Drinking makes this post rich in postiness.

So, first off.

I was pulling together the linky goodness for this post and I did this google search, which proved immediately that Amazon has EVERYTHING. Then, because I am currently under the influence of two and a half happy-making vodka and sodas, I immediately added this vibrator to my Amazon wishlist. Not just because it will make my mother, aunts, and assorted other matriarchal figures feel extremely uncomfortable, but because I totally do want it.

Hint, hint, people.

Anyway.

Speaking of making people uncomfortable, my sister called me this evening and we had this conversation:

Sister: What are you doing?
Me: Watching the notebook and crying hysterically. I've realized the Notebook is like the rabbit vibrator of chick flicks. Except instead of orgasms, it makes you cry.
Sister: . .. .
Me: Am I making you uncomortable?
Sister: No. But you did make me uncomofortable when we were talking to our gay cousin after thanksgiving dinner.
Me: Uh.
Sister: You don't remember?
Me: Um, No.
Sister: Yeah, the topic was anal sex.
Me: Um. Was I speaking?
Sister: Yeah.
Me: Well, right! So, anyway! Nothing to be ashamed of!

Stupid alcohol.

Anyhow.

The topic of today's post is The Notebook -- the ultimate in girl porn.

It is seriously perfectly formulated for hysterical melancholy self-indulgent crying. Which is so great.

If I had the ability, I would mock up an Amazon page that showed the vibrator and proclaimed BUY THIS WITH THE NOTEBOOK TODAY!

Because they're both perfectly designed to please a woman.

I feel empowered to declare this because I am not a typical girly girl -- I tend to be the sarcastic, cynical one in the crowd. Despite my intense affection for shoes and handbags, I also have a very sensitive bullshit detector.

But this movie? It hits all the right notes. It has the following features specially-formulated for her pleasure!

- Ryan Gosling provides the ideal combination of stoic manliness and tender sensitivity!
- There's a war scene where E bites it dramatically!
- Rachel McAdams has the perfect lipstick!
- Alzheimer's! It's seriously sad!
- James Garner has perfected the most intensely grief-striken tearful look anyone has ever seen! (warning, it could blind you)
- Kissing! In the rain! First love! More kissing! WHY CAN'T I HAVE PERFECT LOVE?

OH YEAH! THAT'S THE TICKET! OoooooOOOOoOooOoooooHHHH!

ahhhhh. . . .

Thank you, Nicholas Sparks, you little bitch.

I can't wait to go to work and stuff.

DeeP has one of these annoying therapist phrases he trots out this time of year: "One trip home can undo years of therapy."

I cannot take this literally, but I can say that four fucking days in Southern Indiana does leave me crawling out of my goddamned skin. I cannot leave town fast enough. I'm such an asshole, my plane doesn't leave until five, and AAAARRRRHHHGHGHGH!

I love my mom, I would love it if my sister lived in my same town, but constant, twenty-four seven family time is, I think, unnatural.

We spend a lot of time reliving childhood nightmares that you really just can't write about on your public, Internet forum without creating full-on adult-type nightmares, like hurting your mom's feelings. Jeeze, mom, I'M SORRY!

Some amusing bits:

- Conducting a vewing of Battlestar Galactica DVDs, Dad says, "I wonder how much it would cost to get one of those chips implanted in your head?

- Dad brings his dog to the airport to pick up my sister. (Not as bad as when he took the dog to my cousin's wedding, but, still.) The security guard says, "Is this a service dog?" Dad really hesitates before saying, "no." Then refuses to leave the dog in the car, instead waiting outside for my sister. Later, he declares that he may just train the dog to be a service dog! Then he can take the dog everywhere. My sister's stroke of level-headed brilliance: "You could. But you won't. That would involve discipline, and you're not willing to do that."

- My cousin stole my cell phone last night during an intense drunken catchphrase tournament and did some rampant evil text messaging. (Sorry, Susan.) I woke up this morning feeling more wine-logged than I have in months. Stupid alcoholic tendencies in the family.

Freud Would Be Super Proud

From my dad, who called to chat --
Dad: Hey! I've got great news!
Me: Yeah? What's that?
Dad: I got my penis scoped!
Me: WAY too much information.
Dad: My kidneys are healthy!
Me: That's all you had to say, man.

Do I have to let him know before I just have my therapist send all his bills straight to him?

Speaking of my therapist (I usually am), the second memorable quote of the morning was from him, as I was ranting about the inexplicably assholish behavior of one of my clients --
DeeP: So, how's your ass?
Me: (Glancing at ass) Huh?
DeeP: 'Cuz you're getting FUCKED in it.
Me: Thanks. So very clinical of you.

UPDATE:
In unrelated, but related (She's a PSYCHOLOGIST, for Christ's sake!), but seriously AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH news:

In court papers, McMahan denies that he ever had a sexual affair with his daughter. But he doesn't explain how his and Linda's DNA turned up on a vibrator that Linda's husband uncovered in her luggage.

strugglin'

I've wanted to write about things, lately, that, frankly, are (GODDAMNIT) inappropriate for the blog.

Like, for example, about the d-lister/celebutante's VH-1 show, which has been (I shit you not) taping in the office. I've been having to write about it separately, and not post it, because I don't want to get my ass in trouble. (or, God forbid, fired again.)

But there are some RICH snippets of conversation. Including the boyfriend, on camera, looking over to me at my desk nearby and shouting out:

"RJ, is it MALDEEEEEEVES OR MALDIIIIVES?"

Um, stop talking to me.

Then, you know, DeeP --- stupid therapy is all serious and shit. Plus, DeeP totally read my blog.

I called him out on it. I knew. I know things.

When I said, DID YOU READ MY BLOG?

He said, "What? Whatever do you mean?"

Then he 'fessed up.

Then we had to have an indepth conversation about what it MEANS that he read my blog and then what it MEANS that he didn't tell me about it and oh, yes, is he allowed to read my blog in the future?

One of those times when therapy is like stabbing yourself in the thigh with a fork.

So, he's not going to read it, and I must say I'm no longer that interested in writing about him, and then I have to self-analyze (stab, stab, stab) what does that mean?

Stupid therapy.

Then I read Luc's latest stuff, and I'm thinking, Geeze, you tormented, alcohol-soaked, brooding genius, you're making me look bad. Fucker.

But you should read it. It's bone-shaking stuff.

We walked in and found him in his section. Power Tools. He was leaning against a shelf holding four different radial saws. Looking at the floor. Tennis shoes swollen with sore ankles and flat feet. Fallen arches.

“Hey, dad.”

“Hey, buddy.”

He was exhausted. He looked at me with blue eyes. My blue eyes. I always thought his were green. Or hazel. I thought the tears would hit me…like a summertime Bronx fire hydrant. Like the shitty Santana music video. Rob Matchbox singing about the half naked girls who were dancing in the streams of my father’s tears. I could kill him for it. Rob, not my father. I kept my camera in my pocket.

Walking out, I looked at the floor. I looked at his coworkers and tried to convey, with my eyes, that if they ever made fun of my father then I would kill them. Actually kill them.

DeeP Thoughts.

Me: So, I made it all week without drinking.
DeeP: That's amazing! How did it feel?
Me: (scrunching eyes a bit, because, like, it's not like I'm Meg Ryan in When A Man Loves A Woman and, like, hiding vodka in the bottom of the laundry hamper and such. I just like my wine, people.) Good? I guess? I did drink on the weekend.
DeeP: How much did you drink on the weekend?
Me: It was pretty normal.
DeeP: So, you were totally binge drinking?
Me: I guess so, yeah.

***

DeeP: So, what are you going to tell people when you go out with them during the week and you don't drink? Because, people are going to ask.
Me: Well.
DeeP: (Lingering theraputic regard.)
Me: I was just. . . afraid I AM GOING TO KILL MYSELF! I'm GOING TO DRINK MYSELF TO DEATH!
DeeP: Huh. I don't think they'll take that so well.
Me: I guess that's not what I would tell them. That's just what I was thinking.
DeeP: Right.
Me: Right.

***

DeeP: You do have to consider your genetics, here. You might be someone who has a need to seek physical thrills.
Me: Uh, yeah, you remember my dad, right?
DeeP: (making ladder-climbing motions with his hands) Right! The guy who climbs poles!
Me: Which is different from smoking pole.
DeeP: (cocking his head quizzically) Is that slang for a blow job?
Me: (starting to giggle uncontrollably) Yes. And I think it's hilarious. SMOKING POLE!
DeeP: (throwing his bald bearded little head back and cackling) HA! HA! You are pretty funny! (He shakes his head a bit.) So, are we done with the distractions for today?
Me: Jerk.



(Just in case you're one of the three people who read this blog who are not people I talk to everyday, I should tell you I have a therapist named DeeP, I hang with him twice a week. I've talked about him here and, in mind-numbing detail, here. There's my attempt to de-nonsesify.)