My Complete List of Guilty Pleasures

Well, faithful blog followers, this afternoon I saw the commercial for Paranormal Activity 4 and I was again reminded that I have a whole entire list of guilty pleasures, the Paranormal Activity movies being one of them.

Although, while the majority of people’s guilty pleasures typically involve some sort of hedonistic pleasure – people getting erotic on the beach; old ladies getting their toes licked by cats whilst they savor every moist, titilating bite of a spoonful of Duncan Hines vanilla bean frosting – mine are typically just pleasurable in the sense that they all further my cynicism and misanthropy.

Here they are, in complete form.

#1 Eating in old, rundown places full of old people

I love going to old, rundown places full of old people to eat. There are a few locally that I cannot get enough of. The food is usually crap and the service is generally awkward, but it’s so much fun to sit there and watch all the weirdos that frequent those types of places. They aren’t always old, and they aren’t always weirdos, but they make for stories nonetheless.

There is a place near my dad’s house that we go to all the time and it is constantly rife with oddities. Old women are always walking around the place, rubbing their own asses as they ramble about wanting to sit in the one semi-attractive waiter’s section (I don’t think he’s attractive in the least bit, actually). It’s near the government center, so there are often a nice mix of whacko attorneys and recently released parolees as well. The best part is that they serve alcohol, and those senior citizens sure do like to drink. I watched two ladies (both of whom stood there while they waited to be seated in “Jose’s section,” rubbing their asses excessively, which is something I see old ladies do all the time and just don’t get); watched them suck back three bottles of champagne over the course of an hour and a half lunch once, and they both ordered hot dogs with apple sauce. Weird, huh?

#2 Buying shoes

I just purged my closet of clothing I never wear and shoes I haven’t touched in years. It was painful, to say the least; and the only thing that got me through was the fact that I knew I was doing it to justify shopping.

I love buying shoes, even when I know I’m not going to wear them often. Foot fetish? No. Shopping addiction? Not really. No, I love buying shoes because while doing so I  fantasize about all the people whose toes I can “accidentally” step on in them.

#3 Seeing the Paranormal Activity movies in the theater

Not just any theater, though – it has to be a theater chockfull of people that are screaming and yelling, and “oh no guuuuurl”ing the entire time. This requires a number of different factors to be in place, and a lot of research. When the first Paranormal Activity movie came out, we saw it in Culver City. Culver City is home to some of the most ghetto people on the planet; I heard “talk to the hand” and “get out of there dot com” at least four times, each, through the course of the film.

We saw the second and third in similar theaters, although the fourth is going to be a little more difficult because we’re living in a little more upscale of an area now. As I see it, I have 9 days to find the trashiest and at the same time most popular theater and get our tickets. Halloween-season will be incomplete if I cannot spend two hours watching complete and utter fucking morons scream.

#4 Reruns of The Simpsons

I watch The Simpsons every, single day. I mean that we own the seasons on DVD and every evening I turn it on when I go to bed. I go in chronological order and then when I’m done I just start at the beginning again. Every night, for years, I’ve done this. When I go out of town, I even bring the DVDs along with. I just can’t stop.

What I love the most about it is that I have a Simpsons analogy for just about anything. And I think I enjoy these fictional characters better than any real characters I happen to come across in my daily life.

#5 Listening to my Trailer Trash Mom’s stories

I know, I know … she’s a nightmare and I should stop letting her into my house because all she does is gobble up all our food and steal my stuff, just to return to her family where she spreads lies and rumors and talks mad amounts of shit about me.

But my mom’s train wreck stories are just so good sometimes.

Today she came over and I asked how things were going with her husband in New Mexico, because she hadn’t brought him up even in conversation for quite some time. The last time I heard was about a month ago, she said he had a cold. Well, apparently the cold has lasted for this whole month and now he has gone to the doctor and has some undiagnosable disease. His symptoms? Low grade fever, body aches, fatigue, and an inexplicable desire to do nothing but “lay in bed and fondle himself.”

It was difficult for me to keep a straight face long enough to get out of her eyesight on that one.

What are your guilty pleasures, faithful blog followers? Making sweet, sweet love on the beach while the waves roll over your supple yet flabby body? Bathing with your hamsters? Licking the oil off your plate after a nice meal of eggs and grits? Come on … dish it.

Why I Could Never Be a Golddigger

Note, this blogpost is not titled “why I don’t think it’s right to be a golddigger;” or “why I would never be a golddigger.” It’s Why I Could Never Be a Golddigger, which I’ll get to in just a minute.

Why I do think it’s right to be a golddigger, quite simply put is because golddiggers get shit done. Today we were at Target, picking up more canning supplies and body wash, and I saw what was clearly a golddigger with nice clothes, a Gucci purse, tons of diamonds, and a guy about three times her age with his hand on her ass.

Hand on her ass. The dude had to be 70.

While my husband was keeping his body wash separate from mine so that he didn’t accidentally get charged for it, this lady had a cart full of all the terribly useless crap Target has to offer. She had tons of expensive shampoos and hair products. She had – like – four kitchen appliances and a new suitcase. When we walked passed them, she was saying something about how “cute” some Target home decorative thing was and he said “anything for you, baby.”

Anything for you, baby. Words I have never heard.

Golddiggers get shit done. I’m sure there is a happy medium between being a golddigger and being a “give the milk for free” kind of gal. But not only do golddiggers get shit done, they make damn sure they get treated with the respect they deserve.

Why I would be a golddigger, were my husband and I to ever separate – quite simply put is because this cow ain’t giving out milk for free anymore. I have gone on way too many dates where the guy was cheap – something no woman should ever tolerate. My own husband has never actually taken me out on a real date. Our first time out he asked me for my half of the In ‘N’ Out order.

I’m not intending to talk badly about my husband or anything (actually … who taught him to treat women like that?); and there are plenty of things that make up for how cheap he can be. I’m just trying to illustrate just how much milk I have ended up giving out for free over the years. Maybe it’s California because before meeting my husband I dated a lot of guys out here that were very similar – cheap and expecting everything to come to them.

The point is that a golddigger demands the respect she deserves by virtue of her golddigging. Again, I’m sure there is a happy medium between nothing and everything. In the meantime, let’s hold fast to how much respect the golddigger commands.

Now to the point of this post altogether: Why I Could Never Be a Golddigger, quite simply put, is because I’m a slob. A pigslob. I’m an uncouth, unkempt, self-professed gutter whore.

#1 Every other word out of my mouth is a curse word. I mean every other fucking word. I don’t really swear around the Pookies, but every once in a while one slips. And then there was that one time (about an hour ago) that I announced “I think I pulled my left ass-cheek muscle vacuuming today.”

#2 I am terribly unkempt. Today was a particularly long and arduous day. I baked. I cooked. I made a delectable dinner that everyone bitched and complained about. I cleaned the bathrooms. I dusted. I did three loads of laundry. I vacuumed. And I scrubbed down the kitchen. Tonight I was sitting here working on my blog and eating some frozen yogurt to reward myself for all the work I did and I dropped a little bit on my shirt. No big deal, right? Just get a napkin and wipe it off, right? Well the napkins were too far away, and quite frankly I didn’t want to lose out on any speck of my fro yo, so I just licked it up. Licked it right up faithful blog followers, off my shirt. Then I went about my business.

#3 I say what I’m thinking irrespective of where I am or who I’m saying it to. I don’t act like a total jerk about it; and oftentimes I censor myself for a moment or two so as to not be rude. I also avoid conflict, but when I have something snarky or funny to say – I say it.

A great example of this was last night. We went out to dinner to what we thought was a restaurant/sports bar – but that had apparently remodeled since we were last there – to create this faux French bistro theme. Everything seems to be french-themed in our community these days – the fucking Eiffel tower is plastered everywhere, much to the disdain of those of us that actually have lived in or visited France, studied the French, or are Francophone. Nonetheless, it’s close to our apartment and the only other option it seemed was the Italian place next door that specializes in Barilla lasagna and fish tacos (I know … huh?).

When I looked through the menu, I immediately saw that the things they claimed to have added a “French twist” to were the exact same items as were available when it was a restaurant/sports bar. I didn’t know that the French serve BBQ Western hamburgers and turkey with mashed potatoes! The prices were a little higher as well; maybe that was the French twist. But all my old go-tos were the same: BBQ chicken salad, chicken sandwich with fontina cheese, and caprese thin-crust pizza, so I was happy to just go with the pizza. French you say?

So I had two classes of wine (not French, I might add) by the end of my not-French meal and was feeling a little lippy. It was loud and there were a lot of people there, so I didn’t think it would be a big deal if I leaned over to my husband and cracked a joke.

“Nick … this place is about as French as my asshole. You know what … I’m going to open a restaurant called ‘My French Asshole and Italian Hoo-Haa.’ Our main dishes will be hamburgers, donuts, and fish tacos.”

My husband immediately leaned a little closer to me, I could only assume to applaud my crass humor (that has never actually happened), and pointed out that the manager of the restaurant was standing right behind me to ask how our meal was.

So you see, faithful blog followers: I could never be a golddigger. It isn’t that I wouldn’t (because I would), or that I would have some sort of moral opposition to it (because I think in many cases it’s the only way to get shit done). Nope, I couldn’t be a golddigger because I’m a crass pigslob.

And on another note, we could also have an alternate title to this blogpost: Reasons That Birth Control Should Be Added To My Water Supply.