Me and Mr. Jones

Ahh...What a week. Full of frustrations, stupid boys and the feelings they give me, and drama, real and imagined.

I'll recap.

Okay. This has been a week chock full of baby daddy issues and the sheer ineptitude of the Cuyahoga County Child Support Enforcement Agency. Last Friday (Black Friday, coincidentally), Le Douche Extraordinaire (also known as Douchebag McGee, or Nicky's dad) calls my house, wanting to speak to yours truly. I, however, am not home, seeing as it's Friday and I'm exiled at Lakewood for ten hours. My mom calls me and gives me the run down. I'll share a brief summary of our call.

Me: Hello?
Mom: Lashawn?
Me: Hi, Mom. What's up?
Mom: Asshole called. (Doesn't she have a way with words, that mother of mine?)
Me: What the hell did he want?
Mom: He wanted to know if you were home today. He wants to bring the papers by for you to sign.
("The papers" meaning the papers I'm supposed to sign so that he gets out of paying child support. Dirty bastard.)
Me: Hell fucking no. I'm not signing shit. I already told him that. Several times.
Mom: He wants to come by Monday.
Me: I'm not signing shit, dude.
Mom: I told him he could come by but I wasn't guaranteeing that you'd sign anything.
Me: Stupid douchebag fucker.

Okay, so I can't call CSEA because those lazy bastards are on holiday for Thanksgiving. Because, you know, they're so busy not finding deadbeat dads who skip out on paying their support. Naturally. So I sit in a perpetual fit of rage all weekend long. Ruins my weekend.

Monday comes. I call CSEA and talk to this call representative guy, who turns out to be quite possibly the most brilliant man I've encountered yet over my three years of dealing with the bumbling CSEA. He tells me they sent a letter out ot his place of employment a month ago telling them to start payroll deducting the support from his checks. They got no response, so they sent another letter out ten days before I called. I'm slightly excited because I figure that maybe they have the bastard cornered. So I tell him I'm worried Douche may skip out and run to Tennessee. Awesome CSEA Guy pulls up info on Douche's wife's dad (who lives in Tennessee) and flags it in my report so that my newest case person can pursue that lead. When I hang up the phone a half hour later, I feel cautiously optimistic. The ball is finally rolling.

And then Tuesday comes. I'm in a glowing state of a good mood, and then I get a call from CSEA. Apparently, "Mr. Serrano's employer is not on file." Screeeeech. Ball comes to an abrupt stop. I ask how is that possible when they sent a letter to his job, and I'm told that "often in these situations, the father is receiving cash payment." Well...I hang up and I try calling my new case woman, whom I find out is on vacation until December 7th. Well fan-fucking-tastic. Splendid.

And the week drags on. I slog through work, feeling like God, life just about sucks right now. I look at that apartment, and I'm happy. Overjoyed. But then my best friend's husband ruins it. The guy I like and mess with from time to time (it's a long and gahhh kind of story) lives next door to the building, and he's the one who told me about said apartment for rent. Innocent enough, right? Well, my best friend mentions it to her husband, but she tells him it's in the same building, which leads him to say "She needs to quit fucking stalking him and get a life." Whoa dog. I don't stalk people. I have never stalked a dude in my life. Nonetheless, he says all this harsh and unnecessary shit which totally depresses me and makes me feel like shit.

The next few days go by without a problem. I'm thinking that perhaps the week will end nicely.

Right. I go to the grocery store with Nicky and my mom today, and just guess who I happen to be two checkout lanes away from? Just guess. Douchebag McGee and his woman. By this point I'm pretty much like are you fucking kidding me, and he glances in my direction and she glares at me repeatedly. Seriously. I haven't seen that fucker in almost four years, and suddenly I have this uncontrollable urge to smack the shit out of him. He's lucky there were no scissors nearby, or else he'd have a pair sticking out from his jaw. I, however, would like to reassure you that I am an adult and did not stab him in the jaw or smack him or even confront him. Him and his skank are the kind of people who will file a police report against you, so I did the next best thing. I talked shit about him really loudly so that he could hear me. I'm not sure if he did hear me, but it made me feel good, so that's all that matters.

I'm going to call the tragically inept CSEA tomorrow and demand some answers. I'm tired of him getting away with this crap. I also got the apartment, but I told the landlord I won't have money to put down on it until after Christmas. That doesn't work. I have to put money down on it now or he'll show it to this other girl. Ughhh. Now I have to try and borrow some money from God knows who this week or the apartment will go to someone else. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Here's to hoping this week goes the tiniest bit better.

Circus

Happy Thursday!

I am currently eating a sizable piece of pumpkin roll, leftover from last week's Thanksgiving festivities. It is delish. I slathered it in Cool Whip, which adds to the yum factor.

Yummm.

So...I went and saw the apartment by my job yesterday. It's nice. It's a one bedroom, which is cool, especially since the living room is huge. I could throw a futon in there and call it a day. Rent is $525 for two people, which I can definitely do. Hopefully no one rents it out before I can move in. But considering my luck, I'll probably be stuck at my parents' house a bit longer.

I kept Nicky home from school today. He's sick. Again. Honestly, his classroom is like a little germ factory! He also used up his deductable on my medical insurance, which means he can't get seriously sick until March--that's when my insurance starts over.

I can't really think of anything to rant about today...Life's been sucking a lot lately, so I'm just trying to get through each day without having an emotional meltdown. I have an overwhelming desire to stab Nicky's dad in the jaw with a pair of rusty scissors and then not let him get a tetanus shot afterwards. I'm tired of this child support drama. I'm tired of people who can't mind their business and think they can form opinions about my life--when you do that, usually you're wrong, so I'm going to just suggest that nosy people should keep out. It's been a crappy two weeks, and I'm just hoping that my life brightens up soon.

Bad Romance

I think of you
Far much than I really should
My thoughts linger too long on the curve of your lips
And the way your eyes light up when you smile

I cannot explain the way I feel
This sudden rush of emotion
That accompanies thoughts of you
I cannot even begin to explain
Why

I long to feel your fingers
Your touch against my bare skin
I am dying to feel your lips crushed against my own
Caught up in the heat of the moment
Our bodies pressed together
Breathing harsh and fast
Fingers scrabbling at flesh,
Limbs twined
I long to feel that rush,
Like a snort of carnal cocaine
I feel as though I’m already addicted to you
And will not be able to get enough

My stupid heart
Hopes achingly
Wondering if we are destined to be
That I found you for a reason
My brain is telling my heart to shut the hell up
I don’t need the confusion
I just want to live in the moment and let go
Is that too much for me to ask?

--"Untitled", Lashawn Chillious
(Written 6/20/2008)

Beautiful Dirty Rich

It's late, so I thought I'd share with you guys that today is November 17th. Why is this date important? It's the day I was supposed to be born, and one month away from my real birthday.

Yay!!!!

I will be 24. One year away from 25, which hails the beginning of my quarterlife crisis. That should be a fun installation in my blog.

And now it's time for bed, since I have to get up at the asscrack of dawn to take Nicky to school. More tomorrow!

XO

Where I Stood

Ugh. My jaw looks as though someone just decided to haul off and punch me. I had a really bad experience with Percoset yesterday, resulting in severe nausea and dizziness. I had my mouth assaulted by an oral surgeon, resulting in one less wisdom tooth cramping my jaw's style.

Hurray.

In other news, my job blocked blogging sites, so I'll have to save funny work shit for when I get home. On the positive side, I'll be doing a lot more blogging in my pajamas. Rowrrr. It'll be The Nighttime Confessions of a Crazed and Oppressed Receptionist. Or the mid-morning. You get the idea. It'll be scandalous, racy, a tad sexy, and as always, absolutely insane. I promise it'll be better than Sarah Palin's memoir. And all my -ing words will end with a "g".

Hmm...As some of you know, I have an irrational fear of squirrels. Why, I'm not entirely sure, though I think it has something to do with my dad telling me that if I got bitten by one I'd have to get ten shots in my stomach or I'd die of rabies. That could explain me avoiding them like The Plague. Well, usually I just go about my day and stomp my foot if a rogue squirrel is doing his/her squirrel thing in my general vicinity. Now...I will cross the street if they don't run away. The other day I actually felt a twinge of panic when I walked past one eating an acorn on my street. Panic. Like actual fear. I'd recommend therapy, but I'm sure the psychiatrist would either laugh at me or tell me my fear of the squirrel is a metaphor for how I hate my mother.

But I love my mom. I just have a weird, completely illogical phobia of squirrels. Thank God it's nearly winter and those nefarious critters will be off in their trees, jacking off or sleeping or watching NHL or whatever the hell it is that squirrels do in their spare time.

Any suggestions on how to get over this insanity are welcome.

Paparazzi

(Note: There is no real point to today's post. I'm in a silly mood and started typing.)

I know I've said it before, but I think I'm pretty awesome.

Clarification. I know I am pretty awesome. Quite possibly the epitome of awesomeness. Who's gonna argue against that? (I'll karate chop you in the throat if you do. Be warned, friend.) I've lived a life chock full of awesomeness and kickass things. Being born, circa 1985. Selling my brother for a brief period of time in 1991. The Lashawn Fan Club, circa 1997. Taping toilet paper to my shoe in 8th grade and taking off down the hall. Falling down the stairs so many times at St. Joe's and making it look cool. Breaking Jesus and putting him back together with Sticky-Tac. Getting suspended six times in a Catholic high school. Taping a picture of MC Hammer on the back wall of my Honors English 11 class. Jumping over a box at Burger King and missing the other side and falling in the box, in front of a full restaurant of people. Walking like a really crappy drag queen when I wear high heels. Organizing a Miss America pageant in grade school and getting the boys in my class to do the "Here she is, Miss America" wave. Writing a play in 7th grade that we never performed but everyone was psyched about (the writing wasn't that awesome, but the concept was). Sitting on the floor in Honors English 12 when I really was supposed to sit in my chair.

You can't really plan or be taught these things, no. You just have to let them come to you, just let them happen. You have to be born with that kind of raw excellence.

I'm an iconoclast. I do awe inspiring things daily, whether it be saying something dazzlingly witty or making people roll their eyes or tripping over nothing or muttering to myself...I can always be counted on to jazz things up, to be the cilantro in the spice rack of life. I'm a one-woman production. I'm F-ing awesome, dude. You don't mess with that Nobel Prize winning formula. Nay. (Apparently, I'm also quite the Narcissist.)

I mean, I like to sit in my pajamas on a Friday night (when I'm broke, holla) and eat ice cream and watch Law and Order DVDs with my dad. Why? Because it's badass, that's why. No one who wasn't in touch with their awesomeness would dare admit to such a thing, but since I am the Chuck Norris of Awesomeness, I can and will admit to it. I'm secure in my awesomeness.

I'm scared of squirrels. How many people confident enough with their supreme coolness would reveal such a potentially embarrassing factoid to the world? (That particular fear is getting a bit out of control, actually. We'll address that later on, in another post.) How many people can say they had dreams about being best friends with David Beckham, called him Becks, and drank a most likely vile concoction of vodka and Gatorade? Not too many, I'm sure. How many people wrote wondrous little ditties about Erik the Red and his son, Leif Erikson? Exactly.

It takes a special person to carry the torch of insanity.

The Sound of White

I want a guitar for Christmas.

No, I don't know how to play the guitar. Yes, I used to play my friend Katie's like a stand-up bass back in high school because I thought it was funny. Why, you ask, why would I want a guitar? Because. I want to be an artsy singer/songwriter with a cool guitar case and a cup of latte from Starbucks, who looks at the world through poetic eyes and thinks all of life is a song. I want to jam out like John Mayer does on his electric guitar. I want even more people to think that I am kickass and cool. Naturally, part of me thinks I'll get frustrated with learning to play after a week and just put said guitar in a corner somewhere and forget about it. The other part insists that I will become a stellar guitarist.

Right. Because I really nailed the recorder back in high school. I still cringe when I hear "Mary Had A Little Lamb"...I screeched through that one quite nicely, thank you. I'll keep you posted.


Ugh. My shoulder hurts. I have like the worst posture ever at my desk. I start out sitting all normal and upright, but somewhere during my day I morph into the hunchback of Notre Dame. I have long voiced to the girls in the office my desire of keeping a geisha in the closet to give me hot tea and massages when the stabbing pain in my muscles begins, but it usually gets laughed off in that "oh that Lashawn is such a silly girl" way. What can a girl do to get taken seriously? I'm thinking about getting one of those things you throw over the back of your chair and it massages your back and adds heat to "relax the pain away." Those are kind of pricey though, so I'm leaning more towards just bitching about the pain and rubbing my shoulder in a melodramatic fashion. Or I could have Nicky give me a massage. He's not really that awesome at it, but it's really cute when he rubs my shoulders. Plus, it's free. You can't argue with that.

I'm looking out the garage window, and it looks beautiful outside. One of those super nice, sunny and brisk quintessential kind of Autumn days we get in Ohio. The air has a brisk chill in it, along with the faint smell of the falling leaves. Of course, I get out at 6, so by the time I leave work it will be dark and blah outside. Makes me want to go home, curl up with a comfy blanket, and take a nap.

Sounds good. I'll leave you with a Friday afternoon quote from one of my personal heroes, Ricky Bobby (of Talledega Nights fame):

"I wake up in the morning and I piss excellence."