A Heart That's Full Up Like A Landfill

I finally received the diagnosis of my mole yesterday. Benign, as suspected. So that's good news.

And that's all I have.

And why is that all I have? Mostly because I'm a whiny bitch. A whiny confused bitch. That's got to be, like, the worst kind of bitch ever.

{Many words edited out to avoid passive-aggressiveness. Drafted blog posts...helping me avoid therapy since June '09...maybe avoidance isn't the best path.}

But, hey, that whole mole situation turned out well. Maybe this will, too.

She'll Make You Sweat In The Water

I have a recipe for peanut butter cookies that I learned in the Girl Scouts some number of years ago that I still use to this very day. It's a really simple recipe with only three ingredients. Four if you enjoy chocolate chips in your peanut butter cookies. Take one cup of peanut butter, toss in one cup of sugar, and then mix in an egg and there you go. Plop cookie sized portions on a cookie sheet, mash 'em down with a fork and bake 'em about 15 minutes on 350 and you've got cookies.

Simple, yeah? Straight forward. No need to look at that and over think it, yeah?

Wrong.

Through the years as I give this recipe to people, someone along the way will argue with me that I've left something out. That can't be all there is. There should be more stuff. There needs to be more complication to this. No cookie can only have three simple ingredients and be good. You're wrong, I'm wrong, everybody is wrong until we toss in all sorts of other stuffs that this recipe does not need.

But, that's the nature of humans isn't it? To over think. To want things to be more complicated than they are. To take the long way, the around the ass to get to the elbow way. To not believe that things are simply what they appear to be.

Me included. I take very little at face value and with my frustration at people wanting to muck up my cookie recipe with all sorts of stuff that isn't necessary, I'm beginning to kinda see how frustrating I must be to others. Sure, I can sit here and point to all the reasons why. The lies that have been told to me. The lies that have been told about me. The tricks and rug from under pulling that has been done.

Even now, as recent as this weekend I learned that the one person I didn't think to be a liar....is. Over the most asinine subjects. So, if he was lying about that type of stuff to others, isn't it natural that I would then sit here and think he'd probably lied to me? Even though it doesn't matter. But there goes my brain...thinking, wondering, pondering, adding baking soda where it's not needed. Because if he lied to me....who else is? Who else will? Who isn't?

I just need to stop. Everybody isn't a liar. Everybody is not out to trick me and hurt me. All cookies do not need flour!

Simple. Face value. Trust. We'll see.

We're Gonna Ride The Boogie

A few weeks ago, a friend of mine and I were talking about Prince at work. The fact that he needs a double hip replacement. Things may have been said that were lewd in nature about this and how I'd take care of business and whatnots, but it made us both kinda stop and think that...damn...Prince is like...51.

Prince is 51! And we both looked at each other stunned by this. Because, you know, there's just some people that are so iconic and so legendary that you kinda sorta forget that they are a person, for lack of a better way of explaining that. Prince isn't supposed to get older. He's Prince! I get older. You get older. Prince? No.

So...when Micheal Jackson died...it was kinda the same thing. He's not supposed to die. He's Michael Jackson. He's one of those "icons" that should just always be around. But he did. He died. And it was sad. I'll admit it. It was sad. So, now Prince...I'm putting you on notice. Take care of your hips. Get off the pain meds. Don't die. Please and thank you.
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In other, more silly, news, I had to have a mole removed. This mole was hanging out and being all shady and shit, lurking in the shadows and being weird. So, I went to a doctor last week. And she poked at it and looked at it and said "hmmm" a lot and asked me questions and then compared it to other moles and continued to say "hmmmm" and then said "I'm gonna send you to a dermatologist." OK.

So, I went to the dermatologist. I explained the shady nature of my mole, she said "hmmm" and started to poke at it and look at it and then said "It's probably nothing, but let's take it off and send it for biopsy!" Logical brain heard "it's probably nothing" and said "Ok." The rest of the brain that I sometimes cannot control heard "Hmmm....let's take this off and test it immediately!!" and I've been fretting ever since.

I know it's nothing. I know that is what the test will come back to tell me. But I can't settle down. I can't stop fretting. And the spot where it was removed is driving me bat shit insane with how itchy it is! So, it's not like I can just sit here and ignore it, either. Oh no. "Remember me? Your shady mole that has to be tested? I'm making your skin itch and I'm not even there. Try to sleep now, Andrea. Just try! Muah hahahahahaha!"

This is one of those times that being single does not rock. Sure I can still sit around without my pants and not shave my legs and watch the same movie on HBO over and over and over and over and over without hearing anyone say "Andrea...there are other things to watch! Now, get in here and rinse this damned plate!" But there's also nobody here to see the look on my face and then say "Andrea, it's going to be fine. You're fine. Really. Please stop fretting. And here, have this hug. I have one to spare. In fact, here's another. Now, let's go watch Aliens for the 1 millionth time as I feed you Oreos." That would all be very nice right now. I guess once I get the test results back, I'll realize I can just go buy my own damned Oreos...

How Will I Know You'll Still Follow

One of my friends had a birthday yesterday. And for this special occasion, much like most people do, she had a party. And this party, not surprisingly, involved food. Not just any food, either. Home made food. Food made at home with, like, ingredients and time. Not a drive to Hardees for a box of fried chicken. Real, true, made at home food. And it was awesome.

This food was so awesome that it gave me an epiphany! As I'm sitting there eating my second full plate of meatballs, macaroni and cheese, tamale pie, cheese, dip, and pasta salad it happened. My epiphany. I'm a bum. Yup. That's my great realization. I'm a big old stinky bum. And it's all because I don't really cook. So, when I'm around real food, I turn into one of those bums you see in comedies that gets taken home by some well meaning family that feels guilty over something really stupid and the bum eats everything in sight, puts dinner rolls in their pockets, hits on the daughter and pees in the family urn. That's me. I will pee in your family heirlooms.

So I'm sitting there knocking back my 7th meatball and having this realization and thinking I really need to make some changes in my life, man. I need to get a cookbook and some real pots and pans. And I need to be an adult and cook some veggies. And never buy a corn dog again! But then, it happened...they brought out the cake. Home made chocolate cake.

Home made chocolate cake will make you forget about living responsibly. Home made chocolate cake will instead make you sit there and wonder who's birthday is next. Or wonder how your elderly family members' health is holding up as you think about wake food. Some people drive around town looking to score drugs and/or hookers. Home made chocolate cake makes me think about driving around to look for churches with dinners for sale. Home made chocolate cake doesn't care about vegetables. Home made chocolate cake only cares about making me happy. Home made chocolate cake is a powerful drug.

So, yeah. Home made food. It's addictive. There's your PSA on that.

Their Own Opinion Holding It Back

If you've ever been giving your dog a piece of Pupperoni and you smelled it and you thought to yourself that it smells a bit like a Slim Jim and then quietly wondered if it would taste like a Slim Jim, wonder no more.

It doesn't.

You're welcome.

Then I Thought Nothing Is Right

While driving about in the world the other day, I had my radio on, as people tend to do when in the car and their CD player is busted. It was while sitting at a stop light listening to a commercial for some product that I do not recall that I learned something. I learned that the rules of dating, of being boyfriend/girlfriend, have changed quite a bit since I was last in that type of situation.

I cannot for the life of me recall what the product is that commercial was for. I'm so wrapped up in the details of the script to really focus on what they were trying to sell me. All I know is this: during the commercial a dude character asked a female character to please take him back. And the female character declined this request. Why? Because he apparently put pudding in her hot tub.

Ummmm.....what?!?!?

First off, is pudding really that detrimental to the health of a hot tub? I can't imagine that it is. Pudding is delicious. And I imagine that if in hot water it would break down quite nicely and not really do too much damage to the filters and whatnots. I doubt the man put $240 worth of pudding in there. So, really...pudding in a hot tub. OK.

Secondly, is putting pudding in a hot tub really a fireable offense? Honestly? Is this the rule now? Somebody puts a bit of pudding in my hot tub, I can tell 'em to hit the road? Pudding in a hot tub is such a horrendous ordeal to live through that you can get rid of a relationship and not even talk about a reconciliation? You can just dump and never look back? Really?

So, what other silly damned rules are there that I may not be aware of? You drop a marshmallow in the floor of my car and I leave you on the side of the road? You take a sip of my chocolate milkshake so I call the cops? I can't even think of scenarios as ridiculous as pudding in a hot tub. I don't even have a hot tub. But, I need to know! I need to know if shit has actually gotten this stupid out there.

Yeah...

Even Though You're Not Mine

So, I just took a trip. And I learned stuff about myself. And things I already knew were more solidified in my brain. I kinda love that. Discovering that I do, really, have a pretty good grasp on who I am. It's nice. I just need to get more comfortable with it now that I got it all figured out. Sure.

And? I'm friggin' exhausted. I need a nap. Or three. Yeah. Vacation is hard...here's some thoughts:

• Vegas is cheesy and dudes are simple. If you ever need some attention, put on some boy shorts, a tight t-shirt, knee high socks, and a black wig and go to the Vegas sign at midnight. Boys will talk to you no matter how aloof and bitchy you are and your Mom will tell you that you look like a whore. Good times.
• Fish tacos aren't just good for inappropriate jokes when hanging out with a bunch of women, they're actually quite tasty. Even if you giggle and act like a 13 year old boy the entire time.
  
• Joshua trees are not trees at all! And? It is possible to hang out with a bunch of them and not make any references to U2. Sweet.
• Honestly...not shy. Damn. I'm all talkative and shit. I really need to get over this one. Again, if I don't talk around you it means a few things. Some are good. Some are not. I'll let that one be vague and then if I meet you and I'm all quiet you can stress and wonder why. I'm quite evil. Truth had to come out sooner or later.
  
• I fucking love Arizona. I knew this. Everyone knows this. It just smacks me in the face anytime I'm there. The scenery. The sky. The air. The feeling. The roads. All of it. Arizona. Yeah.
• I love Flight of the Conchords. Sure, the second season was way less solid than the first, but it had some laughs. So, when I sat down to watch them live with my bestest friend (I put BFF at first and that made me giggle. What are the rules here? Can you call a 30 year old man your BFF? Or do we need to paint each others' nails and braid each others' hair before that term is acceptable? Or do I just need to be less 36 for that term to not be silly? Ah well...) and the first song they did was from the second season, I was a bit worried. And then they did a song from the first season. And it was...weird. Like, when you see the Foo Fighters and they go into "I'll Stick Around" it's awesome! They're a rock band and they are rockin' the tunes. But FoTC is a comedy band. And for me, that made it a bit different. So, hearing all the familiar songs was like...good and enjoyable...but the in between banter was better, since I'd not heard it before. And Stana friggin' killed me. And molested me with my dog. And I think it was because that was new and the humor caught me off guard. I wasn't ready and prepared. That's part of the appeal of comedy. The not seeing it coming, ya know? Or something. I don't know. That makes no sense. When you go see Seinfeld you know you're gonna hear some funny stuff so it's not like the funny sneaks up and pokes you on the shoulder or something. I'm rambling. Anyway....FoTC...live....good stuff. The crowd? Can lick my balls, however. Yeah.
  
• I love the hell out of a road trip. Good god. I can be sad and surly and blue and just fucking down, man. Put me on an open road with great weather and great scenery and I'll turn it around. This is true. I'll smile. Smiles on my face. They happen.
• If you are travelling in a rental car on an open road and being happy as shit and you consistently catch yourself doing about 95...you should take advantage of the cruise control. Otherwise, you'll get pulled over and given a ticket. Don't let this happen to you.
• If you have a BlackBerry Bold...do NOT set a password on the phone. Just don't. Because it will lose it's mind and tell you the password is invalid even though it is not and then after 10 attempts it will wipe the entire phone clean as you watch. It was quite sad. Yeah.
• I wish my hair had loose flowy curls everyday. I'm also a fan of how nice my fingers and toes look with the super cool polish on them. I had no idea I'd enjoy being all swishy and girly. This is what Randi's wedding taught me. Go figure.
• Randi's friends are awesome. Here I am, an outsider, being involved in one of the biggest days of their friend's life. And for some girls, that's hard to take. Some girls feel a sense of ownership over their friends when a wedding is involved. But these ladies were great. They accepted me to the point where I wasn't even considered a guest. And that really meant a lot to me. It really did. Randi has good girls. I'm honored to be included in that.
  
• I enjoy dancing. But will only do so when drunk. I danced at Randi's wedding. After insisting for three days that I was not drinking at all on the boat. Not only did I drink on the boat, which yes did include us all dancing to and singing along with "I'm On A Boat", I continued to drink at the bar after the fact. Strawberry mint mojitos are my new best friend. I think I can call a strawberry minty drink my BFF, that sounds acceptable.
• When you are still a bit drunk when you wake up for your flight, you do not need Xanax to fly. And flying is no fun once the drunk leaves and the hangover hits. No fun at all.
• Coming home after a wedding to an airport full of people hugging and happy to see each other and then driving alone to your empty apartment that doesn't even have your dogs waiting for you at....kind of a bummer. Yeah.

And that's my vacation in a nutshell.