Roughly 700 people received an email saying that I was “Searching” for them from reunion.com. I was fiddling with the site today to upload a “Then” and “Now” photo, mainly to assure the world that I no longer had orange, double-processed hair and massive amounts of fatty layers embedded on my face.

I mean, LOOK AT ME:

See?

If YOU looked like this on Senior photo day, you would want a public record that you no longer resemble an obese version of that squeaking muppet, Beeker, too!

Then, the satanic site reunion.com asked me if I wanted to check my email account to see if I had any friends registered. Stupidly, and with the decision making process of a three-toed sloth, I thought, “Sure! Why not?!”, and I allowed it to upload my account.

You know how the process normally goes, right? You can do this pretty easily at Facebook and Myspace and the like. You import your email contacts and it allows you to see who has an account, then you can mark them as a friend or not and ignore the message that says, “Invite your other contacts to blah.com” because you would NEVER send unsolicited invites to people about that sort of thing.

No harm, no foul, right?

Wrong, wrong, WRONGITY-WRONG!!!!!

I had a million things going on this afternoon, and I am to blame for not paying closer attention, but not only did reunion.com upload my entire contacts but it AUTOMATICALLY EMAILED EVERY FREAKING ONE OF THEM saying that I was basically stalking them on the internet.

Anyone here use Gmail?

You do?

Then you know that Gmail automatically saves every.single.email.you.receive to your account.

Like, EVER.

That would include not only people that you know and email but it also includes all the people listed on things like forwards and mailing lists, so you have people you don’t even know stored in your contacts list.

So?

I ended up sending this crap to former professors, almost everyone I have ever worked with on my parent organization, The National Enquirer (You know, from that time I sold them photos off of this blog),extended family I have never met, the co-founder of BlogHer, former co-works, bosses, ex-boyfriends, and most wonderful of all–relatives of ex-boyfriends who consider me a stalking psychopath ANYWAY. (Not that this would add fuel to THAT fire or anything, right?)

I bumbled out a rambling blanket apology to all 700 people saying how sorry and embarrassed I am and that I am basically thinking of spending the rest of my days hiding in a burka and living in the Australian outback, but the fun doesn’t end there. Apparently because of said apology sending I am now LOCKED OUT OF MY DAMN GMAIL ACCOUNT FOR SENDING TOO MUCH EMAIL!

It’s so grand that Gmail thinks I’m a spammer. I am also having such fun with the tons of bounced email messages that my account is wracking up.

Happy, happy, joy, joy.

(Oh, and apparently I also might cause all of you to be on vast lists of spam because I suck further for not BCC’ing and provided a juicy spam list to the masses. GAH!)

What a headache this has all been.

I loathe you, reunion.com.

I really do.

If anyone needs me, I will be curled in the fetal position in my bed with an entire tub of chocolate chip cookie dough and a couple of Velveeta cheese slices. (And a Diet Coke chaser or four.)

Ug.

When you are married to a man named “Jonathan” and you have other “Jonathan’s” in your Google chat box, you MIGHT want to prepare yourself that you MAY send a message beginning with “Honey” and ending with “Could you pick up some dinner on the way home?” to a Jonathan THAT IS NOT YOUR HUSBAND.

Luckily, the “Other Jonathan” found the humor in it all.

Considering that he is married to Christopher’s CUB SCOUT DEN MOTHER and lives up the street, I’m just grateful that it wasn’t a lustful IM full of boobie and penis emoticon’s because THEN I would have to relocate to some remote hovel in Syberia and spend my days raking coal under the alias “Svetlana”.

Scene:
Posh, local gym, Dressing area

Time:
Immediately after ‘Boot Camp’

Cast:
Our heroine (That would be me), two elderly HARPIES, one mute, anemic-looking girl who sniffs CONSTANTLY and wipes her nose on her sleeve.

Action:
Having forgotten to put a spare bra and underwear in her gym bag, our heroine decides to go commando and bra-less rather than consider putting back sweaty, girly-gunked underthings on her freshly-showered body. Since she is in layers, no bra is actually needed and frankly, the other option is just GRODY.

Suddenly, a smug voice pipes up from behind her.

Harpy #1: “It certainly is a different generation from when I was raised. We never went traipsing around without all our undergarments. It implied you were racy. In fact, the one girl in my school that never wore a girdle was fast, but she was from California.”

Mute, anemic girl: Sniff…

Harpy #2: “Parents were more responsible then. WE were more responsible as parents. I can’t imagine raising a girl who would go around with her BOSOMS flapping in the wind for all the world to see.”

Mute, anemic girl: SNIFF… (Wipe)

Harpy #1 “Yes, we were certainly raised better than people today.”

(That was it. The final straw. Normally, our heroine has a spine made out of string cheese and with the exception of one teeny incident at a gas station (In which she was also bra-less. Coincidence?) she abhors public confrontation. She even has issues sending her food back at restaurants. However, she is also raging and angry and is also a bit “WTF? Is this for real? Seriously?”, and the SNIFFING is driving her over the EDGE. Something must be said.)

Heroine: “You know? My mother taught me to respect my elders, but I have to say that what I wear on my naked butt is NONE of your business. Y’ALL DON’T KNOW ME! (Oh, yes. Yes, I did actually say that.) And? My mother also raised me to not speak about other people rudely. Especially WHEN THEY ARE RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU. I am sure my mother would prefer me to have my “Bosoms flapping in the wind” ANY DAY over being so publicly awful!”

Mute, anemic girl: SNIFF! SNIFF!! SNIFF!!!

Heroine: OH, GET A TISSUE FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, WILL YOU?!

Ok, that last part was in my head, but the sniffing really didn’t help matters. The rest of it was dead on. Word for word. I still cannot believe something that archaic happened. It’s just foreign to me. The people I know that are their age are all kind and awesome.  It was just weird and it felt like I was in an episode of the Twilight Zone or having an encounter with Rachel Lynd from the “Anne of Green Gables” series or something.

I grabbed my things and left angrily. I didn’t even notice how they reacted. I just drove home feeling pissed off and wished for the eleventyhundredth time that I could grab a Diet Coke to calm me down and comfort me. (Five weeks, people. FIVE!)

Oh, well. At least I didn’t want to vomit my bowels out and die during boot camp today, right?!

P.S.

In case you ever wondered?

Dry shaving your legs is as EVERY BIT as bad an idea as they say.

Just so you know.

Let’s talk about social anxiety for a moment, shall we?

More specifically, let’s talk about MY social anxiety for a moment. Those who may think I am superfab, may want to read this whole ass-long entry and be educated in one of the realities of “Being Loralee”.

On Sunday, I was invited to participate in a blog reading with 10 other fabulous people (All of whom are funnier than I am. Seriously.) It was appropriately titled “Live Blogging Thingy ‘08″.

Here we are, from left to right:

Barnson, Sra, Carrie, Sterkworks, Jon Deal (Who I snagged these photos from. I am lame and left my camera in my purse.), Pete, Me (The anxiety-riddled Amazon), Sarah, Miss Pants and Singing Cicada

Looks fun, no?

This mic had incredibly good sound quality and pickup.

That doesn’t look so bad, right?

Wrong.

Before I begin I have to say that this reading was the HIGH point of the day and that I did have fun and a good time. (Promise!)

To understand, you need to hear about how my morning went before I even got up to the pulpit to speak. I have a hard time meeting new people. Especially when I am on my own. This was also the first “Big” thing I faced without having a can of Diet Coke in my hand. I know that sounds lame but as I’ve said, I feel like Linus sans security blanket.

I started off fighting with my spouse, which never puts me in a grand mood. I thought I left Provo in plenty of time to get to downtown Salt Lake. Not only that, but I alloted for “Down Time” to find a quiet corner and review my readings, put my notes in order and take a few deep breaths before going into the presentation.

That was before I came to the conclusion that the Universe considers me its favorite toy to eff with.

First, I got pulled over for going SIX MILES over the speed limit. I was also chastised for my gas door being broken and part of my front fog light grill missing. I was beginning to think that he wasn’t really a cop, but one of those people with fake badges and uniforms that get women to pull over because of some trifling thing and they end up ravaged and dismemebered in multiple hefty bags in a landfill somewhere.

He didn’t even give me a fix it ticket or written warning.

It was very bizarre.

When I left, I was so rilled that I got off on the wrong exit and then became totally lost. Not difficult to do when you have the directional sense of dirt. I seemed to get more and more lost, when it happened. I hit a pothole and my non-Diet Coke drink spattered all over the front of my shirt.

FRICK! FRACK!

What to do?

I finally found a gas station and asked for the location of the nearest on ramp. Turns out I was near Nordstrom Rack. I could write a whole post about how much I love this store, but that is a post for another day. Not wanting to risk the chance of getting lost again finding a lesser known mall location, I decided to try and find a shirt in there.

Bad call.

NOTHING FIT.

NOTHING.

Everything was either staggeringly expensive or too dressy or too tight or too hideous or too sheer and too dark to wear with a white bra.

GAH!

There was one shirt that kept catching my eye. An adorable white button down with the cutest puffed sleeves. It would have looked better with a sweater vest, but it was adorable.

The only one I could see was an extra small.

NOT.

The very flustered dressing room attendant was getting rather annoyed with my back and forth changing at record-breaking speeds. Who cared if I screwed up my hair, I had to find something to clothe my naked body.

Still nothing.

I checked my phone and saw that I had 20 minutes to get to my reading and I was still blocks away.

I made my way to the front door, resigned to show up at this event even if it meant wearing a soaking wet shirt that made me look like a nursing mother in the middle of a lactating accident, when I saw it. A peek of white puffed sleeve sticking out of the jacket section of the men’s department.

It was the shirt! In a size medium!

I didn’t even try it on, just rushed to hurry up and wait to be checked out by the cashier that was being trained.

I got into my car and raced to the library. Miraculously, I found the parking complex and changed in my car. If anyone was in the library parking lot and saw a half-dressed flustered chick in a Volkswagon Passat wagon, I’m really, really sorry.

Looking in the salty reflection of my unwashed car, I noticed that the shirt was a bit too snug and see-through, which added to the overall feeling of new, discomfort and anxiety.

Then I got lost in the library (Directional sense of dirt, remember?)

The place is huge, there were no maps and no one was available at information and I rode four different elevators to try and find someone. The only person I managed to find was the homeless guy with a slush puppy that kept getting on every elevator I was in.

By the time I found it, I was well over 15 minutes late and they were already on the second speaker.

My mouth was dry, I felt nervous, sweaty and shaky and this feeling increased when I realized that the final page of one of my posts wasn’t there.

Crap.

I scrawled down as much as I could remember on the back sheet and when it was my turn to get up to the podium, I was a freaking MESS.

My choice of selections kinda sucked. I mean, I am very proud of the entry I read about the woman in the grave next to Matthew’s, but let’s talk about bringing the room DOWN.

And my second? It was the piece I wrote about Matthew McConaughey on Friday. It wasn’t my funniest piece I’ve written by far, but I truly just didn’t have time to comb through and select a piece. I was baking fattening French food, remember?

THE WORST?

I LEFT A PAGE ON THE CHAIR NEXT TO MY SEAT.

Not the one that was missing in the first place. ANOTHER ONE.

So? I had to pull out a good 3/4ths of that post out of my ass and make it sound like I was reading it. I’ve been through lots of things like that on stage. You HAVE to learn to fly by the seat of your pants or you are DOOMED. It was kind of a blur, but I lived through it despite my throat being as dry as the Salt Flats. (I obviously failed to notice the bottled water placed so kindly on the table.)

The thing is? I usually have a dressing room to have an emotional freak out by myself afterwards.

Here? I had to meet lovely, charming people while in a state of mid-level anxiety.

Dude.

What is the worst, is the aftermath. The thinking and the analyzing on the way home. Because that is what I do. I have social encounters and then I freak out and analyze what went down and then post my shame for all the world to see.

Here are a couple of examples:

One blogger (Who shall remain anon for the time because I didn’t talk to her about writing this conversation) came up to me and said, “I wanted to pipe up and say that I like Matthew McConaugheyBECAUSE he is dirty! I think it’s a turn on. When you said you wanted to scrub him down with Lysol and a loofa I turned to my friend and said, ‘I do, too!’.”

To which, I answered some total piece of crap mumbling like, “Well, I guess it’s because when I think of him I’m picturing him as a boyfriend or husband and he’s just skanky. Maybe I should step out of the box and picture him as a dirty, whorish, one night stand to find him attractive.”

Hours later (You know, during the analyzing freak out) my mind translated that statement into the following:

“I am a pure, judgmental person who would never even fantasize about anyone outside of a monogamous relationship. Since you fantasize about “Oily Boy”, you are obviously a total whory slut who has one night stands standing up by the urinal of some random airport restroom, you slutty urinal whore, you.”

GAH!!!!

I kinda want to stick my head into the earth.

I open my mouth and lame things just pour out of it.

I’m also concerned that I may have come off as being slightly homophobic because when I was flying off the seat of my pants I am fairly certain my wording sucked and could have been misunderstood.(Which, please for the love of EVERYTHING be that not the case. I would die.).

I also rambled. OH, how I rambled.

Why can’t I keep my freaking mouth shut? Or at least train it to say non-stupid things?

When I left, one of the bloggers called out after me and we rode down the elevator together. By such a huge coincidence, the same homeless guy that I shared the last four elevators with was in the same car.

My conversation with my blogging acquaintance was very random and stuttered. I have learned to at least ATTEMPT to keep my mouth shut before unleashing anxiety and words over people. However, it’s still like plugging up a leaking hole with your finger. You may succeed at holding back a torrent, but water still seeps out.

So, what came out pretty much sounded like this:

“Argument…lost…shirt…drink…ill-fitting…cleavage…see-through…no maps…No Diet Coke…Linus without blanket…elevators…homeless-guy.”

(Tip: People LOVE this. Try it some time.)

My evening wrapped up by having decaf coffee with my friend, Rachel in Ogden. It was nice to unwind, but I’m sure I wasn’t much entertainment for her after my day.

In the end, I DID have a good time, really. I had a lot of fun and laughed at the sheer wittiness of some of these bloggers. All these people were so lovely and kind and funny. It was a blast, I just wish I had been better prepared. I also wish my social anxiety would disappear. It is much better than it used to be but MAN, does it cause me needless stress.It wasn’t nearly as bad as it has been and I know a lot of it was due to external bizzarness of things out of my control.

Still…

I need to chill the hell out.Anyone else do this? The social anxiety freak out?

Does anything that isn’t in pill form help?

You wouldn’t think that a request at the butt-crack of dawn (Ok, more like 8:30) to drive three hours and rush a forgotten passport to the airport would be greedily welcomed like a Starbuck’s Frappuccino to Britney Spear’s gullet, but it was.

Oh, how it was.

Yesterday, my husband followed through on shoving our anniversary plans into the garbage in favor of sushi (Which he doesn’t really like) and bowling (Ditto) with his department at work. The same department that he sees every single day. The same department that he lunches with every week on his own dime and every month on theirs. The same department that, while full of nice people, does NOT contain my “Magical Boobies” or a vagina that he is allowed relations with.

I hope that the time he spent was full of rainbows and bursts of diamond sparkles because there is not going to be a whole lot of warmth in our snug little cottage any time soon.

He came home and said, “Hey! Let’s grab some dinner!” I replied, “Hey! No thanks!”.

Maybe that is my bad, but at this point? Don’t care. I wasn’t trying to punish, I did not want to spend my night with someone who so easily tossed me aside. I’d rather be by myself with my computer and some Christmas music than eat a dinner that is only meant to placate me and prove he wasn’t totally abandoning the day. It all left a bad taste in my mouth, so I declined.

He did bring me a Diet Coke and a mouse for my laptop, which was nice.

Anyhoo, I know you want me to move off of this topic.

Besides, I’m sure that you are all dying to know how I spent the day instead because you think I am awesome and you hang on all of my awesome words. Really, I don’t even know where to begin because being me is a WHOLE LOT OF AWESOMENESS to try and segment into tiny, daily posts. I don’t know how I do it some days. (It’s probably because I’m, ya know, awesome.)

Sigh.

I spent the morning running to the rescue of my dear friend, Chelle. She is taking her family to Whistler, B.C. for a ski vacation over the Christmas holiday. In the shuffle, her son’s passport was left behind. So, glad of a diversion, I hopped in my Jetta and drove the hour and a half down to Salt Lake City.

It was lovely to see her before she flew out.

While I was in the city, I took some time to shop and browsed Barnes & Noble (Which I adore) and ate a divine lunch of Sushi (Ditto) with my beloved sister, Linny (Who I adore the MOST.)

All was well until the drive back.

There was standstill traffic on the freeway due to an accident and the eleventyhundred Diet Cokes that I consumed during lunch caught up with me in a big, ‘ole ugly way. The next 20 minutes of my life were full of pain and agony and trying to distract myself from thinking constantly about my overwhelming need to pee.

It didn’t help that I kept singing the following in my head: (To the tune of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, if you please.)

“I need to pee…I need to pee…I need to pee, I need to pee, I need to pee..I need to pee, I need to pee I need to pee..I need to pee (I need to pee), I need to pee (I need to pee), I need to, NEED. TO. PEE!”

After an eternity, I was able to get off of the freeway and stagger into the bathroom in the very nick of time. I really shouldn’t have made so much fun of my best friend in high school for doing “Pee-Pee Push ups” and lecturing me to do the same thing. What can I say? She wanted eleventyhundred children and didn’t want to be peeing her pants regularly by age thirty as a result. Now, THAT is thinking ahead.

Diet Coke will make you pee like a racehorse.

Speaking of Diet Coke, I have cut back on my habit of imbibing in the Dark Waters. This is not something that I should really get a pat on the back for because it wasn’t done on purpose. It happened because I went APE SHIT POSTAL in the middle of my favorite watering hole and now as a consequence, I will never step foot inside again.

Looking back on it, I never should have gone to the gas station that day.

It was the day before Thanksgiving and things were crazy around my house. Little did I know that it was also day one of what was to become “The Great, Hideous Illness of ‘07″ and that I would soon have three weeks of pain, illness and misery. I woke up with pain in my lungs and a cough. (“I think I’ve got the black lung, Pa!” ) and so I stayed in my pajama bottoms and t-shirt.

All day long, I rested in bed, chugging cough syrup and munching on vitamin C tablets, hoping for a miracle and that I would be well by Thanksgiving dinner.

Not.

So there I lay, like a mucous-infested bump on a log. Hacking, typing, blogging, sniffing. After awhile, I really wanted a Diet Coke. It was the only thing that sounded good. I was in a foul mood. I had haphazard pigtails from the day before, I was in my pj’s with no bra and mismatched slippers. I figured that since I wasn’t going INTO a store, just through the drive-through, I would be ok.

The only vehicle that was there for me to drive was “The Butt”. It is a humdinger of an station wagon that debuted the same year as E.T. It sort of rounded out my total white-trash look.

I drove to my favorite gas station. They have a drive up window. They charge you an extra dime for each item when you use it. While it is worth it, it adds up to quite a bit when you couple my fierce streak of lazy with as much D.C as I drink.

I drove to the drive through and waited. And waited. And waited.

Judy was working.

I.freaking.loathe.this.girl.

Judy had been working there for about three months. During that time my dislike grew, and grew, and GREW. She was constantly on her cell phone, ignoring you standing right in front of her as she chattered on and on and on and gave you looks of incredulous annoyance if you acted like you should actually receive service. Orders were wrong, change was always incorrect, and she had a gross habit of sitting on the counters and making the weirdest exclamations like “I have the HUGEST zit on my back right now!! Someone needs to pop it!”

She was one of the worst cashiers I have ever encountered and she was also the only employee at that store that I have ever disliked. She was particularly bad at the drive through window. Still, I held my tongue because there were other people that worked there and they were all great.

It WAS busy that day. There were 5 people at the counter and I was fine waiting for that. They left and she just kept helping people in line that arrived there after me.

She helped FIFTEEN PEOPLE that came in after I did.

Normally, I would have gone in or driven off, but this girl had already pissed me off so many times over the months I wanted to see how freaking long it was going to take her to even acknowledge that I and the three cars in line behind me even existed.

I was there for thirty.two.minutes.

Now, you need to know that I am a nice person. I do not like yelling, I do not like anger. I have never, EVER lost my temper in public. EVER. I can’t even send food back that sucks in restaurants because there is nothing that I hate more than public confrontations.

The mere thought of them makes me nauseated and anxious to the point that my nipples get hard with fear.

Yes. My nipples get hard with fear sometimes. I’m not really sure why that is, exactly. It’s actually odd that I even notice because…duh…I’m scared at the time. Something else to focus on I suppose. Actually, I should be glad that my nipples can get hard at all. If they can’t it is likely that you have inverted nipples and everyone should know and be cautious about them because they can be a sign of inflammatory breast cancer, which is horribly deadly and…

What? What’s that, you say?

Shut the hell up about “Nipples, this!” and “Inflammatory breast cancer, that!” and get ON with it already?

FINE, then! See if I ever talk to you about my nipples again, you ingrate!!

Where was I?

Oh…Fear of public confrontation.

My aforementioned fear of public confrontation ceased to exist for me by the time Judy finally came to the window. I didn’t even make eye contact because I was afraid that they would send out explosive death rays that would blow up the earth. Instead, I put my money firmly in her hand and snipped out in cold, even tones:

“I.would.like.a.Diet.Coke.PLEASE.”

I know. I wasn’t nice. She knew I was pissed. That is how I wanted it. It would have been fine if she would have just, you know, GIVEN ME THE DAMN SODA, ALREADY.

Nope.

In a voice that was seething with petulance, she said, “You don’t have to SCREAM at me, MA’AM”

Eight words.

EIGHT.

And the dam of ALL HOLY HELL broke loose and spewed forth onto the fertile fields of Cache Valley.

(Personally, I think it was the “Ma’am” part that sent me over the edge. Because who REALLY enjoys being a “Ma’am”?)

I told her that I “WASN’T SCREAMING!”

Which was true, but in a very, very short time, I WAS.

Screaming.

Not talking loudly.

Not yelling.

S-C-R-E-A-M-I-N-G.

LOUDLY.

(Do y’all know just how loud that is for me and my huge voice? FREAKING LOUD is the answer, for those who don’t know.)

Then the wild gesticulation started and it was a frigging free-for-all.

It escalated to the point that she threw my money back at me and slammed the drive through window.

At this point, did I calm down and just go home like my normally sane(er) self would have done on any other day?

NOOOOOOOOOOOO….

I drove around, parked haphazardly, flung open the door to my ‘83 wagon and LEFT IT LIKE THAT WITH THE MOTOR RUNNING and ran into the gas station in full on “TO THE PAIN!” mode.

At that point the HOLY HELL that occurred at the drive through was replaced with the ALMIGHTY, NUCLEAR WRATH OF ANGER AND DESTRUCTION!!!

It was like 33 years of repressed, bitter, venomous ANGER all released out of my body in one loud, ugly, terrible moment.

I threw the money back and screamed at her.

I demanded to see her manager and screamed at him.

Then I screamed some more at the woman who was behind me in the drive through line who came in to say that the “Poor attendant” shouldn’t be fired because I was a psychotic hose beast that was clearly disturbed.

Thing is, at that moment?

She was right.

I was standing there, sweating and panting in my pajamas and wildly unkempt hair with no bra on (Which matters because of that whole ‘Nipples hard with fear’ thing) and mismatched slippers. People probably thought I was totally strung out on meth.

I’m a little shocked that the police were not called in. At least if they had been I would have been throughly prepared thanks to the “Don’t Taze me, Bro!” guy.

I took a deep breath, apologized to the manager and got back into my still-running station wagon and drove home to cry.

I know that there are parts of this post that are humorous, but the situation was horrible.

I am so ashamed of myself. I regret my lack of self-control. I regret scaring the bejesus out of customers who probably thought I was going to pull out a handgun and go “Columbine” on their asses. You know, kinda like this:

(Thanks, Photoshop Dave!)

Luckily, there were no children in the store.

Whatever valid and just complaints that I had about this girl were lost in my anger and lashing out. I am beyond embarrassed and will never set foot in that gas station again.

I started my period the next morning. A-ha. It was early and unexpected but the day before I start has gotten worse and worse over the years. I have never, ever responded like this. I don’t entirely blame it on PMS because there was a major event of pain and anger and frustration that happened around my birthday and it sent me in a bit of a spiral about my entire life. I am working through tons and tons of past issues that frankly? I have a lot of suppressed anger about.

It’s sad that I let it loose on innocent people.

Not that Judy was innocent, but still…She did NOT deserve what I dished out.

As for her? She’s still there. The best employee they had quit because they wouldn’t fire her. Everyone was appalled on MY behalf because they cannot stand working with her and they know me to be a kind, friendly, and courteous customer. I found out later that she has had at least a dozen complaints about her and many costumers won’t go there anymore because of her.

I’m trying to keep it in perspective and look on the bright side, which is that this is a big clue that I have got to deal with some issues and take preventative steps to deal with my whacked out hormonal cycle. It is also good that I have cut back on a really vicious and out-of-control habit and that my pocket book is a little fatter because it isn’t all being poured into a 44 oz. cup.

Still…

I feel so horrible and embarrassed about this and it has almost been a month. I know that there will be very few of you who have lost it to this level, but if there is ANYONE out there that has even come close? I would love to hear from you so that I can feel a bit less hideous about myself.

If you’ll all excuse me, I have to go curl up under my blankie in the fetal position…

I am spectacularly sick. 

I missed NaBloPoMo yesterday.

I guess this means that I have to tell myself “Aufedersein” for making a crappy dress that looks like it’s “Pooing Fabric” and not “Making it work”. I guess there is nothing left to do but hug Tim Gunn and pack up my work station.

Oh, wait…That’s Project Runway. Never mind.

Sigh.

I am glad that the pressure is off.  I had to throw up some pretty lame posts to meet the requirement and I HATE doing that. 

Still, I feel bad that I was so close to finishing and that I failed.  I really should have planned this whole thing better. I have no one to blame but myself.  It’s like I voted myself off the runway.

Suck a duck.

I’ll do better next year.

If you have been trying to get a hold of me this weekend, you have probably been met with my voice mail.  You may have left multiple messages that have gone unacknowledged and you may or may not be cursing my name at this point.  I may have stood you up this weekend because I didn’t have access to your phone number.  Why didn’t I have access to you number? Well, it was stored in my cell phone. Why is that a problem, you ask?

Because I killed my phone.

It’s too humiliating to write about right now, so let’s just say that I now have no cellphone. It was inadvertent, of course.  My phone is like an appendage of my body, so even Jon knows that it was an accident and not a ploy to get a new phone.

Researching it has been a bitch.  I have to try and figure out how to buy a fairly inexpensive phone that miraculously doesn’t suck.  So…If anyone out there uses the Great and Abominable Cell Phone Company (Sprint.  My whole family has it or I SO WOULDN’T) and you have a phone that I don’t have to sign a second mortgage to obtain…Please let me know.

I am suffering from the greatest humiliation I have had in a very, very long time. With about 3 hours notice and really swollen vocal folds, I decided to audition for a musical. To make matters worse, I selected a song I didn’t know well because my other audition pieces were un-singable due to aforementioned vocal folds.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Did I mention that was STUPID?

To clarify, while I have a dramatic, exaggerating nature, it.really.was.THAT.bad. I am not exaggerating. I also don’t want to hear argument about this in the comments, ok? It would insult my experience and intelligence.

I sucked six ways from Sunday.

By the time I got to the theater, I was raspy and squeaky. I should have turned around and gone home, but NO. I didn’t. There aren’t many musical theater opportunities in the valley and since seeing “Wicked” in London, I have been selfishly craving the theater. At the audition, I got up to sing and the alien-sounding, hideous CRUD that came out of my mouth threw me so much that I forgot the words. I stopped, realized that recovery was impossible, said “Sorry…” and WALKED OFF THE STAGE.

For the first time since I was 17 I didn’t even get a call back, and I shouldn’t have.

The worst part? This was in front of people that I have worked with. People I respect. People who used to know me when I was awesome and envy my ability. There were a couple who hadn’t heard me sing, but had heard of me from all these people and were excited to “Finally” hear me.

The pity on their faces was something I don’t think I’ll be forgetting anytime soon.

I don’t care that I’m not in the show, not really. I care greatly that I would throw such shit at people I respect and humiliate myself like this. I haven’t auditioned for musical theater in 5 years. How arrogant to think that I could pull it off with 3 hours prep. I emailed the director an apology. I don’t expect a reply.

I have had great opportunities and experiences in the theater and I should have left well enough alone.

Lesson learned.