I Have Crappy Neighbors!

I love my apartment. The office manager, Lillee, is the sweetest woman in the world. She eradicated our small roach problem. She referred us to a good locksmith that copied our house key-for free! She ensured our fire alarm was fixed. She's just an all around nice lady. We're allowed to keep our dogs, and there's no horrible landlords sneaking around trying to charge us for pet fees that we've already paid like at our old apartment complex. The carpet is grey and white patterned, easily cleaned; the walls are beige in the living area and bedrooms, yellow in the kitchen and bathroom (I love yellow!) and I have decorated it all cozy. Here they are, from the outside (they are nondescript enough that I'm cool with posting a picture I found online);

For those of you new or ignorant to apartment living, this is how it works; those who are without credit, get a cosigner (I used my mommy; although I do have credit, a score of 683 baby :D ) You spend mucho money on things to fill your apartment with (unless you have a mommy that spoils you and buys everything you need from Target, Goodwill, and yard sales.) You are immediately swamped by bills, and therefore stress, and if you are lucky enough you will have a roommate or live in boyfriend that will rip you a new asshole for doing a shitty job on the dishes or leaving a pair of undies on the floor in the bathroom as soon as you get home from working eight hours at a busy restaurant (okay, okay, I'm always going off topic...) Though really, I would think he would like seeing my frilly underthings tossed about the house, like some scene from a dirty erotica movie or something.

Anyway. My neighbors on one side are two men that drink a lot and chain smoke. Inside (yeah I looked in their windows! That's more reliable than a background check!) it's a serious bachelor pad, with a huge tv and well loved leather couch, and little else. One of them let me into my apartment once when I was having a particularly bad day and the fates decided it would be funny to let the screen door lock on me. The point is, they're nice. Next door is a woman with a really deep voice and too strong handshake, who I let into her apartment once with my bank card even though she annoys me. She also has a huge, 80's esque tv that she turns up so loud I can hear every word late at night, even when it's 1 in the morning and I have to wake up at 6 for work. She also talks on her cell phone (speaker turned up to the max) while loudly banging cabinets just as late as the tv is blaring. Next to her are some more chain smokers (I never realized how many people in the world smoke) that often let their dogs off their leashes, and these aforementioned dogs don't listen to them at all. On more than one occasion I have been knocked down, my dog (a sweet widdle 5 month old puppy named Nova) has been chased into the street by their dog, and once when theirs tried to attack Nova, I was dragged by my bigger dog, Yuma, as he prepared to protect me from said wayward canine.

Neighbors are annoying. There's no way to live with them, I think. I'm sure I'm not a picnic to live with; I slam cabinets sometimes too, and every time I look at my neighbors I wonder if they can hear us having sex (I just LOL-ed uproariously as soon as I wrote that coz I know they can.) I guess I have to put up with them, just like they have to put up with me. Speaking of my apartment... it's dirty. I need to clean! I have too many clothes. I'm thinking about planning a clothing swap. Anyone up for it? I have some great stuff I just don't wear. I'm one of those people that wears a bunch of jeans, button up shirts, and a couple other dresses, and all my other stuff just sits there. .... Getting off topic again. This was a meaningless post, but sometimes I have to write something meaningless. Gotta get all the stuff that annoys me off my chest ;)

How to Control Yourself at a Party

     So last night I drank tequila with my boyfriend. I don't drink very often; we've gotten to be pretty health conscious, save for that fact that I often gorge myself on cinnamon crunch bagels, and I haven't been drunk in over a month; at least until last night came along. We made a point to have limes, Coke, and salt to go with our shots of tequila, and a Black & Mild. (Coz when we get drunk we like to smoke, too. It was a bad idea, I inhaled on accident and deeply too, my lungs feel like I punched a hole through them right now) Whatever, I can't be a goody goody all the time.
       If I had been at a party or club or something, I would've embarrassed myself deeply, which tells me I need to provide some Do's and Don'ts to prevent my lovely readers from becoming a cautionary tale like me. :) That way, you don't find yourself dancing in your Hello Kitty underwear to Shakira, hugging your toilet and throwing up something you don't recall eating, and waking up early for work still under the influence. Oh, I also painted a coat of watermelon pink on my fingernails, but I was seeing kind of blurry so the color is sloppy, kind of like a watercolor. I didn't bother fixing them, haha.
        DO eat before, or while, you drink. Especially if you don't drink very often. That alcohol will be absorbed very quickly by an empty stomach, especially if you're female (women absorb alcohol faster than men anyway, so become drunker faster!).
         DON'T try to keep up with anybody. My boyfriend was egging me on to drink more, because he was just as trashed as I was, making him pretty stupid, and I listened to him-making me VERY stupid. That's what led me to the whole hugging the toilet thing-I don't regret dancing to Shakira though, even in my underwear, because it was fun. For once I was dancing without worrying about my jiggly thighs. It was nice. On the other hand, I don't recommend that activity in public. But, I digress...
          DO chat people up. But not aggressively. Back when my boyfriend was an addict/partier, he went to loads of parties, a lot of which I didn't even know about because he didn't want to go through the hassle of inviting me, ha! However, I have been to a few, and they totally sucked. I was shy, upset, in emotional turmoil, and overall pathetic. (Perhaps we can get to the "whys" of my past state in a different post) But it totally ruined parties for me. Sure, I had nothing in common with the people that were there (rednecks and I don't get along) and no interest in the activities that were being presented (I don't get along with weed or beer bongs either) but I could've had fun had I had it in me to give it some effort and chat up one of the many girls in cowboy boots that were present. Make the most of your current party situation friends, even if sipping a Cosmo in the VIP lounge in some hip club is more your speed.
           DON'T, under any circumstance, drive drunk! EVER. EVER. My boyfriend currently has a DWI that still isn't behind him and he drove last night like an idiot, bleary eyed and stumbling, just for one more Black & Mild. Dude, have you ever been worried and trashed at the same time? It is no fucking fun. For real. Don't freak out your friends, family, significant other, whoever cares about and loves you, because you've convinced yourself that you're "cool" to drive. Because you're not.
           DO figure out your limit. Do you know how many shots or cans of beer it takes for you to become irresponsible? Figure it out. Get with someone you trust and go get irresponsible. Remember what it took, because it's invaluable, that way you know when you should stop. You should always do your very best to maintain a reasonable amount of control over yourself, so you're not that drunk girl groping everybody that everyone avoids and eventually kicks out.
           DO treat your hangover. Apparently, the best thing for a hangover is a banana milkshake sweetened with honey; according to KGB anyway. Next time, I might try it. Also, after drinking you should be kind to your body. Exercise that liquor, beer (especially beer, so many calories!) out of your system, cleanse cleanse cleanse, eat well, and stay hydrated! And of course, spoil yourself with a hot bubble bath or chocolate or something, although you shouldn't need any excuse at all to treat yourself well ;)

Yep. The evil tequila, Jose himself!

How to Awaken Your Sexuality

So in the post I had up before this, I admitted I had low self esteem-and then I deleted it, because that post wasn't helping ANYONE, including myself. But especially not my readers, because when I read someone else's blog (I do it all the time) I do it either because a) they have great pictures up, b) they talk about everything that I personally love about fashion, or c) they teach me something. I want to do a little of all of that, and I'm sure that my previous post taught you a little about SOMETHING, a new word maybe, but I really want to reach a hand out this time. If I don't, I'm just wasting my time.

I know lots of girls that have self esteem issues; and men for that matter. Even my bodybuilder (the sexiest man I have met ever really, or maybe I'm biased?) suffers from his own insecurities, which is what propels him to work so hard. Me too; that's why I take supplements, work out six days a week, wear makeup, worry excessively on my bad hair days, etc. etc. etc. It's such a bore, too. I keep asking myself, "Who are you trying to impress?" Even though my boyfriend says I look like a rooster when I wake up in the morning, I know he's not going to leave me for it. He often tells me to leave the gel out of my hair (so he can play with it more easily) and to not wear makeup (because apparently, I look better without it). Yet, each day, I put in whatever hair product strikes my fancy and at least bother with blush and mascara. It's my war paint. It's my armor against the world, so that if anyone fucks with me, I am prepared.

Even though I don't always feel 100%, and sometimes, I feel downright ugly, every hour of everyday, I make it a point to OOZE sexuality. Yes. Ooze. Fucking ooze, baby. Because I've been through some fucked up shit (and made it!), I know I'm a strong woman. Woman with a capital W-O-M-A-N. Women have more power than they (we) realize. We could rule the world. We could drag around all the males by their penises, bat our eyelashes, and still pretend that we are hindered by that glass ceiling-and they'd believe us, too. That's how I get upgraded drinks and free snack sized McFlurries from Mickey D's. That's why I get paid more. That's why I got away with violating the dress code in high school and avoiding speeding tickets; because I am a sexual "vulnerable" female. And I want to tell you how to do it. (And guys, even if you're educating yourself on how to escape our female powers by reading this, trust me, it's not going to work--you are powerless against our charms.)

First of all, take care of yourself. Moisturize, exercise, eat right. If you do that, you will feel so good. When I exercise, I feel so powerful. Even though I only bench press 45 pounds (shut up) I feel like I could kick some serious ass. Even though I had to stop 3/4 of the way through my plyometrics routine, I felt on top of the world during my shower-and it wasn't just the endorphins. I'm not saying, do it because it's healthy. Sure, there's that-but I'm telling you to do it because in the end, when you see your glowing skin and your biceps coming in, you will feel so hot. Also, ignore all the fashion rules. Seriously. I let my bra peek out all the time. I wear white (including shoes) after Labor Day. My nail and toenail polish colors don't match; they don't even complement each other. (I think it makes me look eclectic and beachy-eccentric, even interesting.) I make my own rules. Right now, I'm wearing a backless, long halter dress, one size fits all, that I bought at last year's Dixie Classic without a bra (and you can totally tell) and I feel so sexy. Even though it's against the "rules" coz this is a summer dress and it's supposedly time to dress for fall, and even though it's slutty supposedly to let everyone know I'm braless, I don't care. I'm not a slut. I'm in a committed relationship and even though I have lots of sex, it's with my boyfriend only. (I flaunt my hickies too. Coz I'm an adult ;) ) I'm proud of the person I am, and you should be too. Flaunt your bralessness, your brashness, your boldness. It'll give you confidence. Don't be afraid to go naked-on your face that is. I'm going to be getting drunk with my aforementioned boyfriend tonight, and paired with my slut dress is my bare face, save a little concealer, just in case I fall asleep before I can do my nightly routine, but my undereye circles are covered because I gotta go pick up some limes. Again, who the fuck cares? I have nothing to hide, and let me stress; neither do YOU. You are beautiful. You are hot. Even if you have belly rolls, stretch marks, or you just feel like you look like crap (and I gotta tell myself this all the time) you are wonderful. You're a woman. Every woman has cellulite, and if she doesn't, trust me, she will someday soon, and I think those dimples are sexy. Love handles are called that for a reason; give a man something to hold onto. Go outside and scream into the wind; "I AM SEXY" and see how good you feel. I mean it :)

Remember, Marylin was a size 8 ;)

A Day in the Life of a Bodybuilder's Girl

     My boyfriend is an amateur bodybuilder. I think from now on, I'm going to call him "the bodybuilder" rather than "my boyfriend" because now that I'm getting new readers that don't even know him, I feel it necessary to protect his privacy. Not only that, but as a person, while I am embodied by many things, I am most clearly embodied as "that guy's girlfriend." In his life however, as person, he is not only my boyfriend. In fact, that is a very small part of him. Minuscule. He is a bodybuilder, above all else. (As for my identity, I am working on that. I am an aspiring lawyer and I am seeking out new passions, but right now all that I have that is concrete in my identity is that I am his. Sue me.)
     I have a job of course, but I am awakened a lot before it is my time because the bodybuilder likes to wake up at 6 or 7 am to go to the gym. He normally has to be at work himself at 12, sometimes later, but typically he needs to get his three hour workout in before work. I try to ignore him when he rustles out of bed beside me when the alarm goes off, although I'm pleasantly back to a groggy sleep by the time he rains goodbye kisses all over my face right before 7, 7:30. He normally guilts me into preparing food for him ahead of time for his entire day, as he needs around 240 grams of protein a day to ensure he is constantly building mass. For me, that means pan frying steaks that he will later complain are dry and baking or sauteeing whole plastic bags of frozen chicken breasts so that he alone can eat that day.
       I am gifted by my own pleasant sack of insecurities. I hate my haircut, my body, even my clothes sometimes. I'll throw on something I know is unflattering because I get so frustrated with myself. He is on the other side of the spectrum; he literally compliments himself more than he compliments me. I'm not a compliment fisher, but despite the various problems in our relationship that preys on my insecurities (including history in a previous relationship that was abusive, and the bodybuilder poring over porn starring girls that are more his "type" than I am--now that he'd say such a thing, but I'm not stupid.) you'd think he'd tell me I look good once in awhile. Yesterday, he actually put on a pair of jeans I'd picked out for him and looked back and forth between the mirror and me  pensively, while I prepared for some sort of compliment that I could soak in appreciatively...
       "Look at these abs," he says, pointing to his perfectly carved abdominals displayed over his tight True Religion jeans, "like a model's, with the underwear...." He trails off when he sees the look on my face.
       This drives me crazy, of course. I am working on that too. I don't know what you all know about bodybuilders, but they're very self absorbed, and rightfully so. Their livelihood and pride rests upon how they look; it rests upon how full, proportional, and large every single muscle is in comparison to every other one. I understand that, but I also wonder how any of them stay married. I am still a female, with various needs and wants, even though I'm more down to earth than your average girl, and I need to feel special and noticed. I wonder all the time where our relationship is destined to end up, because I love him desperately; I know love isn't sure all the time, and sometimes, it doesn't even mean much, but I feel a lot of the time that he is the skin that is holding me together. And of course, it is a problem that I don't have much of an identity beyond him, on top of all the insecurities I have both how I look and how I am on the inside. I'm sure it'll work out; it always does.

The Abortion, Part II

       The following morning, I prepare myself by having my boyfriend close by before he goes to work, surprised my mother even let him in. I'm wearing my favorite pajamas, and I'm freshly showered, my wet hair tied back. Still being completely over the moon about my boyfriend, I apply makeup; it's almost like warpaint, as I prepare to wage battle on my own body.
        After settling into my bed with my boyfriend beside me, I take my next set of pills; these have some long, unpronounceable name, but they prevent nausea. It is recommended that I wait at least thirty minutes for it to kick in, to prevent me from throwing up the next (and most important) set up. My mother makes me wait an hour, saying tauntingly that if I throw up the pills and this abortion is unsuccessful, she's not going to fund another one. A grim layer of nervousness and determination coats my already shaky, frightened psyche at her reasoning, and I willingly wait an hour. Barely fifteen minutes after I take the most important medication, I vomit raucously into the trashcan that has been placed strategically by my bedside, while my boyfriend bolts up after me, keeping strands of my loose hair from my face. Deep inside, I am grateful, because I know how sick people throwing up around him can make him feel, and as I throw up I cry, terrified that my pills have come up. My vomit is bitter and acidic, and my mind tries to process the texture, trying to dissect it for traces of powder or pill fragments. There is a moment where I try to hold it back, but it seems like I throw up for a very long time. When I'm done, I begin to shake, my teeth chattering, and once or twice I bite my tongue, blood seeping between my molars. My boyfriend puts his coat on me, wrapping his body around mine, as though sheltering me from further harm while I shiver, and my mother watches my face. She says, "Your body temperature is plummeting, it's going to be soon," and I wonder what "it" is.
         Suddenly, the "cramps" begin. They are excruciating, like someone shoving a dull hunting knife into my uterus, plunging and twisting, over and over, and the blows ebb and flow; sometimes they lessen, but the pain never stops. My bedroom is in the basement so I rush from the bed to the bathroom upstairs, and when I pull down my underwear I see they are streaked with blood. I sit on the toilet, knowing that "it" is coming, and I think about what my boyfriend's parents said, how what is coming from inside me and into the toilet, what is now a bloody, pulpy mess, could've been a bouncing bundle of joy, could've been the first female president or a prodigy or someone's husband or wife, is now just dead tissue, and I cry. I cry and cry. I can't describe the feeling of it, beyond the excruciating pain and the strangeness of something so heavy and blessed with such potential leaving my pelvis, and I won't bother to; the only thing I can say is that even in the present, three years later, it can still make me sad.
           After a few more trips up and down the stairs, it gets to be like a regular period, and my boyfriend has to leave for work; he is my lifeline, a life preserver in the middle of this desolate ocean, and I am sure that he is equal parts sad and happy to go, while I am desperate for him to stay. Still, I understand his commitments and I know he hates to see me in pain. Later, my mother hugs me, and I hug her back, crying, knowing she doesn't understand because in her desperation to save me, and to give me a future, she alienated me from the only thing I needed at the time; support. I know then, even as I cry in her embrace and breathe in her coffee and cigarette fueled feminine scent, that it will be a long time before I can forgive her for this. I wonder then if I ever will.

The Abortion, Part I

     It all begins on the day of my appointment at Planned Parenthood. It's cold, December of 2008, and I am seventeen years old. It starts with my mother furiously signing paperwork, before she leaves in a bustle; though not before noting in amusement that my insurance would have paid for it. Meanwhile, my boyfriend takes out all his savings from his wallet, and I watch him with a a knot in my throat. It's ironic; my mother is the one forcing me to have this procedure, but she is the only one involved that isn't paying for it in any way. My boyfriend stays, and he holds my hand, his face drawn. After it's paid for and I can see the doctor and a few nurses, they explain that I'm going to get an ultrasound, I'm going to take some pills or maybe get the surgical procedure depending on how far along I am, and if I want to change my mind, this is the time. They tell me about the cramps, passing blood clots the size of golf balls or even lemons, the vomiting.
      "Does it hurt?" I ask softly, and the doctor says, "A little, like cramps from your period." I feel like he's lying, like before stabbing someone in the butt with an especially long needle, "This is gonna sting a little."
      My boyfriend waits in the lobby while I am led to an examining room for my ultrasound. The nurse is a sweet African American woman that is happy and smiling, exchanging banter with me to help me feel more at ease. She  asks me what I am interested in, and I tell her I write short stories, "What kind?" she asks, probing my insides with a cold, latex covered stick, as she stares at a screen. I say, "Disturbing ones." She laughs and tells me she'd like to read them, and I say I'll bring her one to read, knowing I never will. After a few minutes she tells me I am indeed pregnant, and that I am not too far along to take the pills; something called a "chemical abortion." I choose that, because I am terrified of the idea of a vacuum of sorts between my legs sucking out the bloody tissue.  They hand me a couple pills to take right then, my boyfriend at my side again; I have three more bottles, one set that will prevent nausea, another that will force the developing fetus from my body, and the last that will prevent infection. I take the first two with that knot in my throat again, and the finality makes my stomach churn. My hand never leaves my belly, and I swear I can feel the pills churning inside, while I wish futilely for my mother.
        We leave in a gorgeous Mustang that my boyfriend's father has rented, as he's visiting his son from Virginia. He's raging over the various people that were rude to him at Planned Parenthood, obviously yearning to project his anger over something other than me or my mother. He drives erratically, and my stomach tosses  due to the pills my body is currently processing-not really due to any medical effect they are having, but at the thought of what they (and the other pills) will do to what could have been my baby. Our baby. I do not let on, but I love him intensely for his anger; he is angry for me, and for what will happen to me, and it feels good that someone cares, even when my mother doesn't.
       "Baby," I admonish, as he takes a turn especially fast, his expression dark, "You're making me nauseous."  I know the only way to talk sense into him is if I act like he is putting me in danger, even though he is the best driver I know, angry or not, and a shadow crosses his face before his brow eases and he says, "Sorry, baby," and slows down. We pull in front of my mother's house, a house that probably would never be my home again for real after this entire situation is over.
       Now that the pills are down, I know I should be relieved, know that I saved my life somehow, and I know later in a way that I did. I don't know that though, not at this moment. I just feel regret, even though it's too late to take it back, and hope that somewhere I will have the strength to take the rest of the pills the next morning.