The Over-Educated Nympho

Are you white trash?

I got 15%, but I think that’s because I answered Yes to Do you have a tattoo? Shouldn’t there be a size qualification to be a white-trash-caliber tattoo?

If you take this and actually get a remotely high score, you are not allowed to come back. Go trim your mullet while drunking wine directly from the box, you fucking loser.

Gon’ n’ git! DON’T MAKE ME GET MA RIFLE, BOY!

Mom just called.

She has her own special ring on my cell phone. For her cell phone, work phone, and home phone, they all have the shrill YOUR MOTHER’S CALLING ring. Whenever I hear it, even on someone else’s phone, I automatically recoil in preparation of The MOM. In all her emails, she types normally until the end and she always capitalizes MOM. Like she’s a deity or a monster or arch-enemy with her own movie coming out soon. Which, she is. All of the above. No one intimidates me more than The MOM. None of the razor-blade-spitting bosses I’ve had have ever put the fear of death into me like The MOM.

I think she figured out the separate phone ring though (over the course of two years) and now calls me on Dad’s cell phone because then I actually think it’s Dad and pick up, only to hear “Have you read my email?? I emailed you yesterday! When are you going to therapy again? Did you tell him you need to go every week? Did you tell him your pills aren’t working?”

–sigh–

And she had the nerve to ask BF last weekend why I never pick up the phone? As if there were any question, really.

After two unanswered emails and three unanswered calls (and a bitchy blog entry), I decide it’s time to pick up the phone so she doesn’t call BF at work and demand to know IS MY DAUGHTER DEAD OR JUST FAKING IT AGAIN? (yes, she’s actually done this. Despite what the all-capital-letters suggest, my mother does not scream or shout or even raise her voice. No. She’s The MOM. She doesn’t need to raise her voice. Her tone alone can make people drop to the ground as fast as cow shit. I just use all capital letters to suggest an element of fear)

“Are you going to see Dr Xanax tomorrow?”
yes mom.

“Are you going to ask to try new medication?”
yes mom.

“Are you going to ask if you can have weekly therapy sessions?”
yes mom.

“Are you going to haggle to see if he’ll charge less for you?”
yes mom.

“Are you going to tell him about how you’re unproductive and can’t send out your resume?”
yes mom.

“Are you going to tell him about all the time you’re spending in bed?”
yes mom.

“Are you going to tell him that you MUST get his taken care of? Every day you lose to depression is a day of your life you’ve lost.”
yes mom.

“Have you set up a separate therapy session?”
yes mom.

“I read in the newspaper that some people just have bad genes. They get depression for life and never get over it, no matter what pills they try. Do you want me to send you the article?”
No, I want you to withhold any information that may make me start to cry. Like now. I’m about to cry.

“Oh honey, don’t cry. You’re just making yourself depressed all over again!”
No, you did.

“Don’t you even think about going to that fridge and getting out the ice cream. I know how you are with that ice cream. I noticed you’ve gained weight.”
yes mom.

“Your aunt told me about this new surgery technique they’re trying called transcranial something-or-other that is a procedure that fixes your brain so it releases the right hormones when it’s supposed to so you don’t get depressed. You should look it up. In a couple years maybe you can get it done.”
You want me to get my brain probed?

“Not probe, sweetie, FIX. Look it up on the internet.”
yes mom.

“So I think you may have that bad gene I was just talking about where you’re depressed for life and nothing can fix it, you’re just like, screwed for life. I think that’s you, because you’re not doing as well as me or your brother or any of our other relatives on anti-depressants.”
Thanks Mom, that’s YOUR gene that’s screwed me up.

“It could have come from your father, you know, I swear they’re all depressed.”
They’re just alcoholics, Mom. HAPPY alcoholics.

“Don’t you think that’s CAUSED by depression?”
No, I think mothers that send them depressing articles all the time are what cause depression. Then they drink so they lose brain cells and can’t remember what they read in all these damn articles.

“Stop being negative, that’s not going to get you anywhere.”
yes mom.

“You know, you should be so thankful you’ve got all these people around to help you with your depression.”
yes mom.

“Especially BF, he has to see you ALL THE TIME and that’s not easy, especially for someone who’s never been through depression himself.”
yes mom.

“You be careful, you can’t let your depression get any worse or you’ll scare him off.”
yes mom.

“That’s why I’m nagging you to take care of this NOW, before you get worse.”
yes mom.

“Well, I’m glad we’ve talked. Call me tomorrow and let me know what new medication he suggested you try.”
yes mom.

“And since you’re feeling better today, why don’t you send out a couple resumes? You’ll feel better once you get a job.”
yes mom.

“Bye sweetie!”
CLICK.

__________

I need to ask the psychiatrist for stronger Xanax tomorrow. This pissy little .5mg shit ain’t holding up to The MOM. I need a force stronger than The MOM. Like Xanax in the water filter and cheap vodka.

My boyfriend and I are members of Netflix. Very cool service, especially in comparison to Blockbuster, even with the unlimited monthly rentals membership. Blockbuster can wipe my ass. Anyway, BF and I each get two movies at a time from Netflix. You can probably guess what our queues look like.

Mine:
Bridget Jones 2
Boys Don’t Cry
Miss Congeniality 2
Stepford Wives
Hitch

His:
Cube
Princess Monoke
Dawn of the Dead
Zatiochi the Outlaw
Alien vs. Predator.

Please don’t make me. Please please with a then I won’t kill you in your sleep on top?

Actually, I’ve already told him NO many many times. BF keeps trying to get me to watch his shitty anime (ew! softcore cartoon porn! ew! so not Jessica Rabbit sexy! ew!) or B-list actor chinese martial arts or C-list horror movies. I dig horror movies. “Saw” was bitchin’. I’m down with the high-quality horror flicks.

He’s had “Princess MonoCrap” for four months now and he won’t watch it by himself because it’s my duty as a girlfriend to watch it with him (No. It’s my duty to give you good head. It’s my duty to watch tell you how I would totally do Angelina Jolie, it is my duty to get you beer in order to get you to have sex with me, it is NOT my duty to watch CRAP with him), and he doesn’t have time to do something without me, and he swears I’ll like it.

I will watch damn near anything. I’ve seen “Tremors” 1 and 2 for fuckssake. It’s not like I’m narrow-minded.

Now keep in mind that yes I LOVE action/adventure movies or really anything where guys try to blow each other up, fight, race cars, do martial arts shit, or fight robots. So it’s not like I’m one of those girlfriends who will only watch Sleepless in Seattle or Steel Magnolias. I watch damn near ever shoot-his-brains-out movie out there. Yes, in a previous life, I was a guy. But you must understand–we see all these movies together in the theater, so they rarely are on our Netflix queues. Especially since as soon as they come out in DVD, I buy the ones where there’s partial male nudity begging for attention from an appreciative female audience who needs new masturbation material.

Besides that, I just love kicking ass. I am pretty confident that if I had grown up in a white trash family, I would now be a mud-wrestling cat-fighting stripper. yeaaaaah I think I would. I love fighting and I love being naked. But seeing as how I came from a pulled-themselves-up-by-bootstraps upper-middle class must-attend-private-kindergarten family, I’m supposedly above cursing like a sailor (don’t tell mom), getting naked in public (she doesn’t know about the Coyote Ugly tshirt I totally earned while dead-ass sober), or fighting of any sort, I’m SOL. This does not keep me from constantly trying to get in chick fights wherever I go. Or even trying to pick fights with guys, often gay, or at least smaller than me. Which is easy, because I’m 5′8″ of YOU WANT A PIECE OF ME??. –flexing muscles– And I weigh 170 lbs (160 lbs of PURE MEAN, the other 10 lbs are ice cream from when my mama made me cry). But lo and behold, I have never been in a fight with anyone. My brother and I used to pick on each other, but mom was so anti-violence and “WE ARE NOT RED NECKS” that we weren’t allowed to punch or kick each other. Yes, this made for some creative fighting, but twenty years later I suffer from a highly unsatisfied raw animal violent nature.

Just a guess, but this may be why I get so violent and mean in the bedroom.

But goddamnit, NO MEANS NO when it comes to what movies we watch. I will and have put all sorts of bizarre things in my pussy and my ass. On the rare occasion I say No, don’t you think I mean it?

Today is my one-month bloggerversary. I rule.

–dancing booty-shake–

Thanks to all my readers for coming back again and again and encouraging my perverted sense of humor. To all you real perverts in the world who find me via skanky searches on Google, go fuck yourselves you lame motherfuckers, this is a classy blog I run here.

once more: –booty-shake–

1. Spend twenty bucks to hire a street-walker to come to CoWorker’s cubicle during lunch and while she’s pulling up her cheap-whore pantyhose, have her say “You ordered the lunch special? So you got a closet or somethin’?”
2. Put sleeping pills in CoWorker’s coffee. Wait till CoWorker falls asleep, then place his hand down his pants. To bring prank to level of You’re a Total Bitch, place CoWorker in a vibrating chair, and put other hand inside shirt to reach nipple. Run into Boss’ office screaming “MITCHELL, HE’S DOING IT AGAIN, I TOLD YOU HE WAS A FUCKING PERVERT”
3. Have a slew of thirteen- and fourteen year-old girls coming into the office and asking for CoWorker.
4. In important office publication that CoWorker is in charge of, print as header “Spank me in my tightie whities, please, oh goddess of the Kingdom of Come, I am your slave boy for all of eternity” (women love romance!!)
5. When Boss is within earshot of the break room, slam the cabinet doors and rattle the coffeemaker and swear under your breath, “Goddamnit, Lee is always getting lubricant everywhere!
6. Send yourself a basket of pussy- or penis-shaped cookies, then turn to CoWorker and say “Goddamnit, Maria, I will NOT be in your amateur porn video with you! NO MEANS NO.”
7. Spike CoWorker’s coffee with Everclear. Keep spiking until CoWorker has either passed out in pool of vomit under the desk, or is dancing on top of file cabinet doing a strip tease.
8. In monthly office newsletter, include “Congratulations to CoWorker, for finally overcoming that triple-threat of STDs in only four short months! Hope the swelling goes down soon, you rascal!”
9. Get a roll of quarters and spend day throwing quarters down CoWorker’s blouse. Keep throwing quarters (move on to nickels if you have to) until she stands up and screams “I AM NOT A TWO-BIT WHORE!”
10. While CoWorker is in the restroom/getting coffee/removing that “thing” from her face, leave porn up on her computer monitor. I don’t mean regular dirty-whore porn, I mean some seriously disgusting sin-against-all-mankind porn, like a quadrilpilegic midget doing a Dirty Sanchez with a goat, who clearly enjoys it and is bleating for more.