On Dealing

I haven't called my Dad to say Happy Birthday in years. And not like one, or two, but like six or ten years. That being said, I've been thinking about it. I can never remember anybodies birthday, my best friend Bud Bleeze, I couldn't even tell you. I think its in November, but have been fucking it up these past few couple times. He has even started to get pissed about it, especially because one year I called him up on the very day of his earth shattering creation and had no idea. It was just a regular day, and the conversation ended awkwardly when he said "you really didn't remember it was my birthday?" and my response was "no. not a fucking clue. But hey, at least I'm honest."

I know my Dads birthday. I never call.

That being said two big things happened this week. Well, actually a buttload of big things happened this week, but there were two that directly affect my current state of mind, and of course, opening statement.

(The beginning of a photo shoot about my bottom via iphone at Joes from AMA)

Big Event Numero Uno.

Shanes World/XPeeps party at Blue moon. I'm helping host the party, rocking it up, talking shit, mingling.... There is one point early in the evening when I run into a girl who knew Hailey Paige, and knew I knew her, and said she is an avid reader of my ridiculous blogs. Piper Austin I believe? That's what her myspace friend request said anyway, along with a short and sincere apology for the event that I have been ranting about.

I'm dancing on the floor, more than a couple drinks in me, in white cotton boyshort panties with "eat me" written on the butt. I made them myself. Well, I spraypainted them myself, didn't actually sit and stich to fucking elastic and blah blah I have no clue how anything fits together but it seems to so I keep buying it. Anway, back to the dancing. Dancing dancing dancing, no other person in the building was dancing. I was shaking my ass off on that fucking dance floor and people just looked at me like I was an animal, maybe one or two people danced through my entire floor routine, but for the most part. Me. Dancing. Alone.

Out of nowhere, and right when I'm about to get crazy and dip into that booty shake Southern folk like to make it rain for, the girl from the bar comes running up and smacks my ass so hard, I spun, fist raised, ready to punch someone in the face.

***Side note. I do not like having my ass slapped. If you've worked with me, you know that. If you haven't, its likely you'd assume that ass smacking is a green light. A vast majority of women like the old rump whack. Not Me.

Back at the bar dancing. Dancing, blind sighted, ready to throw punches. But then I saw it was her.

And I had liked her earlier when we spoke, and thought she was a very sincere and nice girl. So I lowered my fist.

Me (assertive and unfriendly voice): I swear to god if you ever smack my fucking ass again I will punch you in your face. I hate that fucking shit, and nothing pisses me off more. Except maybe the toilet paper coming from the underside instead of the overside. But I hate having my ass smacked.

Her: Holy fucking shit.

She then went into this whole apology, and I was too perved and pissy to sit and listen so I kind of stormed off. Outside. Smoke a cigarette. Chill the fuck out.

After about twenty minutes, I had cooled down. In all honesty, she didn't know. How the fuck is she gonna know I don't like being slapped on the ass? How the fuck is she gonna know that it isn't just her, and she just happens to be the straw the broke the whores back. How the fuck is she supposed to know any of that.

I have to apologize.

I went inside the bar, and found her. I told her I'm sorry. I had no right to snap at her like that, and the tone of my voice was unnecessarily rude. Not cool. I've had a couple drinks and let my emotions get the best of me. And these emotions happen to be inebriated as well.

She again apologized and said she didn't even think about it, and that I've probably had my ass slapped so many times and not said anything, she is so sorry sorry sorry, and by the end of the conversation, we are trading numbers and deciding to make lovely things happen.

But I did need a minute to cool off.

Big Event Numero Doso:

I got a manicure and a pedicure yesterday. I'm so stoked because the nail salon that I frequent just opened a shop within walking distance of my casa. The last two times I went, the experience was lovely, and I left feeling like a pretty woman, but not in that pretty woman kind of way. Nails perfection. Toes, flawless, massage the ol legs and tootsies and dwam. There's your afternoon.

Yesterday I had a lady named Julie, and to this very moment I can't figure out what world exactly she is living in.

I'm sitting at the chair and John is tending to my broken ass nails when Julie sits down with the little pedicure bucket. I put my feet in. A little hot, but that just means it will stay warmer longer so I tough it out. Immediately she demands both my feet be placed on her stool/chair machine, with an enormous grin on her face.

***Side Note: Every other time I've gotten a pedicure in my LIFE, they make you keep one foot in the water while they work on the other. That's the whole reason they have the boiling foot water bucket. So you can put your feet in em, get your toesies all nice and ready for plucking, and ahhhhhh, rub your souls on the bumpy plastic bottom.

Julie wants both my fucking feet out? Are you kidding me?

I'm already nervous about the fact that she is about to file my toe nails, when she gets out the clippers.

I say nothing. You can't really fuck this up.

Everything is fine until she reaches the big toe on mr. right hand side. She digs the clippers deep into the nail, far shorter than my toenail allowed, which means she chomped into my fucking skin.

Me: FUCKING OUCH

Julie: Ooh, sorry, did I hurt you?

Me: DID YOU...Its fine. Just fucking do it.

Julie: hehe

Then she gets out the file. Which was the part I was originally afraid of. Three times I pull my feet away and say

Me: FUCKING OUCH

Julie: teehehehe

Finally it comes time for the massage part of the deal. My favorite. They rub this lotion on your calves and take you from the knee down, all the way to the tips of your freshly pruned toes. Julie, who I'm hoping has some serious aggression that she can take out on my tired and sore calves and slutty little feet, gets to work.

Me (inside my head): Hmmm. They normally use a lot more lotion.

Julie (inside her head): I hate my life, and rubbing this whore's legs and she isn't getting any lotion out of me.

Me (inside my head): Come on Julie, a little more pressure. I thought you had hate inside of you!

Julie (inside her head): This bitch is tense, I'm not gonna strain myself for a five dollar tip.

Me (inside my head): if you don't fix your game, you're getting a five dollar tip.

(Continuation of photo shoot with my bottom at Joe's house from AMA. The bottom photo shoot was not for him. But for you.)

All this happened while John slaved over my nails. My Finger Nails. Yes, very different than toe nails. Fingers, he goes to work with drills and little saws and paint and substance and liquid drilling dust particle mess. John is a savage and makes my shit pimp. I have a feeling he knows exactly what is going on, and remains silent, which if I had to work with this cunt every day I would too. Just make  your money and go home John.

Julie lightly rubbed lotion onto my legs, all the way down to the ankles. And then she got out the nail polish.

Me (inside my head): HOLY FUCKING SHIT, WHAT IS GOING ON. WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON? WHERE IS MY FOOT MASSAGE? Are you kidding me Julie? Where the fuck is my foot massage? That's all part of the deal, I'm no stranger to this game, you can't play me for some fool dirty foot mongrel who doesn't know the just desserts of a pedicure. I fucking love pedicures. Why are you making me hate you? You fucking bitch rub my feet, damnit, I am paying you to make me feel pretty and your making me fucking angry.

Me (outloud): French Tip.

Julie (outloud): teehehehe

Halfway through Julie's surprisingly well executed French tip job on my toes, she looks to me and says this. Outloud.

Julie: Do you come here often? Next time you come you recommend me? You come see me?

Me: Yeah, I'll fucking recommend you.

Me (in my head): ARE YOU SHITTING ME? THIS IS THE WORST PEDICURE EXPERIENCE I HAVE EVER HAD. YOU DID A SHITTY JOB, DIDN'T DO A COMPLETE JOB, AND YOU LEFT OUT THE MOST IMPORTANT THING. WHAT THE FUCK IS A PEDICURE WITHOUT A FOOT MASSAGE???? And you have the balls to ask to be my chick? My fucking toe woman? Do you know what a responsibility that is? You take two weeks of nonsense off my feet and make me beautiful and perfect and I will give you a great fucking tip if you just take care of me like I would you. You have got some nerve lady. NO fucking foot massage? What the fuck planet do you live on where you can perform a shitty half assed service and then have the gall to tell the customer to just come back and get shit on some more. What fucking planet?

I left her a five dollar tip, on a $20 service. I mean, she did scrub my feet.

Sometimes I don't say things when I should. Or when I do, it's the wrong thing. The situations are different,  but my awkward response to life's unfulfilling or annoyingly repetitive drama is always opposite of what one is supposed to do. I feel like I realize it the moment it's passed. Like when you're in third grade and you had a name calling sesh with some bully or maybe even your best friend, you walk back to class and as soon as you hit the blacktop, no more grassy field, the perfect come back hits you, but its too fucking late.

As we get older you can go back though. You can't take words back, but you can try to fix the situation. And I think as adults we learn more to deal with the issue head on.

The adult in me apologized for yelling at a very neat chick who just didn't know, and the kid in me didn't say shit when Julie fucked me over with the foot massage.

I should probably call my dad.