Tanning OCD

Last week I bought a package of 5 tans for $55.

This week I scrambled for rent money.

I love tanning.

I love looking tan.

I love being my own private dancer, moving to cheesy pop music, naked, in my tanning booth while wearing those silly lil’ eye protection stickers.

I look so good with a tan that it forces me to buy new clothes to match my tan. I look so good that I have to stay out later so that people in bars can enjoy my tan. I look so good tan, that I don’t mind being broke as long as I am bronze.

God I can’t wait to get another UV bump next week. Just a hit, just a hit…(famous last words)

What, me worry?

Well, it’s official; my body is becoming a physical manifestation of my constant stratospheric level of stress. I just realized this weekend that, in addition to the random black hairs I have sprouted on my stomach and chin (I’m sexxxxay!), my forehead has permenant lines. Or, as some people like to call them, wrinkles. I have physical manifestaions of stress carved into my forehead.

Naturally, I spent the entire day on Saturday pulling on them in opposite directions so that I could stretch my forehead skin back to baby-smoothness. Which resulted in…redness, oiliness, and a massive headache.

You win this time, stress and anxiety. But I’ll be back. And when I return, I’ll have drugs and a personal masseausse. Mwa-haha.

Talk about me! I mean don’t!

When you raise a kid to be both self-conscious and self-absorbed you create an utterly narcissistic adult.

Sure I try to make it a cute part of my persona. An innocent flaw that gives me sassy character. Truth is, it’s a trait that takes up waaaaaaaaaay too much of my thoughts.

You see, I am thinking about what others are thinking. And then I think about that some more. I am equally appalled if others do or don’t talk about me. Which is worse? I have no idea, I am too busy making up lavish tales about what I think others think.

Here is a peek at a conversation between me and me in my head:

“I don’t care and totally care about the gossip circulating about me. What? There is no gossip about me? There must be! Oh no there is? What are they saying? Wait, don’t talk about me! Wait, please do! Stop looking at me! I mean, why isn’t anyone looking at me!?”

And so it goes, the life of a confident, anxious, insecure, selfish yet sweet gal who is madly in love with herself.

Please forward this post on.

I mean don’t.

I mean leave a comment.

I mean, only if it’s nice.

Didn’t know him

With all this Heath business in the news, I’m reminded of River Phoenix and how confused I was at 15.

My sister and I had kept a poster of him in our bathroom. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be sad since I didn’t actually know him. I wasn’t sure if the poster made it OK to mourn him.

I’m pretty sure this song was about it. Actually, I like this one better.

And you thought YOU were crazy…

Oh my word. This is just twenty different shades of wrong:

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/12/04/business/04tobias.html?pagewanted=print

Poof! She’s gone.

I used to deal with stress by running away from it. Hopped in my car and drove off on a spontaneous road trip, or even PACKED up my car and moved, either across town, or to a different state. This has proven antithetical to being a grownup. But it would have been excellent fodder for Jack Kerouac, had I eaten a lot of pie at diners, and fucked some bodhisattvas on mountaintops.

So since I’m trying to be a grownup, and have grownup responsibilities, I can’t just pack up and go. But godDAMN, do I want to. I’m a stressball. Stressball stressball stressball. I literally cannot think of a single thing that is not making me nutso stressed. Seriously. Tugboats? Stress me out. Kitties? Stress me out. The chocolate cotton candy cones at the Langham Hotel all-you-can-eat chocolate buffet? Delicious, but stressful.

Shut up, I’m STARVING

Dear Weight Watchers,

I love you AND I hate you. I want to stop seeing you AND I just can’t quit you. Can we please work something out so that I don’t start eating my own hair? Wait, is hair points? How many points is it?

I want to murder this singer

I’m sitting in my home office (ie, my kitchen) listening to a CD compilation that I got from a random radio station promotion, and one of the songs, by the band Placebo, features the chorus, “Baby, did you forget to take your meds?”

You know what, Placebo? Yes. Sometimes, we forget to take our meds. And we would CERTAINLY appreciate it if you didn’t trivialize our chemical imbalance by broadcasting it all over the damned indie rock scene by singing about it, over and over and over, until other people pick up the catchy little tune and start singing along, over and over and over.

If I were the person who inspired that song, I’d kick your ass, Placebo, and then I’d snort Celexa off of your bruised and bloodied torso. I’m just saying.

Lots of Hot Air

I have been spending a lot of time on my air mattress.Yes, I have a bed. Thanks for asking.

However that bed lived in Boston for the past two years and I had been spliting my time between Boston and New York trying to “make it.”

Why two cities? Thanks for asking.

Well sometimes when little girls move to the big, bad city, they have a breakdown, and run away only to return a few weeks later.

So for about 14 nights a month, for 13 months, I inflated my bed and hit the plastic on my dear friends floor.

I felt very fortunate to have such generous people in my life that invited me to make their livingroom my temporary home.

I also felt like a big loser making their livingroom my temporary home.

Cut to present day. My husband and I relocate to a sweet apartment in Brooklyn and decided as “adults” it was time for brand new fancy bed.

Of course beds take a week or so to be delivered. In the meantime we’ve been nesting on my ol’ reliable air mattress. My ol’ reliable air mattress with a tiny hole in it. My ol’ reliable air mattress that deflates around 2 am every night. My reliable ol’ air mattress that had disrupted my sleep for the past 4 nights, leaving me cranky and exhausted. My ol’ reliable mattress that ain’t so reliable anymore.

At least the plastic from the air mattress doesn’t stain from tears.

Gross. Could I be more dramatic?

Great, now I feel sad about complaining about my bed situation.

Oh little brain of mine, do you ever take a nap?