Irony

I love irony. Do you love irony? I'm totally into it.

Take for example one of my neighbors. He needed a strip of my property to run a power line out to his detached garage. I agreed to allow the encroachment if he would agree to go the legal route and get an easement drawn up and recorded. He didn't want to muddle his project's efficiency with these sorts of things and would yell, threaten, and try to steamroll me instead.

His big talking point to anyone who would listen was the loss of the use of his garage. Without power, that is how he saw it. And while I didn't believe his garage was a tear-down merely because he was too big of a candy ass to open the roll up door manually (on a temporary basis), I did sympathize with the inconvenience of it. I thought that was remarkable on my part, considering I was his definition of evil.

He really tested my sympathy too. We went back and forth for almost a year with me insisting on trifles like licensed/insured contractors, permits from the city, and recorded easements before I would grant him use of my land. He suggested I let him in with no notice to do a permit free 3-inch deep trench where he could just direct bury some line (that means right in the dirt) and be done.

We finally ended up seeing eye to eye when he realized he wasn't going to be able to fit his shoe in my ass, and I think maybe someone might have helped him pull his head out of his own as well.

The permits, contractors, and easements magically appeared, and the project was completed without a hitch. His garage has had power for just about three months now.

That's not so ironic is it, but can you see where this is going?

And wait for it.........he doesn't use his garage. He doesn't use the fucking thing.

I haven't seen the door in use one time since power was restored. What I do see is him pulling his car up to the front of his garage door and leaving it there, partially blocking the main driveway to other garages.

In fact, if I was a good photographer, I could take an artsy shot of his car and the No Parking - Will Be Towed sign because the proximity would allow for it.

So that right there my friends is a little bit of layered irony -- and well...venting.

Good times.

They Keep Working Your Booty Even After You're Done Working Your Booty Call

White shorts really are the wisest wardrobe choice the morning after a booty call.

I just came across this ad in a magazine and I got all excited; I just have to share. This is special people.

Angry Lesbians have been fighting for womens' rights for decades, and we are finally getting somewhere. Finally! How long have we waited for this day?!

This new penis equality era in advertising when we will be seen and addressed as something more than sex objects. We're here people! We. Are. Finally. Here.

Now, back to the ad above. I know the small print is too small to read, but the magic of the message is within, so here it is for you:

EasyTone uses balance pods in the shoes to create natural instability, much like walking on a sandy beach, which encourages toning through increased muscle activation in 3 key areas of the leg.

The best part is that EasyTone works while you walk the dog, walk down the aisle, country line dance, chase after a bus, do the walk of shame...actually, when doesn't EasyTone work?

Did you catch the magic? Feel the hearts and stars? In case you need a hint, the fun is encased in the "do the walk of shame" part.

Wikipedia defines TWOS as, "The walk of shame refers to a phenomenon in which a person must walk past strangers or peers alone for an embarrassing reason before reaching a place of privacy. Most commonly[citation needed], it occurs the morning after a night out at a bar, dance club, or party. People undertaking the walk of shame are understood to have spent the night at the house, apartment, or dorm of a sexual partner (or perceived sexual partner), particularly a one night stand. The topic is often of the subject of college newspaper commentary."

Urban Dictionary simplifies the term a bit: "n. The course walked home after a night of boozing and fucking that ends in a booty call. One usually wears the clothes they went out in."

Isn't that awesome? No more appeals to our desperation. No more preying on our endless need to be forever considered beautiful. No, no, no. We aren't just seen as sex objects anymore. We can be whores too!

Wait a second...we were whores and sex objects before - godammit!!

Sorry Angry Lesbians. I called an early victory and I was mistaken. I think you won this one for us somewhere around 4000 BCE.

So please disregard this post. Much like the ad people at Reebok, it turns out I am full of shit.



Author's Note: Reebok doesn't appear to make an EasyTone shoe for men. Skechers makes a shoe for men similar to the EasyTone, but nowhere in their ads that I could access online did I see any verbiage about how dudes could stick their dicks in a chick, and then trot home the next morning, building their gluts all the way home.

Just Who Do You Think I am?

I ask that (even though I am not really asking) because everyone has a different opinion about us. No surprise there, I know. It's when these viewpoints are become shitty ones, or not linked to the reality of we you are, that they get interesting.

Take for example an opinion one of my aunt's has had for a while now. On the average of about once a quarter, she loves to blurt out, "Oh, you're so bossy!" It has never been said in reaction to anything I have done, but yet I can tell in the way she expresses herself about it that she entirely believes what she is saying. That is her reality.

This particular opinion is deemed shitty by me because I do not want to be considered bossy. As a matter of fact, I am tempted to come to my own Anti-Stalin defense by pointing out that she is the only person who has ever said this, and by telling you a bajillion stories of my being the very opposite of bossy (like the time my hair stylist was burning my scalp with the blow dryer and I winced through it instead of speaking up because I considered anything else to be telling her how to do her job, which would be bossy). However, the point of this post is not for you to outclick convinced I am not bossy.

So what is my point then, right?

Well here's the jam man: once I stopped being defensive about what she thought, that is to say, I dropped the knee jerk reaction to label her opinion as "shitty", it got interesting.

With defenses down one time, I asked her why she thought I was bossy. And then I waited. She told me I was bossy because all Italian women are. All of them.

So okay, some aunt who sees you on holidays stereo-stamped you bossy in context perhaps with her Italian experiences. Not a far fetched thing, right? I mean, how well could she know you over a bustling table of food and conversation twice a year?

Well actually, I sort of anticipated she would know me a little bit better. You see, she raised me for several years when I was a teenager. I see her nowadays on a weekly basis. So it is actually a total curiousity to me that she doesn't know me all that well at all.

It also reminds me that she is not alone.

I had been hanging out with one of my guy friends regularly for at least a year when he made a comment that revealed he thought I was college educated. He just assumed it he said. Really? We have been hanging out all this time, talking about everything under the sun and you just filled in the blanks like that? I didn't take offense, I found it fascinating in a way that he had just sketched in whatever went along with his evolving image of who I am for him.

There's a lot of other examples I could provide you, but who cares?

The truth is what you make it. Your truth is what you believe. That's the interesting, hilarious, shitty, fascinating, terrifying reality folks.

And you probably knew that, but I am still learning.

Your Dirty Lies Are Starving My Dog!

I've got some liars in my life. Now don't get me wrong, I know we all lie - myself included. None of us are really exempt from those occasional "oh, I wish I could but I have to wash my hair and get a liver transplant that day" moments.

I am talking more about the giant, chronic, drama queen, ass-face liar. They use their lies more than they tell the truth. In fact, their tale spinning is second nature to them and they pretty much believe they are hiding well behind the camouflage of it.

I got a call recently from a pretty accomplished liar I know. As soon as I answer the phone my ear is under attack as the rapid-fire Armageddon victim story unfolds. One horrific occurrence after another has allegedly befallen this poor person.


It goes something like this:

"Okay, you're never going to believe this...I was superglued to the toilet by Somali pirates in the wee hours of the morning. They left me there in my own bathroom for dead! In my last-ditch effort to save myself, I managed to bite down on the toilet roll hanger bar and tear my butt cheeks from the toilet.

Once the massive bleeding subsided a little, I went outside to throw the toilet seat away (everyone knows that ass skin sticks like a mothersmucker to those seats, so I didn't doubt this part of the story) and I was attacked by a troop of ground squirrels. I guess they had been waiting for me on the side of the house, because as soon as I rounded the corner, they launched right at me! Before I could do anything, they had me face down and wrist cuffed with one of those zip ties. Then they sodomized me with a Star Wars toy light Saber they claim they found in the neighbor's recycling bin. They weren't gentle. And If you have ever heard a ground squirrel snicker....it was evil.

They left me face down ass in the air, but were kind enough to chew through the zip tie before they took off. I managed to get to my feet. I staggered back in the house and my cell phone was beeping with a voice mail. Apparently I had missed a call during my anal invasion. It was my boss. I got fired. Apparently he didn't believe me yesterday when I called in and tried to explain to him that I was having trouble getting to work because this chimp had chewed off my thumbs in the 7/11 parking lot the night before. Have you ever tried to start your car without your thumbs?! I was only asking for a little time to get transplants, but I guess he didn't want to deal with me. People with disabilities are so often discriminated against, ya know?

Anyway, as soon as I hung up the phone, the doorbell rang. When I answered it, some ski-masked punk threw a flaming bag of dog shit into the house, and it slid right across the hardwood into the living room. I limp-scurried my sore ass over to it to stomp out the flames, and I fishtailed in dog shit, fell, and broke my right hip. The fire spread and I only managed to save myself - the house and all of my worldly possessions inside, are gone.

When I got to the hospital the doctor examined me before the hip x-ray. Bad news -- they found this giant mole under my left nut that they think is malignant Melanoma. So I am probably going to die which is why I am canceling our plans at the last minute like this. Sorry."

Yeah, you're right -- I don't believe you.

I did however get pretty distracted by the whole pile of bullshit slung at me over the phone lines. So distracted in fact, that I forgot I was in the middle of feeding The Ru when I answered the phone. I didn't remember this for three hours after the call ended. Three whole hours. My dog could have died of starvation. There is no better reason than that to always abide by the Honesty Is Always The Best Policy rule.

The truth would have taken a fraction of the time.

It goes something like this:

"Hi there - I'm a fucking tool. I am calling to cancel last minute on our plans for today. I don't have a good reason, I just don't like planning. Flaking teaches everyone not to engage in scheduling things with me in the future. Sorry. And I say sorry because I know that is just one of those things I am supposed to say. I don't actually give a shit or I wouldn't be such a tool in the first place."

So much easier, right? And I would have had the brain power to feed my poor pooch afterward.

One Of Those Girls

The other night an ex and I got into a "why did it end?" discussion [read: fact finding mission on my part] and a whole bunch of unfun stuff was revealed. Among it was his statement, "Well I am totally fine with it, but I have never dated a big girl before."

So okay with it that he apparently just thought he would throw that little known fact in as an irrelevant aside to this convo. Riiiigggghhhhtt.

And knowing what we know about but's (not mine in this instance) that used in a statement like this they negate everything that comes before them, my ex had basically just informed me that one of the reasons we broke up is because he thinks I'm fat!

Nice. And I told you all that to tell you this: I am one of those girls. One of those women that actually heard that statement and took it in and espoused it as a personal negative thing about myself -- I actually cared!

Why? So he thinks I am fat -- whateves. There are a lot of fish in the sea. It is just so flopsweat stereotypical and boring to feel bad about that. With all there is going on in this world and my life, I actually wasted time feeling bad about myself based on that statement.

Even as I write this I am staving off the urge to defend myself to you fair reader; convince you I am not all that big of a Big Girl. What am I -- fucking 15 again?!

Borrowing my flatterer who thinks I'm fatterer Plump Vision lenses, I found a pretty close approximation of myself at People Of Walmart this morning.

Pink is my fave color, and I do endorse the delightful irony of Chunks and diet soda...

So alright Prince Charming, I admit it: The Big Girl thing got to me. And what is in even poorer taste than your comment is my dignifying it by caring....and blogging about it....damn you damn ego!

So from here on out, I am throwing the shame out of my game. I will bask in all of my gargantuan glory.

One of my baby pics....

This is me skinny dipping earlier this summer.

Outdoor events are nice...metal chairs.....not so much. I have special needs.

I excelled in my Tops Optional Martial Arts class over the summer.

Alright, alright - let's get serious. How fat am I? This is me at the computer blogging away.

They call me the Sex Panther for a reason. Click here to get a full view of my massiveness


** Ooo, semi-creepy meaningless yet telling crystal ball psychic occurance: Just as I was getting ready to hit "Publish Post", an email alert popped up at the bottom of my screen. The subject line reading, "Care what people think about you?" That is quite the coincidence, but as I have more than proven, I don't care what anyone thinks about me.

Free Magic Wands

This morning a friend sent me a "How are you?" email with this picture embedded. I love it! Free magic wands -- are you kidding me?!

It made me want to run in my room and dig out my white tights, pink tutu, and matching pink sequence belly shirt, but then I remembered I only have a black wig, shoehorn and feather boa in there. Not sure that goes as well, but maybe...

Anywho, the real question here is what to do with my magic wand!

Hmmm.....

No need to wait for the magic of Advil now - definitely going to wand myself in the head and get rid of this headache.

I would also like to wand wave a special chemical-free hot tub into creation that is the perfect temperature when you are in it and then as soon as you step out of it you are perfectly dry. Don't judge -- I hate standing there getting cold while I dry off and then having to deal with my wet hair and chloriney skin.

And even though it is thoroughly enchanting to know that my little shoebox sits on a previous strawberry field, I would like to wand my way back over to the other side of the mountain -- I'm over you highway 17 -- you heard me!

Eternal Youth for The Ru for sure -- gotta have that. I figure if I can remind her all the time that I have the power to put her to sleep, I might as well balance that fun with the wand magic of eternal youth. Who wouldn't want to live with me forever?!

Lots of cash baby! (Come on, you knew that was coming. When has there ever been a fantasy question/wishlist response that hasn't worked in our supposed root of all evil -- Cashish?!)

How about you? What wonderment would you wand up for yourself?

Letting Go

Another song has been running through my head again. Just like the last time it is not a song I feel particularly attached to, or even remember much about.

Letting Go by Suzy Bogguss is the tune. It's a country song [don't judge] from the early 90s [Seriously, stop judging me] about a young girl going off to school; leaving behind the comfort zone of her kid-dom.

Only a couple of lines of it have come to me.

There's nothing in the way now,
Oh letting go, there's room enough to fly
And even though, she's spent her whole life waiting,
It's never easy letting go.

Letting go - it isn't ever really all that easy, is it?

There seems to be so many little fingers that come with it. Our hearts have them, our minds have them, our ego, our pride, our fear of suffering. All these steely grips keeping us in place - hanging on.

Whether we are excited for the next phase of the journey, bittersweetly moving on, or thrust into the change that is beyond our control, it seems we all are faced with some degree of resistance to letting go.

Right before this song piece came to visit me, I had made a decision to return a material item from someone I had to let go of recently.

I've got all my figurative digits dug in on this one too. I don't want to feel bad, it is a damn nifty material item [Do I really have to let it go?], I don't want my choices leading to someone thinking ill of me, I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings, I don't want to move forward in some ways because I keep analyzing and then reanalyzing my decision.

Despite it all though, I am loosening my grip because I want to be true to myself.

And isn't that what this is all about anyway? This short, difficult, precious, precarious, wonderful life is really just a stab at standing staunchly in the truth of who we are. Can we come full circle on letting go by holding fast to ourselves.

Today I made one small step for letting go and one big[ish] step for Daniella.

So now I think I know why my brain has been entertaining this little diddy all day. My subconscious was just stopping by to weigh in on the sitch and remind me that while these things are never easy, they do indeed make room for us to fly.

This is me getting ready to fly.

What Would You Do If I Sang Out Of Tune?

A while back a friend of mine once told me that her therapist always advised paying attention to those songs that just seem to pop into your head. The notion intrigued me so I started to consider these lyrical, potential messengers.

My brain pops up with a myriad of theories for each tune's visit.

Last week I was sitting on the toilet, (honoring a number onesy call) with a thousand yard stare loosely focused on the Man Wall, when a song popped in. To be more accurate, just the first line of a song.

What would you do if I sang out of tune?

Where in the hell did that come from? I don't care for the Beatles -- or that song -- nor do I even recall hearing it any time in the recent past.

But see, that's the thing. Your brain just bubbles this stuff up to the surface, and then you kick it around like a beach ball until you like where it settles - or just get tired.

I had to sit and think for a second what the next line of that song even is, then it came to me.

Would you stand up and walk out on me?

Ahh -- now we are getting somewhere. I don't know why both lines didn't show up in my gray matter at the same time, but I do know that considering both lines made more sense and ended up resonating with me.

I always grapple with loyalty and acceptance. Not so much as to whether or not I can offer those in my relationships, as I think I am pretty damn good at it actually. I struggle more with being secure in knowing that I have those elements in my relationships, and therefore can relax and just be. More simply put: I [still] need to learn I don't have to take care of everybody to be accepted.

In trying to remember more of the song, [that again, I don't even like] I got a whole lot of nothing, until part of the chorus came to me.

I get by with a little help from my friends

Alright party people, this is where the shit gets heavy. Deep.

As I ponder, I'm redefining friend in my head. It becomes more of a representative term for everyone who loves me, a broader category than their title of Friend, Family, Chicken Fucker, if you will.

And that brought me to the final piece of the Name That Tune Introspection puzzle.

I absolutely get by with a little help from my friends. Actually, I thrive with a little help from my friends. If you do stand up and walk out, I will get by. Your retreat may come as a blindsiding gut punch, but someone who loves me will have their arms out as I fall backward like a drunken sailor.

A day may come where I am just too "out of tune" for you. You may be living and loving blissfully tone deaf for 20 years and then one day, off you go. Who knows. The future can't be told.

For now, I guess I have to live by the words of the stinkin Beatles anyway, cause the shit just makes sense to me.

Live without regret and the rest will all come out in the wash. **

I take it all back. I think it was just a reminder that I am a craptacular singer, so mark that off of the Ways I Might Be Able To Make A Fortune list. Oh well. On to the next item: Stunt double for Liza Minnelli.


**I just typed that, impressed myself with the poignancy, then googled it to see if anyone else has posted it before. Holy crap - I think I might have just come up with a quotable quote!