Monday, August 20, 2012

Haleystarr, Incorporated

I'm having a very difficult time finding a large house flag for my front porch that says "Fuck Off."

One can easily find flags that say "Welcome."  One can easily find flags for various seasons and holidays.  There is an abundance of flags with happy little birds or puppies or snowflakes or grist mills (yeah, that's right-- I just said "grist mill."  If you don't know what that is, Google it and consider it your Lesson of the Day.  YOU'RE WELCOME).  But flags with swear words on them?  Not so easy to find.

WHY IS THIS?  YOU KNOW THERE ARE A LOT OF PEOPLE IN THE WORLD (LIKE ME) WHO DO NOT WANT TO WELCOME ANYONE TO THEIR HOME.  THEY WANT PEOPLE TO ROLL UP INTO THEIR DRIVEWAY, LOOK AT THE LARGE HOUSE FLAG, SEE THE "FUCK OFF" AND GO THE FUCK AWAY.   Oh, come on.  You know I'm right.  I figure if anybody is brave enough to ring my doorbell and UNLEASH THE KRAKEN (that's me) after seeing my "Fuck Off" flag, braving the obstacle course of flowerpots that leads to the door, and then continually knocking and ringing my doorbell (because anyone with any sense would know that I NEVER FUCKING ANSWER THE PHONE OR THE DOOR UNLESS IT APPEARS TO BE A DIRE EMERGENCY, AND EVEN THEN I'M LIKELY TO BE AT LEAST HALF NAKED AND ALL THE WAY DRUNK AND REALLY NOT GIVE A FLYING FUCK IF YOU ARE HAVING AN EMERGENCY--{note to Meredith:  This does not apply to you or the time Madi got stuck in the high chair and Blaker and I didn't help you because we were "napping."  Just so you know}) then they are either the kind of person I want to hang out with or the kind of person I want to kill.  Therefore, if I answer the door with my .38 (this is a pistol for those of you who are stupid) in hand I should be fine either way.

All of this begs me to realize that there is a severe need for me in the world (like I didn't already know this).  Imagine what an amazing greeting card writer I would be (my line of "I fucking hate you" cards would probably be best sellers-- I mean, where ELSE are you going to get those?).  Imagine what a fabulous "Unwelcome" mat designer I would be ("DING DONG DIE, BITCHES").  Imagine what a tremendously talented house flag/street sign/GPS voice ("I said turn the fuck left, goddamnit!  Now take a motherfucking right on Main Street, cocksucker") I would be.  WE'RE TALKING REAL TALENT HERE, PEOPLE.
Aren't you glad you have me in your life?  (Yes.  Yes, you are.)

Friday, August 17, 2012

Polyamorous, My Ass

This morning I watched a new television program that I had DVR'd on Showtime called POLYAMOROUS:  MARRIED AND DATING.

That was some fucked up shit, yo.

Now, I will be the first to tell you that I am an opened minded girl.  I'm cool with pretty much anything anybody else wants to do or be as long as it does not cause harm to others and as long as it doesn't affect me personally.  I do not want to watch a transgendered woman have sex with an Asian midget on a  bench at the mall.  That said, I do not want to watch ANYONE have sex on a bench at the mall, so I do not consider these feelings to be particularly prejudiced.  I don't want to share my husband with ten sister-wives, but I don't care if someone else does (as long as we're not still talking about MY husband here-- let's make that clear-- you gotta find your own husband, bitches).

That said, I feel the same way about these crazy-ass polyamorous people.  Fine if they want to be that way, but there's no way in hell that I could.  Take, for instance, this one married couple, Anthony and Lindsey.  They're pretty young (mid to late twenties, maybe) and are married.  But for three years, they have also had a girlfriend named Vanessa.  They all three sleep in the same bed and have sex all together (who else thinks this is a win/win situation for Anthony?  Boys are dumb.) and in various couple combinations.  They are committed to one another and don't hook up with anybody else-- it's just the three of them.  Now, Vanessa has PROPOSED to Anthony and  Lindsey (as a couple) and they plan to have a commitment ceremony essentially "marrying" the three of them.  Awesome.

(Note:  I bet that makes for some CONFUSING SHIT when they fill out forms.  Most forms I have filled out only have one line for the spouse.  Hmmmm....which makes me wonder if in Utah, forms are different since so many of the polygamists live there.  I once knew a doctor who practiced in Utah for a year, but "Now he's just somebody that I used to know" (look at me, throwing some fucking Gotye lyrics into my blog--despite the sad truth being that I don't own any records and I doubt he changed his number, although I don't know that for sure--BAM, bitches, I'm practically the female Ryan Seacrest, not that that's a positive thing) so I can't call him up and ask.  Sorry.) 

Anyway, back to being polyamorous.

There was this OTHER group of people on the show who lived in San Diego (the first group lived somewhere else in CA-- gotta make you wonder about those crazy Californians) that was comprised of two married couples.  Michael and Kamala were married to one another and Jen and Tahl were married to one another.  But they all live together and trade spouses and such.  I have yet to figure out if Tahl and Michael also hook up, but I'm pretty sure everybody else does with everybody else.  WHAT THE FUCK?  (And does that actually make them Monogamous Swingers?  Because I really like the sound of that.)

Could you imagine?  I mean, I love Meredith and Dave to death, but it'll be a cold day in Hell when I invite them to live with us and be our lovers (sorry guys, I'm sure you find this deeply disappointing as I TOTALLY get the monogamous swingers vibe from you, because WHO WOULDN'T WANT TO BE MONOGAMOUS SWINGERS WITH ME AND B?  NOBODY, THAT'S WHO).  What if somebody gets knocked up?  How do you figure out who is the Dad?  And honestly-- BITCHES BE JEALOUS.  There's no fucking way that Jen, with her unfortunate nose and nervous hair-twirling tic doesn't feel at least A LITTLE jealous and intimidated by her husband fucking the beautiful (but ANNOYING AS ALL FUCK) Kamala.  No.  Fucking.  Way.

It all makes for some fascinating television, though.  I will say that.

I thought I had a wheelbarrow full of crazy.  Compared to those guys, I'm pretty normal.  Sure, I microwave my cold cereal before I eat it (I like it soggy), enjoy therapeutic vacuuming, and won't get in a public pool to save my (germ-free) life, but at least my quirks don't create a need for me to remember whether I'm supposed to bed down with my husband or my lover and his wife tonight.  (At least, not yet.)  I mean, one can't be polyamorous if one struggles just to be amorous in the first damn place.  (Instead of saying "I love you," I prefer to just say, "I hate everyone who isn't you."  It's really more accurate, in all honesty.)

As the old saying goes, I guess it does take all kinds to make the world go 'round.  And what a world it is turning out to be.

Thursday, August 16, 2012

Hope Floats

I've been kinda busy lately.  Not too busy to write, but far too busy to blog.  However, dire circumstances have created the need for Starrtrippin' to BUST IN AND SAVE THE FUCKING DAY, (which basically means my little sis needs a blog to cheer her up, so HERE IT FUCKING IS.)  In dedication to Ro, Sadie Bug, and Little Lily.

Have you ever noticed that JUST when you think everything is going smoothly and all is going to be okay, SHIT GOES ALL TO HELL?

It does.  At least as best I can tell.

This summer is the perfect example of my theory.  I had no plans for this summer.  My usual trip to Tennessee wasn't even on the agenda, because my Mom had visited in June and my best buddy, MT, was getting married in October (which obviously warranted a trip home) so the plan for the summer involved a whole lot of reading, pool time, and obsessive-compulsive cleaning (because that's who I AM, people).  The plan was a LOW KEY SUMMER. Trips to the beach.  Dinners on the deck.  Drinks by the pool.  A whole lot of nothing.

THEN, my dog died.  Then my Grandmother died.  Then I went to Tennessee.  Then most of my friends moved out of state and/or out of the country (stupid Navy doctors, pilots, and Army men).  Then my little cousin was told by her (fucking idiot) doctor that she might be diabetic (we're still waiting on the results, but my long-diabetic self is pretty sure her sweet little 3-year-old, non symptomatic self is fine).  Then my baby cousin (her little sister) was diagnosed with a tumor on her eyelid and told she needed surgery.  Then, during a well-child check, Sutt's vision was found to be 20/50 in his right eye, thus sending me on a wild goose chase with an optometrist who wants to date me (despite my insistence, and my records showing that, I'm married, happily, to the guarantor of the insurance policy). Holy fucking hell.  What a summer.

At this point, I can't help but think that it's very possible that we are all chess pieces on a big, giant cosmic board and that somebody is having a super fun time with us.  So to cheer myself (and Ro) up, I'm going to make a list.


1.  After much mourning and crying and keening for my sweet, lost Maddie May, we adopted DOG NUMBER TWO.  Dog Number Two is a rescue dog, and I SWEAR TO MY SWEET JESUS, OUR LORD, that Maddie lead me to her.  I woke up one morning in July (Maddie died June 7) after dreaming about Maddie being all happy and whatnot in Heaven with my Dad, turned on my phone, and the first thing that popped up was a photo on my Facebook feed of this dog that I KNEW BELONGED TO US.  It was a puppy.  It was scruffy.  It looked like somebody had taken about seven dogs, chopped them into pieces, then glued some of the parts all together to make a complete dog.  Her front half was white and sleek, her back half was apricot and frizzy, her ears were enormous, and her underbite was so noticeable that you really didn't see anything else. It was a female, at the Cleveland, TN, ARK and I KNEW WE WERE MEANT TO LOVE HER AND MAKE HER A MCPHAIL.  Sadly, she was 700 miles away, which was kind of an issue, albeit a small one as far as I was concerned because I WAS GETTING CELESTIAL GUIDANCE Y'ALL.  THIS DAMN DOG WAS MEANT TO BE MINE.  So I called my Mom on her lunchbreak and said, "Hey, Mom, wanna go check out a dog in Cleveland for me?"  Mom, being the awesome, spontaneous being that she is, said, "Sure," loaded up the Jeep and drove to Cleveland from Chattanooga to scope out this dog.  My requirements were steep-- she had to be friendly, she had to be absurdly spastic, and she had to be one of those dogs who (like some babies) was so ugly she was cute.  And that's how we got Lola, a ginormous adoption fee worth of DAMN CRAZY MUTT.  I love her.  She's fabulous.  Our beloved Maddie is gone, but she approves and is proud.  I can feel it.

2.  We're taking strides towards the future.  Blaker found a job in Berlin.  We decided we didn't want that one.  But that doesn't mean that we aren't still headed overseas.  The search, slowly but surely, is on.

3.  When things got bad, I packed up our stuff and the kids and we went to Chapel Hill to see Ray.  It had been FOREVER since I had seen her, which sucks, but we both have families and jobs and stupid adult responsibilities now that frequently seem to waltz into the way of our time together.  It was great.  I learned about a new show comparable to SWAMP PEOPLE called AX MEN.  We drank lots of wine.  I met a fabulous new friend named Betsy, who allowed her leg to be a stripper pole so that Ray could perform her new moves for me.  I learned about gluten.  I ate eggplant.  All in all, it was a successful trip.  I miss my Ray.

Okay, so I'm running out of really awesome stuff to list, because, honestly, this summer has fucking sucked.  Other than rediscovering my love for a super dirty vodka martini and learning exactly what a Black Widow Spider looks like, nothing much positive has happened.  It rained a lot and our roof leaked.  Lola ate one of my favorite shoes.  Bellamy talks nonstop about ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY nothing.

But you know what?  Things will get better.  I honestly think that.  And so, I'm waiting.  Waiting for Fall and waiting for Better.  They're coming.  I'm sure of it.