Another Evening With Jim Jefferies, Bicarbonate of Hypocrisy

Hey, kids. To quote Blazing Saddles, "How are things in the clean world?"

The pic (which I hate) is my second photo with Jim--he looks thrilled as hell to have his arm around a drunken, yapping me (and Gods, did he smell fabulous); the gent in the background is Pat Oates, the comic who brought Jim on. Very, very funny men.

I am HUNGOVER. Happy and fuckall hungover. Like the last time I saw Jim Jefferies perform, the experience was a mixed bag. The gig was FUCKING AWESOME, but the shit afterwards totally harshed my high.

However, I still had three awesome hours. And that's the important part.

Like the last time, the story will be told in two parts--the review (this post) and the aftermath (next post).

On with the review...

OK, let's start with the venue. You know I have a serious fan hardon for someone if I will subject myself not only to driving to Connecticut (the Asshole of the Northeast), but even more so that I was willing to go to a casino.

I hate casinos. HATE them. Rick Riordan got it completely right in Percy Jackson & the Olympians with the casino scene (and more on that in post #2, In Which I Find It VERY VERY Difficult NOT to Strangle My Mother). For me, casinos are the embodiment of Hell. All those people, like zombies, playing the slots... *shudder*

BUT I DIGRESS!

Comix is a great room for the audience set up--liked it immediately. The staff is FABULOUS--really lovely, lovely people to deal with, helpful, pleasant and attentive, from the management, to the door staff to the waitstaff--our waitresses were a hoot (and complete with Jim Jefferies autograph tattoos. I thought about it. I really did, but I think I'll wait until I've lost another 100 lbs. & finished the firm-up on the body). VIP tix were worth the expense. Food was decent, too; coffee was passable, but then, I was drinking tequila.

Secondly, the openers... Awesome guys, very funny. Steve Lazarus (who has a book coming out about being a beer vendor at Yankee Stadium since the 70's, Gods bless him) was a hoot--told a classic joke about the Sox fan, the Mets fan and the Yankees fan that totally showed where the fans were from. I think the Sox fans showed best, but then... I'm biased.

Pat Oates... Jesus wept. AWESOME choice for the lead-in to Jim. Describing himself as the "extended leprechaun," Pat did an incredibly high energy set, giving the audience shit (including me--I got dubbed "Meatloaf," and rather than heckle, I let it roll and laughed along. More on that later), with great bits on road rage and Steelers fans. My companion for the evening, the Amazing Tess, is from Pittsburgh and totally loved it (and agreed completely). And I will TOTALLY disagree with the arse who yelled out "too soon!" about the Greg Giraldo story. It was a GREAT story, there was NO disrespect in it, and that's the end of it. Keep telling it, Pat. (Pretty please?)

I had a chance to talk to Pat after the show; the guy is a decent dude--just really supportive and pleasant. He made the point that once you've open miked, it's like chasing a heroin addiction (totally on the money); I also liked the fact that he was protective of both Steve Lazarus and Jim. It just goes in line with my philosophy that we're all in this together and need to watch each other's backs--love to see it in others. The old "neighborhood ethics" (doesn't hurt that Pat is another member of the tribe--a fellow American bogtrotter). We had a laugh over the Meatloaf bit (hey, with the way I was dressed--sporting a white shirt with a skeleton hand giving the finger--I set myself up). Besides, it wasn't cruel. He took enough shots at himself which is why I was cool to roll with the "Meatloaf" shit without heckling (aside from the fact that heckling is classless under 99% of the circumstances, and when I come up against the 1% when it's acceptable, I'll tell you. I've heckled ONCE, and it was completely unintentional, and the comic got a full apology afterwards--and I kept my mouth shut for the rest of the set because I was mortally embarrassed at being an asshole, even if unintentional). I can totally roll with a comic when it's all in good fun.

Unlike the cunt sitting behind me during Jim's set. If I hadn't been high on tequila and Jim, I would have broken my rule of non-violence and broken that hosebag's humorless jaw and taken the jail time with pride. I mean, her boyfriend/husband/fucking idiot who kept yelling, "Up, Gunta, Up!" who also needed a sledgehammer to the crotch to prevent him from entering the gene pool should have told her to shut the fuck up, and if she was having such a miserable time, to take the fucking bus home. I'm serious. Bad enough the management had to step in front of me to tell the worthless cumrag to stop taking pictures for MySpace (and her lame-ass lie about "just taking pictures of ourselves"--really, bitch?)... Argh. She was bitching during the best bits, the ones about Xtianity, Michael Jackson and American stupidity. Proving Jim's points about hypocrisy, and as long as he didn't hear her (although I would have enjoyed him taking her to the cleaners--if you've ever heard his "Hellbound" CD, he takes on a bimbo and tears her posh ass to shreds in three lines. If you're ever tempted to use fake tanner, I will be happy to play that bit for you).

Ignorant cunt aside, Jim's show was in-fucking-credible. Better than New York in October. The second Percy Jackson moment--he came on to the strains of "Highway to Hell," my personal favorite AC/DC song (although the guitar solo in Back in Black is quite possibly the single greatest guitar solo ever, ever recorded). He looks fabulous (and Jim, fat? Really? Please. I should be so fucking fat. You're 34 from a family in which you have at least one member with a serious weight problem--a slight pot [which is as big as the tiny pot the gorgeous 24 year-old walking past me has] is nothing. You're still hotter than fucking hell, to the point I had to talk down the very drunk fan who had wangled permission to fuck you from her husband from following you backstage; give yourself some credit--there wasn't a straight woman in the audience [or gay man] who wouldn't have at least offered you a blow job. Was that too honest? *shrugs* Whatever. I have a hangover, so I'm a little cranky.)

His set was a mix of bits--I'd heard most of them, but there was new material. The older material had been tweaked and added to--the "knob joke"--the joke with the great line, "My job is to get an erection; your job is to get your hole wet" that goes to make the point that a dry hole is an impotent hole (nice to see a man fighting back strong against erectile dysfunction jokes) that ends so beautifully... he breaks my heart with that bit every time, and he's taken it to new lengths of insanity. Jim has mastered the art of the digression--as someone who digresses CONSTANTLY and always brings it back to where it should be, I appreciate this--he knows how to go off on a tangent and bring it back to his orginal story and get to the ending he wants.

Artistically, I am in love. Note, I said "artistically"--this is an important distinction. I'm psyched that I stumbled on Jim's work last summer, just as he's starting to REALLY take off here in the U.S. I cannot encourage people enough to get out and see him live--this is a man at the top of his game who is only going to get better. I'm hoping to be able to interview him for the blog; note I said "hoping"--he's a busy man, and I am not exactly a national outlet, y'know?

Despite being 'faced off my ass last night--it was one of those rare times when the conditions were right with my body so I could drink and not have a bad come-down, but it's definitely back on the wagon for me for a couple of months. No whooper--I was still able to be coherent after the show. Now, as an old theatre lag, I like the backstage bit of the work. I REALLY HATE not being in the game right now--I miss being in the middle of it all, the mayhem, the camraderie, all of it. I stopped myself from slipping backstage to talk to him; he was definitely in a different headspace after the show and ethically, not one I felt I had a right to intrude on. This, however, is why I want to interview him. I don't want to know where the funny comes from--I know where it comes from. It's all about how he looks at the world and processes it. I get that--it's the same place my funny comes from. It's a combination of rage and amusement, disbelief, and the need to a) see if anyone else gets this; b) keep from self-destructing from sheer despair at the outrageousness of the injustice and sheer stupidity of the world; and c) to make a living.

That's the bit some of Jim's oikier fans miss. Yeah, he's an oik. But if that's all you see, Jesus H. Fucking Christ, but you have missed the point. You have missed the intelligence and offended decency, and, folks, sorry, but decency doesn't have to refer to sexual conduct--it also refers to ethical conduct. You can take him to task for his drug use, drinking, sexual inclination, but have you cannot fault his ethics--and if you LISTEN to him, if you pay attention, there are some deep fucking ethics in there, the kind of that demand that you actually be truthful and own up to your shit--plus an extraordinary work ethic. That's what I'm interested in talking to him about--his work ethic. I'm interested in the process, not the funny. If I want the funny, I just have to watch him or listen to the podcast.

Alcoholocaust is coming to Showtime this spring; no air date yet, sadly. I'm planning on road-tripping to Pittsburgh and catch at least one (if not two) of the gigs down there in May, and will definitely go to the show at the Wilbur in September (and I'm hoping, hoping, HOPING he'll do the brothel story at that one; I'm dying to see where he's taken that).

So, Jim, thank you again for a magnificent show. Keep it going, man. Just keep it going. I'll say it again--you are at the top of your game and only getting better.

BTW, the title of today's review comes from my novel. It's how I describe my protagonist, Rebecca Kinsale. I think I can share that title with Himself.

Ultimate Jim Workout

For the record, casinos are my definition of hell. My spidey senses are screaming.

We also cannot locate St. Teresa. My worst nightmare did NOT come true-she did not show up after the show & accost Jim Jefferies.

Instead, my second worst nightmare is coming true-we have no idea where she is.

However... the show...ZOMG, JIM! AMAZING gig, better than New York. Better than the DVDs. Just... artistically, i am in love.

I'm coming down from the tequila and more... the comedy. I think i might have cum, the show was so good, from start to finish. Steve Lazarus & Pat Oates did fab openers-just a perfect warm up.

And Jim... at the top of his game. Looooooong set, the audience was with him (well, i was).

More later. Must find my mother & drive back to Boston.

Thanks, Jim. Thank you. Thank you for your fearlessness, thank you for your honesty. Thank you for it all.

St. Teresa... 'Round the Twist?

…Or Just Out to Get Me?

I promised this story a while back and never got the time to type it up. Tonight, as the regulars know, I'm off to see Jim Jefferies down at Foxwoods; my friend Tess is going to the show with me. There is going to be another passenger with us: St. Teresa. Yeah. You heard me right. Pray for me.

In December, St. Teresa was hospitalized after she did a nasty faceplant in the kitchen. Being the Good Kid of the Year (FOUR YEARS RUNNING!), I went up to visit her daily while she was in (except for one night, but I was working). Well, I had my laptop with me on one of those nights, and as I was taking it out of my satchel, I also happened to pull out Alcoholocaust. (I had that, along with Going Postal, in the bag because the lappie is the only DVD player I have set up for UK DVDs). Well, of course, she had to look at it.
“He’s not bad looking in this picture, Lee,” she remarked, looking at the inside sleeve. (From Mum, this is high praise for anyone not Elvis Presley, Tom Selleck, or the Loon who played Mad Max.)
I just shook my head and smiled. “Yeah, well, as he hasn’t announced a Boston date on this tour, I think I’m going down to Foxwoods in February to catch him.”
“Oh, good. I’ll come along.”
At which point, my head snapped up, a look of wild-eyed panic on my pan.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You can go see him, and I can go play.”
To which I replied, in an effort to keep my rising panic at the idea of being saddled with Her Daftness at Foxwoods while trying to enjoy myself and relax, “Why don’t you call Marie and ask her along? You two can make a night of it.”
“That’s a good idea!”
“Yeah, I can just see it now… I make a pass at Jim, and say, but we have to go to your place because I’ve got roommates. Real smooth.”
“Oh, you get your own room then.” And then she looks at me—y’know, the way a mum looks at their kid and REALLY looks at ‘em, and says, “Y’know, Lee, you should try to lose a lot of weight before February. You could do it.”
There was no meanness in this statement (for once). My mother was actually trying to help me get lucky, and not just with anyone, either.
I don’t know how I feel about this. Honestly. I really don’t. Aside from the fact that I was joking about making the pass (I am still embarrassed about NYC, and I’m having a laugh at my own expense, folks), I don’t know whether to a) be flattered that she thinks I would actually have a shot at him; b) be worried that she WANTS me to have a chance at him; c) ask her what the aliens did with my uptight mother who can’t stand the idea of me having any kind of fun that might lead to sex.
Either that, or she was having me on.
No matter what, I’m doomed.

My real fear is that she's going to show up in the lounge and accost Jim and the story will end up either on the podcast or in his act. Pray for me.

5 a.m. Confessions

For the record... this post was written between five and seven a.m. this morning. I was HAMMERED on tequila zingers (silver tequila, plum ginger cordial, lemonade) and the dam broke in a very good way.

Greetings, my cherished blurkers.
In this dark hour before dawn, I shall make my confessions.

Confession the first: I am HAMMERED.
Confession the second: I am happy to be so.
Confession the third: Godsdammit, but I sod-all needed the drink.

As the child of a drunk and coming from a family full of ‘em, it scares the piss out of me to pair the words “need” and “drink.” Because that is a baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad thing. It’s OK to WANT; NOT OK to need.

But tonight, I needed.
Been getting caught up on the Jim ‘n Eddie podcast. Got one last episode to listen to, but in #12, they got Jason PHUCKED up. And it was cool. It was the way getting drunk should be—just good friends being stoooooopid and having a fuckin’ laugh.

That’s the real reason for alcohol—just to relax a bit. Let the fences and walls down Just to be human without all the defenses for a little while.
It’s a friggin’ pity most of us can’t accept that and be there. All the excuses—“well, I was drunk…” So?

Maybe that’s it—I think I’ve identified my problem. I am who I am no matter what state I’m in. If I say something drunk, it’s the same as if I’m sober. No bullshit, no lies. No prevarication. Even less of an editor.

I’m good with it.

Confession the fourth: I’m dealing with a severe case of love. Yet again, I have fallen in love with a friend. I swear, I am the biggest fucking idiot on this planet. And it’s someone that I can’t have, for so many reasons. Too many reasons. Heinlein defined love—real love—the best: love is when what is best for the other person is more important to you than your own desire.
It sucks.
I hate it.
I want to be a selfish cunt and put myself forward.
But I won’t.
And for once, it’s not cowardice. For once, I’m not being noble. Stupidly noble. For once, I’m doing what is right.
Still sucks.

Confession the fifth: I need help. (What else is new?) See, I’ve put my ass on the line, doing this blog. I have a rule for myself: what goes on the blog, stays on the blog. No editing (even the odd typo—and you don’t KNOW how crazy typos make me; blame Sister Jane Michael, but I cannot abide mistakes in my own work. It makes me cringe, makes me feel a failure, a Bad Person. Fucking Catholic school. A blessing and a curse); what gets written, stays written, as is, and I have to accept it and embrace it, even when it hurts.
I’m good with that. It keeps me honest. Makes me stick to it. Doesn’t let me wimp out.
I’m not giving up this time. I am not crawling back into a life of obscurity that I have condemned myself to out of duty and cowardice.
Yeah, I said it—Cowardice. I let “duty” and “responsibility” override my duty and responsibility to myself. In my attempt to prove to my family that I am NOT selfish, worthless, horrible person, I gave up my dream to be America’s answer to Ken Branagh. This is a meaningless statement in 2011; back in 1995, it was a declaration of war, a statement of intent—a throw down to become the Shakespearean director of my generation, a general in the war against the Stratfordian Orthodoxy. Fuck, I miss Shakespeare. I miss my Lord of Oxenford and his blessed words, the words that woke me from the sleep of the Briar Rose to the world of the theatre. I fear it may be too late to reclaim my dreams, to throw my hat back in the ring and take my place.
But I am sure as FUCK going to try. If I fail… then being me, being the starry eyed Quixotic figure of ridiculousness that I am, I will try again. I will find my own version of Dulcinea and tilt at the windmills that may really be giants…
Shit, I’m talkin’ ragtime. I’m let the tequila control the fingers.
No, I’m not. I’m letting the tequila take down the barriers, remove the breakwaters, the harsh reins I’ve put on myself to keep the frustration in check. I want the stage back. I’m taking it back. I’m going back to open mike. I’m not going to let my own fears hold me back.
Because I am that good. I am. I am. I know it. I’ve coached so many, I’ve seen talent, I know talent. I know I have it. I know I have The Shine. I can do it.
I just have to hold on to that feeling and not let Duty take it away.
Help me, beloved blurkers, keep that faith. Send me good energy, think me good wishes. I am going forward. I have to. I am going to beat the odds, I am going to be the success story I should have let myself be years ago.
I know that the therapy words would be, “Maybe you weren’t ready for it.”
Bullshit. I needed it then; now, I’m trying to prevent my life from being wasted. I don’t want to be a “might have been”—“she had so much talent, such a shame she didn’t…” Bullshit. I promised myself the world.

“Life’s like a movie, write your own ending…” And I’m not dead yet.

Tonight, I’m seeing Celebricrush. Can’t wait. I doubt he’ll remember me; I doubt there’ll be anything more than a happy handshake and an autograph and a damn good show. And that’s OK. It took me so long to realize that I have to be my own hope. Last night, I had some kindness—a little bit of Happy Exercise (yes, another Heinlein reference) with a man I hadn’t thought I’d see again. I hope to see him another time. We shall see. It’s not what I want—I want to be in a relationship. But then… I don’t know where life is going to take me in the next six months.
I know I’m lonely. I know I want a circle of friends again. The problem is that I’m back to where I was in my 20’s—single, starting over, and enjoying life. Most of my friends are in a very different place—committed, established and dealing with very different issues. I’m free, almost. Almost. Six months, I can slip the surly bonds of responsibility… I can have my life back again.
Confession the fifth: That scares the fuck out of me. It does. It means I have no excuses any more. It means I have to take the leap of faith. I have to believe in the only person I’ve ever trusted or ever really feared—ME.

I wish this was a wise piece; I wish this was a funny piece. It’s not. It’s just me, naked and vulnerable. It’s just me. I have to be up in a few hours and go to the gym; I have to do my workout and keep the momentum going. I have to build my strength, slim my body more. The gentleman observed that I had lost weight—it was the best thing he could have said. I have felt ugly and fat; to have someone who hadn’t seen me in six months, someone who had seen me naked on a beach, approve and want me… I needed that validation. I need to be wanted and desired. I cannot embrace the one I love—and I see the trap I laid for myself, falling for my dark angel who is not within my grasp—and this other gentleman is a person of worth and intelligence and kindness.
Somedays, I find hope a hard thing to have. But right now, all I can feel is the bubble of potential… the feeling that Something Is Coming. I hope so. Dear Gods, I hope so. Hope has come so hard to hold on to, and I have come to despise my little life, this little life I condemned myself to in the name of duty, from the desire to prove myself worthy of love to a parent.
Confession the sixth: I should not be drinking. But I do not regret it. I try too hard to control, and sometimes, I need to let go. So I will thank Jim, Eddie, Jason and Lindsay for letting me be a silent witness to their silliness and fuckery. It was therapeutic.
Confession the seventh: I have just emptied the last of the New Year’s Eve Espolon tequila into my glass and added some homemade plum ginger cordial and agave lemonade Lifewater. The sky is lightening through the dining room window. I am not going to send the text message I want to send. I can’t; it would be self-destructive and selfish. And I could not bear to lose a friend.
KJ, I forgive you. I love you, my friend, and I forgive you, as I always have, and as you always have forgiven me. That’s what it means to be best friends—the love, the bond, the everything, is so much more important than trespasses. And unlike Annie, you were always true. There was never a siphoning, an agenda. We were, are, and always will be the Pros from Dover. We are, and always be, sisters. Like all family, sometimes, we hurt each other. But like family, the love, the bond is more important. I miss you like a fibre from my heart. Something… something went awry. I can feel it… like a wrong note. Like directing a rehearsal and hearing a false line… like a note off key. I am trying to find the thread, unravel the mistake, reweave reality and make it right.
I hate being a shaman. Because there is a place that the shamanic soul goes to… this is where the right chemical takes me. It’s dangerous. It’s scary. Because it’s a place of truth. This is where the New Age airy fairy bullshit meets reality—I wish this wasn’t real. I wish I could turn my back on what I’m experiencing. But I can’t. There is a higher truth, another level from coarse reality. Call it God, call it faith, call it aliens, call it whatfuckingever… it’s real.
The sun is up. I am somewhere in the aether. It’s OK. I need this, right now. I need to let go.
So… I am going to speak to the cards and then I am going to sleep. Let this move through me, this Golden Moment of Clarity…

Blessings, my darlings. Thank you for indulging me. Whisper a word in the ear of your favorite deity that I can hold on to this moment, this feeling, this clarity.
Much love… so much, my heart aches…
Your Empress

Resurfacing

Hey, kids. How goes it?
Apologies from Your Empress; it's been a bit intense over the past couple of weeks. Mum was back in the hospital last week, and work got a bit ugly.
I don't like to talk too much about my job; for one thing, I'd rather not give anyone grounds to fire me. For another, it's kinda irrelevant. I mean, there are parts of it that I love, and I'm very, very good at what I do. On the other, some of the people I work with... Argh. Not bad people, just... just silly. Passive aggressive. And no comprehension that there is a world outside of the Library that directly impacts my position.
See, my title is "Acquisitions Coordinator," but in reality, I'm the purchasing agent and bookkeeper. (I have other duties--like being the elected rep to a University-wide council that deals directly with staff issues and quality of life, something I am immensely proud of and invested in--and book repair, which gives me joy just because I hate to see a book thrown away and the knowledge lost.) I not only have responsibility to the people to whom I answer in the library, but also to the Finance office and the rules and regulations governing their operation. This is not a small thing--the Uni is a non-profit company and has IRS requirements it must abide by to maintain that status. There's a lot of other rules, and like it or lump it, I have to play by them. Not everyone understands this, and over the past couple of weeks, it's led to some really unpleasant confrontations and a lot of bullshit that pushed me to the point I was ready to resign.
That would not be a good thing at this point--I really want to hold off until Mum is settled in Elder Housing, and I've found representation for Broom Closet. I had started looking into other positions a month ago, and I realized that the last thing I wanted is to get into another 9 to 5 situation right now. What I want is to get the fuck out of the 9 to 5 rat race. I'm old and I'm done, guys. I'm actually at the point where I've decided that when the book sells, I'll be happy to go and work part-time at Sbux. Seriously. I'm done with being stuck at a desk. I'd already made up my mind that I'm leaving when the director retires (and that's in another 2.5 years) because I can't deal with breaking in another director and trying to re-adapt my job.
And it's not what I want to do any more.
I want to be back in theatre and performing. I'd rather be producing and promoting, performing, not having to worry about being up at 7 in the morning, and not having to be someplace Monday through Friday. I want a schedule that I've got some say in. I want to be doing something meaningful that calls on my creative talents.
This ain't doin' it.
I've also been writing comedy again; I had a great convo with the Fabulous Alicia's hubby, Josh, last week. He's also going the standup route; I was over their house, visiting, and he came in from open miking. He'd had a good set (saw the video), and we shot the shit for a bit. He listened to a couple of the new pieces I'd put together (including the one liners), and gave me some great advice. Favorite Crush was psyched that I'm going to open mic again and is going to come along for moral support.
I think I mentioned that I've been designing again. I'm trying to put together a signature look--it's all about the packaging, right? And it gives me an excuse to make something gorgeous for myself that I ordinarily couldn't justify. So tonight I'll be sewing together my raspberry pink military jacket (trimmed in black velvet) and working on the custom paint job on my black Chuck's (based on a Sailor Jerry tattoo flash). I'm hoping to have time to build the black velvet peacoat. It just fires a different set of synapses, designing. Makes me happy in a very different way, a way I haven't felt in a while.
The gym is helping, too. Last week wasn't great--having Mum in the hospital cut into my work out time--but I've gotten back on the horse. Actually, I've climbed on the eliptical for the first time. :-D That was Sunday--I managed four minutes and then another two minutes, averaging about 4 mph. That's pretty amazing for someone who needs both knees replaced. :-D Mixing it up with lat pulls, bicep curls, rows, back extensions, crunches, calf extensions, leg presses, flies, tricep presses, and probably other stuff I'm forgetting. Oh, yeah, the hip adductions & abductions. I'm dead chuffed. Haven't got my strength back to where it was six years ago--not pressing 140 yet--but I'll get there. My jeans are getting saggy in the arse, my stomach is firmer, and that's what I care about. If I can just get rid of the cellulite on my thighs and get rid of the paunch, life will be perfect. And the left elephant wing. It's going to take a few months, but I'm sticking to the resolution to get down.
Plus, I feel fucking awesome after I leave the gym.
There were a lot of anniversaries at the end of January--stuff I really didn't want to think about or really reflect on or talk about: two year anniversary of my gastric bypass (good thing); one year since committing Idiot and forcing him in sobriety (bad thing); one year since #5 (sad thing); and other stuff I just don't want to dwell on.
So I've been quiet. Trying to keep it all together. Managing at the moment.
Seeing Jim Jefferies at Foxwoods on Saturday. :-D

I'll be getting back to blogging regularly soon. (And I promise I'll finish the 99th page blogfest.) Be well, darling blurkers.
Cheers,
Your Empress

Lost & Found

I've lost three things over the past three months: my Kermit the Frog "No" button, my thumb drive, and half of my favorite pair of gloves.

I have found all three.

I hope this is a good omen.

Because honestly... this week has sucked in so many ways.

Nine sleeps until Foxwoods. How pathetic is it that?

Friday... Thank the Gods, It's Friday

Greetings, darling blurkers, and welcome to the happiest day of the week, at least as far as I'm concerned.

Your Empress has NOT had the best of weeks, sad to say, although it vastly improved as it progressed. Snowmageddon continues here in the Northeast with more of the awful white shit due tomorrow night. I spent two days in the house because on Tuesday morning, I opened the door, looked outside at the snow and driving wind, and said, "Fuck this." I took a personal day because, honestly, I couldn't face digging out the car, shoveling the walk and driveway, and then fighting my way into work, dealing with the bullshit in here, and then fighting my way home. It also meant I skipped the gym this week (haven't been since Saturday; bad Empress, but am going tonight without fail. I miss it!).

Now, here's something that will make y'all have a damn good laugh: last Friday I said to hell with it and joined CougarLife.

Yes, you read that correctly. CougarLife. As much as I object to the terminology, I have realized how tired I am of old farts, and sadly, so many of the guys my age have become old farts. I am NOT an old fart--I am probably a bit immature for my age. I like to do stuff--I like LOUD, obnoxious music (case in point: rocking out to Green Day whilst designing last night, but more on that later on in the post), I like to road trip, I like to have LOTS of sex, I like LIVING. As badly as I want a family, I don't want one tomorrow--I want it after a couple of years with someone because, honestly, that's the whole point of dating. It's not about falling in love and hearts and flowers and all that other Hallmark bullshit--it's about discovering whether or not you can put up with the other human being in the same living space without killing them and vice versa. (I made this observation during a convo yesterday with a fellow survivor from the Bookstore of the Damned--he's back in town for a couple of weeks, and I'm really looking forward to having coffee with him. One of those folks I didn't realize whose company I truly, truly loved until I hadn't seen him for a while.)

So. CougarLife. Yeah. CougarLife. Six flirts in 24 hours--SCORE! Of course, the one live 'un has no picture. WARNING! Gmail account doesn't show his name. WARNING! Doesn't email after work hours. WARNING! After four days of much emailing, he confesses he's married. *slams head on the desk* WHAT THE FUCKIN' HELL?!?!?!?!? EXPLAIN THIS TO ME--WHY THE FUCK IS HE ON A GODSDAMNED DATING SITE?!?!?! And after I tell him I don't do married men, he comes back with, "We don't have to have sex; we can just fool around."

Excuse me?

EXCUSE FUCKING ME?!?! WHY THE FUCK DO YOU THINK I'M DOING THIS?!?! Girlfriend needs to get laid, dammit! And I'm sorry, kids, but foreplay doesn't satisfy. I want the full magilla, or I don't wanna play, dammit! Dumbass sonofacunt. I sent him packing back to his wife. Why the hell would I hurt another woman like that?

So yesterday was a mixed bag. On the one hand, LOVELY convo and an email from another friend with pics of the amazing things he has crafted for me that are winging their way from the U.K. as we speak. On the other hand... married man.

The good thing about things like this happening is that it sharpens my comedy skills. It does. I am never so on as when I am thoroughly pissed off at a man. So I am very proud to report that, despite not going to the gym, I had an awesome night last night. I went to Sbux, had a great yakyak with Stas and Austin, stopped by Newbury Comics and had another great yakyak with Nico and the other cute guy, picked up groceries and TJ's and had a quick yakyak with Chris, and then went home and did some SERIOUS comedy writing and designing.

YES!

If I could make that "YES" flash in multi-colored lights, I would. It was awesome. The bit I've been trying to get to gel that involves sex, dating, and being traumatized by parental canoodling finally came together. I was able to finally do the concept sketch for Ferd for my logo, finalized the design for the customization job I'm doing on my Chuck's, AND the sketch for my military jacket. I feel fuckin' awesome. Higher than hell. LOVE IT!

So happy Friday, my cherished blurkers. I have two meetings to get through (one I couldn't care less about, the other, later, I hope goes well) and then it's the weekend. Just two weeks to seeing Jim Jefferies at Foxwoods. *insert fangirl squee here* Celebricrush gave me a shout out on his FB on Monday (and probably saved me from slitting my wrists after the meeting from hell that I'd just gotten out of that left me feeling raped and weeping) for the rebuttal. It's a small thing, but the thank you... it made my day, considering the rebuttal was about someone misjudging him. After a meeting that had a lot to do with being misjudged by a bunch of narrow-minded, passive-agressive, petty people... yeah.