The truth is, things haven’t been all gloom and doom around here. It’s not like I’m sitting around in last week’s underwear listening to the Smiths on repeat while downing hot chocolate after hot chocolate. Not at all. Nope. I did laundry last weekend, am currently listening to the new Girl Talk album, and I  haven’t had a sip of hot chocolate in over 3 hours Yay me!

In other news I’m been geeking out in a major way the last few weeks. I haven’t spent a lot of time on the internets, but I have been spending a lot of time indulging in other things that make me oh so happy.

For instance, this weekend I was lucky enough to have some great girls join me on a wonderful musical adventure. I wasn’t sure it would be possible to have a night compare to the last time I went to see Joshua Radin, but -despite not making out with his drummer this time around (he had a new one who made weird sex faces when he played) it was pretty much the best night I’d had in a while.

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Per usual, Mr. Radin’s angel voice nearly made me faint.  I know I  wasn’t the only one by the way the crowd simultaneously sighed everytime he belted out a note. His new album is a little more rock-ish than I’m used to, but I actually dig it A LOT.

The real surprise of the night was his opener, Kelley James. I probably wouldn’t have been a huge fan of his music had I not seen him live but on top of having a knack for writing clever pop-culture related songs, the dude can really pump out some quality free-style- which is pretty much my favorite thing in the world. Seriously. I believe he shares a manager with Lil Jon, which basically makes us rapper cousins.

Well not really, but I did once challenge Lil Jon to a rap off at a nice Dallas eatery. After a few cocktails, I just couldn’t help myself. It didn’t actually happen… I’m pretty sure he thought I was joking, but I’m pretty sure I could have at least battled it out for 20 or 30 seconds before he Oh Yeahhhhed me outta tha’ place.

Here is Kelley James. I think we can all relate to this song a little. In fact, while he was doing the intro, my friends and I (all avid twitter and googlers) were ironically in the audience google stalking and tweeting at him like there was no tomorrow. Enjoy.

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In other non-related news, something huge has happened with my mouth.

You may recall the long time love affair that I’ve always had with ketchup? Well I’ve decided to have a serendipitous affair. With ketchup’s father.

Yeah I know, it seems a little bit gross. I always thought tomatoes were nasticular myself. I’ve spent hours upon hours of my life picking every single ketchup morsel out of pre-made salads. I’ve tossed many a tomato out the window after Wendy’s soggied up spicy chicken sandwich by ignoring my “hold the tomatoes” request. I’ve even grossed quite a few people out by spitting bites of chewed up tomato bits into my napkin.

Not only that, but I’ve always had a bit of an issue with the word “tomato.” I can never remember how it’s spelled. I always want to put an “e” on the end, making it “tomatoe.” Is that how the British people do it? Is that correct in some language? I don’t know. I do know that I also have gotten annoyed the way people say “tomato, tomahto,” and even more when people from my home state of Texas say tomater. Which is weird because I’m perfectly fine when people say potater. I don’t know, but I think it’s just because I always hated the food so much.

But now I say, “What the heck was I thinking?” Tomatoes are delicious, delicious I tell you! How did I go so long without them on my sandwiches, in my salads, plain with some pepper on top!???

I’m sorry ketchup, but you may not be as tasty as your father. I’m still up for a threesome though if you’d like.

Yummy tomato, get in my mouth!

Dearest Ketchup,

Is Ketchup OK? Or do you prefer Catsup? For now we’ll stick with Ketchup…

I’m not trying to come across like a creepy fan here, but I feel like it’s time I came clean with you about a few things.

I heart cuddling.

 I have been a huge, HUGE fan of yours for a  very very VERY long time, and I think it’s time you understood the extent of my love for you.

Just so you know, I’ve only written a few fan letters in my life. One was to Jonathon Taylor Thomas, one was to Keith Coogan (yes this Keith Coogan) (and it may have been like last year on Myspace) (Because I LOVE him and ”the dishes are done, man”) and one was to Seth Green. I was really fucked up watching Robot Chicken when I wrote the Seth Green one, so I’m not even sure it should count. I haven’t EVEN written John Cusack a fan note yet. Oh I’ve sent him a few ambien induced tweets, but still. What I’m trying to say is, Ketchup, is that you are one of the elite.

We could pick out yummy recipes together.

I’ll be honest with you, it started out as an innocent crush. Growing up, I would casually put you on fish sticks and chicken nuggets. Even now, when the idea of fish sticks pretty much makes me want to hurl, I would probably eat them if there was enough of you smothered on them. I would probably eat anything with enough of you smothered on it. Maybe not snails or poop though. I have to draw the line somewhere.

I could teach you how to dance...

I know part of the appeal may come from the fact that my grandparents never really approved. On Thanksgiving, my cousins and I would have to hide you under the dinner table because they thought it was innapropriate to eat you at the table. I still have to do the same whenever I go out to eat steak dinners, apparantly its even rude to ask for you. But I do every time.

NOM NOM NOM

I’m pretty poor, Ketchup, but  no matter how poor I get- I cannot go without you. I always buy the big bottle, though I’ll take you whatever way I can get you. I especially love the Whataburger **fancy ketchup. If it ever came down to it, I might be willing to hold up a Whataburger to get a hold of you.

ODE TO KETCHUP

I put you on chicken, I put you on beans.

I put you on eggs, I put you on greens.

 I put you on potatoes-fried, mashed and baked,

I put you on sandwiches and on  yummy crab cakes.

 I put you on carrots, I put you on rice-

I bet if I put you on cookies it would even taste nice.

Whether it’s Heinz 57,  Hunts or store-brand

I’ll always put you first, ahead of any man.

Or on my man? That might be fun too…

But even if I did, I’d only be thinking of you.

I could probably go on here forever, but there are some things I want to save for the bedroom kitchen.  I kid. Although, you have may heard that on a recent trip to Uncle Julio’s I told my tamale that I would have sex with it if it had ketchup on it, but I want to take this slow. That’s how much I like you.

That being said, I really hope you’ll get back to me so we can “catch up.”

hahaha

I’m sure you get that all the time. I really do hope you know I’m being genuine and  I’m not sort of tomatHOE.

Ok I’ll stop.

I love you,

CarissaJaded (your biggest fan)

P.S.

I know this might be a little weird for you, but I also love cheese and tabasco sauce so I was thinking  that maybe one of these days… nevermind.

**If you do not know about Whataburger fancy ketchup please send me your address and I will send you one. I’m serious. In fact I’ll do a giveaway. Yeah…. comment here and one of you will get a fancy ketchup in the mail.

**I’m serious about the ketchup, but there will be an ACTUAL giveaway later this week. It’s supercool and I’m really excited about it so stay tuned.

I loved to wear big red bows in my hair and sparkly Holiday sweaters. As soon as Halloween was over I would start anticipating my grandparent’s Gingerbread house and the candy jars that sit on their counter every year. I loved driving around and looking at Christmas lights and taking our yearly pictures in front of my house with of the wooden angels my grandfather carved years ago.

Every year my parents and sister and I would wake up around seven in the morning and get our “Santa” presents that would be waiting for us on the couch. Yes, even at the ages of 22 and 26, my sister and I still went through the motions examining each gift, then hugging our parents and saying cheezy things like ” Santa sure was good to me this year,” or “How did Santa know I needed new underwear?” Then we would walk across the street to my grandparent’s house where my cousins would be waiting (not so patiently.) We would spend an hour or so opening up our stockings and drinking coffee. Then we would eat some breakfast and open our gifts to each other. My grandaddy always dresses up as Santa and comes in for a dramatic kiss with my grandma. It is really the most perfect Christmas you can imagine.

I can’t tell you how much I usually look forward to all of this.

I’m not trying to go Bah Humbug all over your faces, but somewhere in the last couple of years it seems I have had a dramatic change in my sentiment.

Don’t get me wrong, Thanksgiving with the family was nice. Albeit a little different from most years, but it was still enjoyable. My grandfather was still in the hospital on Thanksgiving day so my dad stayed with him and my grandmother in the hospital. It was a little weird not having any of them at our Thanksgiving dinner, which is now held at my aunt and uncle’s house.

In addition, my parents split up a few months ago after being together since they were fifteen, so my mom wasn’t at our dinner either.

For the last few months I have been anticipating that things would work themselves out by the time the holidays came around.I know that my parents are entitled make changes if they feel that they need to, and I ultimately just want everyone to be happy… but this kind of makes me want to get on the floor and throw a tantrum. I keep telling myself that I can handle it, that it’s no big deal that there are going to be some major changes in my life when it comes to my family. For the most part I can deal, but some things are going to be more difficult than others to face. Like losing family traditions…

Ok, I’m sure I’ll come back to this subject at some point, but for now I think I’ve talked about it all I care to. Needless to say, I’m a little more bitter than I usually am this time of year. I know I sound whiny and that things could be so much worse. I am so grateful for everyone in my life and that my grandad is doing so much better. But I still sometimes wish things could just go back to being the way they were when I was 10. Or at least I could go back to the blissful state of  ignorance that I had at that age.

But alas, life moves on… or so they say.

Christmas music is already starting to grate on my nerves. I haven’t bought one present. I have literally gained 7 lbs since last Wednesday. And after spending 3 hours yesterday scraping gravy off of my walls after the massive food fight that ensued at my house on Saturday night, I never want to eat mashed potatoes again. Which makes me sad because I love mashed potatoes.

I tried to watch an ABC Family Christmas movie yesterday, and that didn’t even cheer me up.

I hoping that in the next few weeks I’ll have an attitude adjustment for the better, because I really don’t enjoy being grumpy during the holidays.

I had quite an eventful weekend and hopefully by tomorrow I’ll be in the mood to write about some of the more cheerful happenings in my life. Until then, Bah Humbug.

Personally, I have a love/hate relationship with horror flicks. I really like to watch them. Really, I wouldn’t turn one down no matter how “B-rated” it may be. Zombie movies are my favorite, but I will watch ANYTHING. In fact, I got started on “horror movies” way earlier than the average pup. I’m not sure whether my mom just didn’t see anything wrong with showing them to me, or if she really didn’t think they would affect me- but I can honestly say I remember watching Poltergeist at 5 years old.

As much as I like them  and I appreciate that my mother didn’t censor them from me, I have a feeling that movies of the horror genre had a greater influence on me than anyone would have guessed. You might even say I have been scarred for life. So in light of it being “National Scary Movie Week” or at least “My House Scary Movie Week ,” I share with you the 5 movies that had the most profound affect on me as a child.

Arachnophobia: I recently re-watched this movie and I have come to the conclusion that I must have been thinking of a different movie. When I watched it way back when, it was definitely, in no way shape or form- a comedy. This movie absolutely terrified me. I remember making my sister come and sit in the bathroom with me while I showered because I was thoroughly convinced that a spider was going to come up the drain and instantly kill me with it’s poisonous venom. I was scared to eat popcorn because of the scene where a spider is in the bottom of the bowl.  And to this day, if I see a spider, no matter what breed- chances are you will see me pull a cartoon and run straight through the door.

Child’s Play: I have to preface this with the fact that my parents were of the belief that I really liked playing with dolls. Every year they would drag me to the local doll show and buy weird creepy used dolls that I had to pretend to enjoy. Truth was, the only “dolls” I ever really loved was a Teddy Bear named Teddy, and my Teddy Ruxpin.  Even before I saw this movie I was convinced that my dolls would come alive when no one was around. I blame this on my viewing of Jim Henson’s “A Christmas Toy” about a kajillion times. (If you haven’t seen this, it was basically an earlier, more primitive version of “The Toy Story.”) I was already very sensitive about my doll’s feelings, and didn’t want any of them to feel more important than the others. So after I caught a viewing of Child’s Play at the ripe old age of 7, I was more scared than ever to piss any of my dolls off. Every night before I snuggled up to Teddy, (the regular stuffed animal not Ruxpin because he was hard) I would walk around my room and kiss each and every doll goodnight and tell them that I loved them.

There was one doll in particular that frightened me the most. It was nearly life sized and had red unruly hair, very a la’ Chucky. I grew convinced that this particular doll in a one piece swimsuit would be my demise. I paid it extra special attention, even though it really frightened the bejeezus out of me. I started noticing that it was never in the same place that I left it. I finally told my mother and she swore that she would get rid of it for good. She said she burned it. Years later, when I was a Junior in High School I came home to find that swimsuit doll on my day bead. You might say I went a little ballistic. I thought it had come back for the sequel. My family thought it was hilarious.

Image by Echo9er via Flickr

Pet Cemetery: My dad grew up in the house where my grandparent’s still live. He had 3 other siblings, and came from a family that really loved animals. I loved my grandparent’s house because they had woods in their backyard where my cousins and I would frolic and build forts and such. I loved it all, except for one little area, just barely visible from the back room where I had to sleep. Their pet cemetery. Ah hells no. This shit even has gravestones and everything. I never really thought much about it until I saw the movie. Then I would think of practically any excuse not to have to stay over at their house (even though it was my favorite place on earth) and if I did have to stay the night I would ask to sleep with my sister. On the occasions where I had no choice but to sleep in the back room, I would stay up all night, one eye steadily focused  the white grave stone in the distance. I imagined seeing dogs and cats and raccoons rise from the graves to attack me. Those gravestones still scare me to this day.

Image via Wikipedia

Jaws: My mom had an obsession with pretty much everything that could hurt me (vampires, zombies, spiders, boogie men) and sharks were no exception. Jaws was one of her favorite movies, and consequently one of the movies that I watched as a very young child. As if that movie didn’t scar me enough, every summer my family would make a six hour drive to the coast. My mother would spend the entire six hours reading true stories of shark attacks out loud. As a result, I spent the better half of every summer vacation scouting the ocean for sharks. While my cousins would all take their floats out as far as they could go, I would stay knee deep-eyes out.  I am finally to the point where I’m not afraid to go in the water, but you can bet I would be VERY aware of any dorsal-like fins that may appear in my near vicinity (3 square miles, to be exact.)

The Return to Oz: I haven’t seen this in a very long time (because damnit it was scary) but I do remember it quite clearly. I think. Am I even thinking of the right movie? All of Dorothy’s old friends were stoned (in the turned to rock sense, not doing drugs…)

She meets up with a talking reindeer, a weird robot thingy called Tick-Tock, and a man with an empty pumpkin head. If that is not creepy, then I don’t know what is. I was mostly scared of the lady that changed her heads like they were wigs. Even Dorothy played by that scary girl from the Craft, and she is creepy enough by herself. I don’t have much else to say about this movie, but I know it terrified me.  The trailer is below, just in case you are curious.

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As always, stay classy on this wonderfully beautiful Tuesday.

However, I have been feeling awfully sentimental the last few days and I have not been inspired to use humor as a diversion from my thoughts… which is something I have usually mastered.

I can’t even really put my finger on what has been bothering me exactly, but I just don’t feel in control of many aspects in my life. I’m not trying to complain, for the most part I really do love my life! I have a job, I have the best friends a girl could ask for, and I make enough money to have a little fun every once in a while. It just feels like everything is changing- and there is nothing that I can do to stop it.

After going home to my parent’s house last weekend and ingesting a huge dose of nostalgia, I felt even worse. I had to go through a bunch of  boxes in an effort  to try to find winter clothes that fit, and I came across a bunch of old stuff… and everything seems to have a million memories attached to it.

I came across a box full of post cards from my grandparents, each one mentioning how much they missed me.  I spent a good thirty minutes reading the birthday cards from my parents and cousins. I came across poems that I had written for poetry contests, and crayon drawn pictures  that were supposed to be of the family dog.

After the first box, I turned into a madwoman. I pulled down every box from the top of my childhood closet and turned my room into a disaster scene of artifacts from my past. I found baseball cards that I forgot I ever “collected.” I found notes from my friends that had been folded and refolded so many times that the paper was soft. I read the entries in my baby book  where my mom had written me notes telling me about the time I took my first step, and how I let my friends open all of my birthday presents. I found a framed poem that a junior high boyfriend had written me. I tried on pieces from dance costumes that I wore a bajillion years ago. I flipped through dozens of photo albums of faded pictures, and dramatically ridiculous hair cuts.

Looking at the pictures from when I was a child, I couldn’t help but want to go back there.

I want to sit on the tacky blue furry couch that used to be in the living room. I want to cuddle up next to my mom, and have her read a Bernstein Bears book to me as she looks through her gigantic red glasses. I want my dad to bring fig newtons up to me in my tree house. I want to spend the afternoon “swimming” in a metal tub in my back yard, entertaining myself with My Little Ponies. I want to play barbies at the age of ten with my little sister, enjoying myself even though part of me thought I was a little too old. I want to look forward to a slumber party, and make up dances and build forts with my friends in the living room. I want my grandfather to pick me up from school in his Model T as I wave to my friends. I want to wake up in the morning and watch old Lassie episodes while my dad whips up cinnamon toast in the kitchen.

I know I can handle growing up. I will get through each hardship that life hands me, and I will become a better person for it.

But I can’t help but miss the easier times. I wish that for just one day, I could go back to being a kid- and not take advantage of how easy it is.

And also, only slightly related- I love this song. Brett Dennen has to be one of the best lyricist I’ve ever heard.

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(Make sure you check out Lilu’s  TMI Thursday archives, to read some of the funniest stories you never wanted to hear.)

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Well, since last week I managed to mortify my recent self with a period story, I decided this week to take a stab at a much younger, much more naive version of myself.

The summer after fourth grade, my parents decided to let me go visit some family in New Mexico for a couple of weeks to celebrate my tenth birthday. When we arrived at the airport, I remember telling my parents that my stomach hurt. My mom assured me that I was just having “first flight jitters,” and that as soon as I got there I would feel just fine.

Was she ever wrong! I remember feeling like complete butt (the 9 yr old me wouldn’t have said “I feel like shit or ass”) for the first few days. All I wanted to do was curl up on the bed in pain, and I had no idea why I was dying inside. Why had I thought it was a good idea to go on vacation without my parents?

I tried really hard to act as if everything was ok. I forced myself to go on bike rides and to join in games of football, even though it felt like someone  was jabbing a pogo-stick  up my hoo-ha. I was with my boy cousins and was going through a bit of a tom-boy stage, I didn’t want them to think I was a prissy girl.

About two days after I got there, I was crouched over on the toilet in pain. After I managed to squeeze a little pee out, and I wiped (front to back, just as I was taught.) Then, just as any other normal human does, I took a looksy at the toilet paper before I dropped it in the pot. I remember a feeling of dread passing through my body, even when I first saw it.

Fuck me sideways! (I would have actually said something more along the lines of Holy uh-oh Batman! )

There was totally poop coming out of my pee pee hole!!

I checked several times to make sure I hadn’t mistakenly number two-ed a little bit. Nope, the back end was clean as a whistle.

I may have been young, but I knew something wasn’t right. I also knew there was some sort of connection between the feeling that my uterus was trying to jump out of my vagina, and the fact that my vajayjay was having a horrible case of diarrhea.

Over the next few days, it only got worse. Every time I went to the restroom, I would see the dreaded brown poop spots in my panties. I was in a state of panic. I didn’t want anyone to find out that I was plagued with something that made poop come out the wrong hole, so I denied my strange behavior, stating that I was just home-sick.

Every time I went to the restroom, I would remove my soiled panties, crumple them up into a tight wad, and tuck them into the large pocket on the front of my suitcase.

At the ripe age of  (nearly) ten years old, I began spending a  good portion of my day excavating my private areas, searching for a reason why in God’s name this could be happening to me.  This may have been the beginning of my current recently conquered state of hypochondria, but I began to obsess over what kind of disease would cause my vagina to doo doo.

After a few days, things returned back to normal and I was able to actually enjoy my birthday.

A month later I was back at school, having a grand ole time- when it came back. Once again, I was in fear of  dying, but mostly I was scared that someone would discover  that I was a freak of nature.

For the next few months every time  my symptoms would return, I would carefully tuck my dirty underwear away into my suitcase to ensure no one would accidentally come across them. I took to folding up toilet paper and and putting it in the crotch of my underwear to yield some of the damage. I never let on to my friends or family that I was probably dying from a poopie vagina. It wasn’t until around Thanksgiving when my family was getting to ready to go out of town again,  that the truth finally came out.

When my mother approached me carrying my suitcase in one hand, and an armload of panties in the other- I immediately burst into tears.

“MOMMMMMYY !!! I’m so sorrry!!! I’m so sorry!!!! I’m dyyy-sob-ing!!!”

She hugged me and tried to calm me down. When I was finally composed enough to talk, she asked me why I thought I was dying.

“I poop out my peepee hole…. not all the time… I didn’t want to tell you…”

My mother smiled and gave me a huge hug while I stood there confused.

mom:“Honey, you’re not dying, and that’s not poop. You’ve just become a woman! You’ve started your period!”

And this, my friends, is why I am a huge advocate of sex-education in Elementary School. Do your kids a favor, tell them about the birds and the bees before they convince themselves that they crap out their pee-holes.