. Life constantly feels like a Curb Your Enthusiasm episode...either that, or I'm too easily entertained.
Message: message me
Member Since:
4/6/2006
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| So every morning for about the past week and 1/2 I've gotten up with the most random, obscure K95 "rock" song in my head. This morning it was the Steve Miller Band gem "Abra Abracadabra, I'm gonna reach out an grab ya." The scariest part: I was in the shower repeating this same line as I rinsed and repeated. Yeah. My question to my brain is, "What the fuck?" I can't even remember the last time I heard that one. And what about all the relatively (to me) good music I do listen to and like? When are those songs going to inundate my groggy semi-consciousness and surprise the hell out of the next person I say, "You'll never guess what song I have in my head right now." The most annoying aspect (as if the whole situation isn't annoying enough) is I only know one line and it is mostly inaccurate. I rarely know all the lyrics to any given song...I also confuse prepositions quite often, switching "with" to "on" for example. Even listening to good music before sleeping doesn't help because Puttin' on the Ritz by Taco just schleps its way right on into my mind. Seriously, what the fuck? The most I can guess is that ridiculous excuse for a music station from good ol' Dodge has instituted some sort of mind control gadget, programming me to be annoying to myself and eventually gouging out my eyes with a spork. And so it goes... | | |
| I think I'm a pretty good friend. I listen. I nod when appropriate. I even occasionally offer my perspective or a bit of advice. However, I can become the biggest doormat and I hate it. I have someone in my life who considers me a friend, but her status on my side is wearing thin. She's neurotic and fragile--two things I loathe, yet have a tendency to attract. I'm not sure if I send out a signal that says, "You've got issues? Step right up...I'll be your FRIEND!" or what the deal is, but seriously, I'm over it. When I spend the majority of my time contradicting her in my head or biting my tongue so much the stitches have become useless, it pretty much is no longer a friendship. I think I'm a pretty patient and tolerable person, but have become less so as I age, as I realize that I don't have time for shit I hate. Nonetheless, I have yet again entered into a situation of my own making that I just cannot get out of. I could just say, "Forget it. She's an adult. She can get over it." But it's her fucking fragility that pulls me back and continues to stab me.
Last week, 2 other teachers and I decided to go garage-saleing on Saturday. They're fun. Light-hearted. Hilarious. Foul-mouthed. Witty. And all without alcohol, too! So as we're all leaving on Friday, we all said, "See you tomorrow." Enter Friend with Neuroses. "What's going on tomorrow?" assuming we were inviting her along. "Oh, just a bit of garage-saleing." Fatal flaw, honesty is. So, she comes along and started her hypochondriac bit no less than 45 minutes into one of the longest garage sale days of my life. Eventually, we ended up at my place, where she cowered away from my cats, two of the most chill and non-lap type cats ever. When CousCous claimed her space on the top of the couch, she asked if I could move her away because she's scared of animals. WHAT THE FUCK?!?! Who's scared of a domesticated cat? I mean, beyond the age of 4?
The neuroses is one thing...sometimes it is a great mechanism for hilarity and anecdotes. But when it's paired with the fucking fragility, I just can't handle it. I'm strong. I know what I want out of life (for the most part). I don't let life scare the shit out of me because I figure, "What the hell? I'm alive. And when I'm supposed to die, whether it's in my sleep or when walking under scaffolding, I'm going to die." I guess this just is too fatalistic, but it gets me through the day and through a lot of shit I don't want to deal with. The bottom line: I just don't have room in my life for timid little mice-women who cower in the corner. So why am I so hesitant to kick her to the curb? Why do I care about her feelings? Because I'm a doormat. | | |
| Let me just tell you what is not sexy: swamp crotch. I understand that I live in the desert, but seriously, it's fucking April and already hitting mid-90's. This morning I was so excited to debut my latest creation/transformation of my vintage Uni.of KS t-shirt into a modern, sleeveless tee with drawstring ruching along the sides. I walked--okay, strutted out of my apt. at 8 and was wilted by 9. Seriously. My pits were stanky (I'm considering rethinking the deodorant-without-antiperspirant thing), the wave that I spent 20 minutes putting into my otherwise stick-straight hair was unflatteringly gone, and I was sweating. Not glistening. Not glowing. Sweating. I've discovered parts of my body that are capable of sweating that I never before realized...like my crotch. So gross. No one wants to fuck the "swotch"; not even my husband, even out of sheer obligation. Nor do I want him to. It is not sexy! Even the freakiest of smell-fetishists would not want to come near me from late-May to September...because it's BAD! And, oh, the chub-rub! You know, the sweatiness of the inner thighs rubbing together (consider yourself the luckiest person in the world if you have not ever had to experience this)--makes wearing a skirt unbearable, which really limits your clothing options when you look like a squashed pear in shorts. So the pro-con list comes out with Chub-rub and Swamp Crotch battling it out. Usually Swamp Crotch wins and the skirt goes on and the chafing begins. God, I love summer...or spring. Jesus. It's only spring. Three cheers for global warming...Huzzah! | | |
| I am officially a wife. I went to the Social Security office to make the much overthought and overanalyzed decision to change my name. And, quite honestly, I much like my new name better. However, while in the office, listening to my iPod (thank you wedding!), I had a bit of a Phoebe moment-this is my opportunity to change my name to whatever I want!! It's the 21st century, right? Who know what the hell those crazy women-libbers are doing?! And as I searched the annals of my brain, having an "Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret" moment, I pulled a blank. Because unlike my 1st grade self, living in WASP-land, I no longer wanted to be Sarah or Jamie or Katie. I want to be Monica. Just Monica. Maybe even Moh-nee-kah (my grandmother's spanish pronunciation).
I wrestled with myself for quite some time on the name-changing thing. I mean, I was betraying all modern, liberated women just by buying into the whole marriage thing. And to change my last name to my husband's on top of that?! With absolutely no hyphen? Que loca soy?! But feminism is such a weird thing. What I can gather is that as long as it's a conscious decision, as long as you don't feel like you have to do it, it's an empowered decision; it's feministic. So as long as you choose to take off your clothes and grind on men for money, you are feminist. So, yeah, I fell in love and got married before I turned 50 (which was my original plan, by the way). I changed my name to my husband's. But I'll never be "The Wife." Or "Mrs." Ms. Monica will do me just fine, thank you. Because I chose it. | | |
| My uncle and his boyfriend/life partner broke up last fall. They were together for nearly 20 years. Now that's dedication, especially considering they were never legally married. The confusion, however, is now he has someone new in his life-a woman. I can't help but say, "What the fuck?!" every time I think about it. I really don't know much about my uncle or his past. The smattering of info that I do have is from my aunt, who seems to have the dish on everyone in my family. She has told me that he's had girlfriends to which I said, "Well, of course he did! He was gay in small-town-middle-America." But I guess things wouldn't be great with The Man so he'd try the women for awhile and eventually go back to The Man. Using my meandering experience of relationships, I understand looking for a radical change after a traumatic, messy breakup. And I've even done the split-second drunken swearing off of men in front of my friends for comedic effect. But this radical of a change? An entire gender?
On Monday, my family and I were greeted by an impromptu visit of the new girlfriend...accompanied by her 4 children (ages 18-5) and sister. I know it's a Mexican thing to bring everyone in your extended family to every event in your life (she's very Mexican, speaking little English). But knowing this hasn't eliminated the weirdness factor of it at all-BECAUSE HE'S GAY!!! I mean, just a couple of weeks ago, he was joking with my best friend about having a good time in Boys Town. Seriously, what the fuck?! I just don't get it.
And what about the conversation about past relationships? It always comes up and, granted, you don't always have to be completely forthcoming, but if he is? "Well, I was in a relationship for 20 years...His name is..." Making an assumption based on a stereotype, Mexican folks aren't that accepting of the gays (because Americans are?). And putting myself in that situation, I don't think I could handle it. I mean, I'm the rebound relationship of a fag? I guess it would depend on how good he was in bed...and maybe that's just it. She's the rebound and he needs to get off. However, 4 kids is kinda messy for just a rebound relationship. | | |
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