It's All About the Parenthetical Benjamins Baby

So I rented a car last night. Well, I made the reservation online so that I could procure a car next weekend for my trek back to Arkansas. I'm now the proud future driver of a compact car, like a Dodge Neon. (Hopefully this compact car is not as red as it was in the picture and hopefully much cooler than a Dodgle Neon. Because when I think of the Neon, I think of my ex-boyfriend from college who was REALLY, REALLY proud of his Dodge Neon. Insanely proud. Plus, he was from Kentucky. And he regularly dyed his hair unnatural colors. It was just bad.) (And while I'm on this tangent that has nothing to do with what I was planning on posting about, I might as well show you this shirt. I am SO wearing it while I'm down there. I was an English major in that state, ok? I'm allowed to mock it.)

Back on track....This whole renting of the car is a quick fix for the lack of drivable tires on the trusty-no-more Sentra. A quick fix, but not a good fix. Because the Sentra is still not drivable. AND I REALLY WANNA DRIVE. For example, I am currently stuck at my apartment blogging instead of driving fast (fast, being a relative term when you think about how fast OTHER cars can go) and singing very, very loudly to Fiona Apple. (Thanks second hand CD store and sharp-eyed Anne!) It's just not the same when you're listening to Fiona stationary. Trust me.

Here's where the problem comes: I am not the big cash money baller that many of you think that I am. (And by "many of you" I mean "none of you.") Sure I've got the funds to get new wheels and an alignment and an oil change, but I REALLY don't want to. It'll drain the bank account an inappropriate amount. And I want to save my money for more important things, like traveling expenses and debt payment and cute capris. So I'm being stubborn and forcing BGF to drive me everywhere. (Right now "everywhere" has consisted of work, which isn't a big deal since we are conviently employed at the same place, but still. If I HAD a life, I'd like to think I could jump in my car and go. Not sit and stew, stew, stew. Kind of like a prune.)

(I hate prunes. They taste gross and cause greivous consequences to your body. And that's all I am. A human prune with no working car and an unused iPod. Oh, the torture!)

Tom is MY Man

You know what? I don't give A CRAP about what Dubya has to say. And you know why? BECAUSE HE IS PRE-EMPTING SURVIVOR AS I TYPE.

Yeah, I'm shallow, I admit it. I'm not afraid to sport my love of all things Survivor. I'd rather watch the backstabbing and the manipulation and the skinniness than the accent and the talking in circles and the stupidity. And I think I deserve my precious Survivor time. Because the last time I loved that show, I could stuff my face with Wild Cherry Pepsi and Peanut Butter M&M's and not gain weight. And THEN I could spew it all out laughing at Ethan's bobbing curls while carrying a goat. (Ethan carried the goat, not me. I may have gone to college in Arkansas, but that does not mean that I carried goats to make extra cash.) It was a LONG time ago, people. A happier and innocent time.

But this season is really good! It's brought back the happiness! It's brought back the love! Because it has Tom! The awesomest of awesome! And Ian! Despite his unfortunate moniker, he is quite the winner! AND I CAN'T WATCH TOM AND IAN BECAUSE OF THE PRESIDENT I DIDN'T VOTE FOR.

They call this justice? They call this a free country? I THINK NOT.

Blow Out

So last night, Anne and I went shopping for a cute new top for me since super special people were coming to work today. We found something suitable in both its pinkness and its casualness and all was well. We left the store deep in conversation and life was good.

Somehow or another we got onto the subject that every girl loves to talk about. The penis. Conveniently enough, there was also lingerie in my car, so I'm thinking this helped get us onto said subject. Because, you know, the lingerie was a main topic of conversation for a while because it is difficult to fold. And difficult to situate in tissue paper. It winds up looking bunched up and stupid, as opposed to cute and sweet. And no, the lingerie was not for me. It's for my dear friend who is getting married in two weeks. But let it be known that if she doesn't like it, then I'm SO keeping it for myself. I don't CARE that I have no one to impress with it, I LIKE IT. Who says I can't lay around by myself in sexy lingerie? Who? Who?

So anyway, back to the subject at hand. The penis. Anne is so wonderful and sweet and innocent and pure and young. Her knowledge of the penis is limited and you know, I feel obligated to impart my wisdom. Granted, my carnal knowlege is REALLY limited and she didn't ask anything, but I felt compelled to share anyway. And now that I'm writing this, I'm thinking the title I chose for this post is taking on A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT MEANING.

So I was trying to explain to Anne that there is A LOT that goes on between kissing and sex. See, it seems that in her mind, you go straight from the kissing to the sexing. And I was like, "Dude! There are like BASES. And nudity options."

So we were driving along and I was yelling about the scariness of the penis and then BAM! My right tire blew. On the interstate. I immediately pulled over just in time to see my hubcap go flying to the left into oncoming traffic and getting tossed around like a frisbee. Seriously, I have no idea how it didn't hit anybody or hurt any cars. So I did the only logical thing and called my best friend. Who is a male. Our conversation went as follows:

Cora: "I'm in trouble"
Best Guy Friend: "What happened?"
Cora: "I'm stranded on 75."
Best Guy Friend: "Are you serious?"
Cora: "Yes. My tire blew. What do I do?"
BGF: "Well, I can come get you. Or you could use your Cingular Roadside Assitance. Or you could change it yourself..."
Cora: (cutting him off) "You know that in this situation, you're supposed to come save me, right?"
BGF: "I will come save you. I just have to finish drying your laundry first."

Yeah, he was doing my laundry. And I interrupted him to come change my tire on the side of the interstate at 10 pm. No, I don't deserve his friendship.

All went well when BGF arrived. He put on his manly face and set to changing my tire. Then all went to pot when the cop arrived. He did NOTHING. In fact, I'm not even sure he knew how to change a tire. I guess you don't need to know that when you have a badge and twirly lights and a motorcycle. But seriously, if you can't help, THEN GO AWAY. And to make matters worse, the one time he did bend down by the tire to help, another cop came by and freaked out when he saw the bike and not the cop, so he STOPPED HIS CAR AND BACKED IT UP. ON. THE. INTERESTATE. And I don't think I even need to tell you that it caused an accident. A three car accident. And let me tell you, that lady in the smashed up Caddy was NOT PLEASED.

So last night, I single-handedly educated Anne on the woes of the penis, ruined BGF's khakis with grease stains from my tire, and caused a car accident. Every night should be that awesome!

The First Step is Admitting You Have a Problem

I plan on posting just about everyday. And then I don't. Because I am lazy. Or tired. Or angry. Or distracted. Or hungry. Pretty much any excuse imaginable leads me to a non-blogging state. Which is sad because I used to be so dang committed to it! And now, alas, I just let it fall by the wayside. The horror!

So I apologize to the three people who read this site. I shall be more concerned about my blogging state. I hope this gets me presents.

Also, I apologize to you, Anne, because I am pretty sure I used up all of the shave gel tonight, even though we just purchased it tonight. This is because I am an idiot and somehow manage to squirt WAY TOO MUCH on BOTH OF MY LEGS. What kind of legs do I think I have? Amazonian legs? Giant legs? Fat, fat, fat legs? I don't know. All I do know is that I could have shaved MY ENTIRE BODY with the amount of shaving gel on my legs this evening.

So, lastly, I apologize to you, sweet Apple Berry Crush Shave Gel. I barely knew thee!

R.I.P.

Hungry Hungry Hippo

And that hungry, hungry hippo is ME. You may or may not know that I'm on the South Beach Diet. So you may or may not know that I am hungry. Like awe-inspiring, life-changing hungry. And, so help me, CALORIE-BURNING hungry. Because this Mrs. Fatty McFat look I'm sporting ain't working, you know what I'm saying? I'm ready to slim down, trim down, shape up, and ship out to my old jeans and skirts. Why? BECAUSE I'M TOO CHEAP TO BUY MORE CLOTHES. And really, that's what it all comes down to. I'm cheap-o. And if I lose weight, my wardrobe will double! AWESOME! What more could a girl want?? A mega-hot boyfriend and a super fun job with a fulfilling sense of purpose? Poppycock! All she REALLY wants is something cute to wear Saturday night.

Sunday Night Blues

I've picked up on a recurring theme these past few months. I get antsy and depressed on Sundays. Always. It's like I'm okay all throughout the week. I mean, I'm a little down and out, but I can be up and peppy too.

But when Sunday hits....BAM! You better watch out little iPod. Cause you're gonna get put to a lot of use as I blast my angry-sad-empowered-strong-yet-vulnerable girl music while driving. A LOT. It's like the only way I can make myself "happy" on Sundays is to drift away into an imaginary world where I'm a way cool rock chick with a devil may care attitude and a smokin' body. And awesome pipes, of course, to compliment my way cool rock chick persona.

And you know, that's never gonna happen, but that scenario keeps playing out in my head. And you know what else I've noticed? A lot of times I'm singing really pissy music at my ex-boyfriends, so that probably means I am a psychiatrist GOLD MINE with all the unresolved issues floating around in this jumbled mess. But I digress.

So this Sunday sadness bothers me. Sunday nights used to be a HUGE problem for me when I was a kid. I would get so nervous and scared and sad about school on Monday mornings, that I lay awake at night going through all of the horrible things that could happen at school the next day. Which is funny because as I look back on it, the horrible things I was imagining were things like getting a B or getting called on in class and not knowing the answer or a pop quiz. Which...wow. That is majorly lame. But, such was my drama as a child. I was an ugly nerd, so I couldn't have real problems with friends or boys or something.

And I hated me then. I hated being me. Cora was just a horrible, miserable person then. And I feel like I am regressing back to that insecure little girl. I am still 12 in my mind's eye. So I have replaced the teachers with bosses and classmates with co-workers. I feel so much pressure and stress at work that it's affecting how I live. And I HATE that. I hate this constant consuming fear. And I know I've whined about my life-eating job on here before, but this is something bigger than that. It's a deepseated fear and resentment I have of myself. Of who I am. Of what my life has become. Of how my priorities are now 1) Don't get yelled at at work. 2) Try to get some sleep. 3) You don't have time for anything else. It's wrong. It's painful. It makes me dread Monday mornings and long for the numbness of death.