Gum in My Hair

An embarrassingly honest blog

Fly on the Wall: I See What You Do When You Leave the Bar March 31, 2011

Filed under: No Common Sense — dulcedementia @ 11:58 am
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I can sleep through just about anything. My last apartment was ON Colorado Blvd. near Rose Medical Center and a fire station. It also had a bus stop in front of the building and a lot of weird cracked out people coming and going at all hours of the day and night. Now I live behind a bar. I live behind a bar that is also a music venue and hosts karaoke twice a week. Yes, you read that right. Karaoke two nights a week.

If you live behind a bar that does karaoke, you know exactly what I’m talking about, but for those of you sort of cocking your head to the side in confusion, let me explain. People get fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucked up when they sing karaoke. I think it has to do with a need for liquid courage, but whatever it is, there is no crowd more wasted than a karaoke crowd. And the bar I live behind does it twice a week. Oh. And they have a huge patio. So, I’ve developed the ability to sleep through drunken yelling, fist fights and general revelry.

However, on occasion, I’m either still awake or sleeping very lightly and one or more people will grab my attention and I’ll perk up and listen or watch what happens below. Recently I’ve had two such occasions happen pretty close to one another and I thought I would share them with you.

"Give me my shit, bro!"

The first was Saturday, when I listened to a band break up after their performance. It was late, and pretty obvious that they were drunk after their set and they were packing up their gear, when I start hearing this one guy yell at his girlfriend, calling her all sorts of names. I’m foggy on the details (I had just come back from a night of drinking as well), but I do remember him yelling louder and louder until finally, I heard the van start up.

Then more yelling as it became apparent that the rest of the band was in the van and intended on leaving this guy in the parking lot.

“Oh great, now my own band is leaving me! Give me back my shit, bro! Give me my shit!”

Then the response, “Where the fuck are you gonna put it? You don’t have the space for it!”

After about 5 minutes of this back and forth, I think they just left him there because it got really quiet. Poor guy. He used to be in a band and have a girlfriend. Now I think he has neither.

The next situation happened Tuesday night. I had been out at a happy hour (that lasted 5 hours, I’m looking at you, Lindsay) and was really scared about oversleeping and missing a 9 am meeting with Erika Napoletano, so I was kind of in and out of sleep, when, around 2:30 in the morning I was woken up by screams. Not terror screams. Anger screams.

I laid in bed trying to ignore them, but then they were accompanied buy a dull repetitive *thud*. Alright, that’s enough to get me to drag myself across the bed to crack the blinds and look out the window that overlooks a parking lots. What I saw blew my mind.

In the middle of the parking lot, in front of the pay station kiosk for the parking lot was a heavy set woman drunk off her ever loving ass roundhouse kicking the kiosk over and over while screaming at the payment screen on the kiosk.

Her kicks were so forceful and she was so drunk that every time she landed a kick on the machine, she would spin herself around 3-4 times and wind up about 10 feet away from the kiosk. She would stumble back to the kiosk and proceed to start kicking it again. Occasionally, she would mash some buttons on the screen and when nothing happened, she would scream and the kicking would resume.

I bet this pay station has never been beat up.

I watched her do this for a half an hour.

She finally got tired of kicking and removed one of her shoes and started using it to hammer the top and sides of the payment machine. Still screaming, by the way.

Finally, I decided she wasn’t going to stop and I tried to go back to sleep. Pretty quickly after I laid down, the shadows in my room started flashing, which means only one thing: cops. I looked out the window to see four cop cars outside, all with flashing lights. The screaming lady was nowhere to be seen.

I assume she was arrested and more than likely broke one of her toes, since I don’t think you can kick anything that long without damaging something on your body.

So the moral of the story? I think there are several.

If you’re drinking at a neighborhood bar, know that someone in one of the buildings next to the bar will watch or hear when you make an ass of yourself.

Bodies can be trained to sleep through almost anything.

Parking lot pay stations are apparently huge dicks, but, man, can they take a beating.


Paperwork: The Office Word for Satan March 24, 2011

Filed under: No Common Sense — dulcedementia @ 2:58 pm
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Ever since I was in second grade I learned what paperwork really meant: busy work. When I was 7, paperwork was what your teacher gave you to do in class when she just needed five. More. Minutes. Of quiet (I totally get that now, btw). It was typically a maze or a multiplication table with rabbits on it or some bullshit, but you know what, I knew it was not really pertinent to my long term education.

I still feel that way about paperwork. It’s just fucking busy work and I cannot seem to get my brain to process it as anything important, no matter how hard I try. It’s why a lot of important government forms are filled out wrong (or not at all) or why I never file them to begin with.

This is how I envision any job that involves paperwork.

The other reason I fear paperwork more than I fear being attacked by a ravenous swarm of African bees that just had their hive invaded by a nastyass honey badger (thanks, Moira) is because most paperwork contains text that I just don’t understand. And I fear the unknown. Especially if it’s the thing I’m supposed to be really, really good at, yet, I still can’t decipher the writing.

My fear of paperwork is the reason my last name is still legally Yaker.

I forgot to check the box on my divorce decree that gave me back my maiden name Tidd. Yeah. I missed the most important fucking box on my divorce paperwork because I was panicking about filling it out wrong.

I found this out when expediting a passport to go to the Bahamas as a bridesmaid in a friend’s wedding. Yeah, I hate passport paperwork so much, I left it off to the very last second too.

Now my last name is still Yaker because I have to fill out about 6,439 forms and go to court to legally change my name back to Tidd (which WILL happen eventually) and the thought of fucking up one of those forms so badly that the US government declares me dead looms ever present on my mind.

I pay way too much every year for Turbo Tax to make taxes easy for me to understand because reading a 1040-EZ makes me break out in hives and want to ride the hide from a living Buffalo.

Paperwork is one of the barriers of entry to me becoming a full-fledged self-employed person. All the new and scary taxes I’ll have to do. What if I decide to start an LLC, for the love of all that’s holy?! Dear heavenly somethingorother, the paperwork will never end and I’ll never understand it even if it does.

Before the entire internet gets their panties in a wad, yes, I’m talking to accountants. This will happen. I’ll just have to take a fucking Xanax before I meet with them. I don’t want to flip out and start tearing up tax forms during the meeting and, to be honest, I’d rather not remember it. Let my beautiful, angelic accountant remember everything. Just let me do what I do well and write.

But here are a list of the things I’m afraid of happening once I get tits deep in paperwork:

  • The government decides that I need to pay 100% of my earnings and I get evicted from my apartment.
  • I forget to check a box and owe $100,000.
  • I accidentally list my dog as a business partner and then have to do taxes for him as well.
  • I cry uncontrollably for 3 days (there’s a good chance of this happening).

You see?! So much shit can go wrong when you do paperwork. And don’t tell me I’m crazy, I already fucking know this.


Red Riding Hood and THE WOLF March 23, 2011

Filed under: No Common Sense — dulcedementia @ 8:54 am
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Do you remember the first time you got the sex talk?

I still remember it very clearly. I was 10 or 11 and my mom sat me down in my bedroom with a ton of books and she showed me pictures of all the parts of the reproductive system and explained to me what sex was and how it happened and how women got pregnant and what a period was. It was a very in depth talk and I’m thankful I got it a full two years before the health class at my stuffy private Christian school gave the talk.

Imagine all the girls in your 6th grade class being filed out of the classroom into a new room and then having your teacher inform you that the next few health classes are going to be girls only (and boys only on the other side) so that they can explain sex and human anatomy to you. Yeah. Separate classrooms. And our teacher was so uncomfortable telling us about sex that I thought she was going to crawl right out of her skin and let her dermis stay and give the lesson.

Anyway, I digress, I’m glad I got a good talk from someone who was comfortable talking to me about sex. Even though I didn’t have any for another 8 years.

My point is, I had to sit down with myself recently and have another little biology talk with myself. It started out eerily similar to the sex talk I had with my mom all those years ago.

“Now, Kelly, you’re going to notice some changes in your body. You’ll be experiencing things differently and that’s OK, but you just need to listen to your body and do what’s right for it.”

I had this talk with myself because, like a moron, I tried to get back on the Pill again after being off it for about 6 months.

I was a little hesitant because of the previous experience I had had with an oral contraceptive and the horrible craziness it produced. It was deemed “THE WOLF” by my ex and I think that is a fairly accurate representation.


But, I figured, that was a three month pill and that’s why it made me so crazy, surely going back to old faithful, Ortho Tricyclen wouldn’t yield poor results.

Well, I’m here to tell you that it did. This past week, I put SOMEONE through hell. He was a champ and dealt with me as a sobbed over the most trivial things and snapped about issues that were figments of my imagination. I had to stand there and watch, as if hovering above my body, as I went bat shit crazy for a week. Things would come out of my mouth and the real me would watch in horror, trapped behind a barrier of hormones that weren’t my own, as I went on this downward spiral.

Yet for some reason, I thought, “Maybe I just need to normalize on this. I’ll just do one more month to see if I get better. I never used to be like this.”

Then Sunday, I sat down with myself and had the talk. Obviously, my body has changed and the hormones in the pill are no longer good for me. I can be sane and off the pill (and look for something new since I don’t like not being on some form of BC) or I can stay on BC and go completely mental every single month and wind up hurting, maybe losing, SOMEONE that I kind of like a lot.

I didn’t pick up a refill for my prescription. And I never will.

I’m researching alternatives (Implanon was suggested by a dear friend and I’m still considering an IUD if I reach a point when I can afford it), but meanwhile, a thin layer of latex is protecting me from playing host to a parasite that first feeds off my own blood and nutrients, then off my bank account for 18 long years. Yeah, I still haven’t eased up on that No Baby Clause.

As terrifying as that thought is, the thought of not being able to control my own emotions is even more horrifying to me and I won’t be giving up on my sanity anytime soon.

I’m glad the talk with myself went well.

Although, I did giggle every time I mentioned penises or sex.

EDIT: Well, that’s three ladies who are all for the IUD. I had no idea it was becoming so common.


One Sick Puppy March 8, 2011

Filed under: No Common Sense — dulcedementia @ 2:53 pm
Tags: , , ,

You know that point in a hangover when you’re at your very worst? Where the room is spinning, your head is throbbing and if you sit up, you know a king size vomathon is going to take place. That is the point when I woke up Sunday morning only to hear the unmistakable gurgles of my dog shitting all over my rug.

Let me backtrack a bit. This all started Saturday evening on our nightly walk. I was in a bit of a hurry since I was (as usual) running late for a dinner with friends and I had to swing by Argonaut to pick up some brews for people coming by in between dinner and Big Top Denver. So, naturally, I decided to take Zed to Argonaut with me since they’re dog-friendly. It became clear about 20 feet from my apartment building that he would not be going into the liquor store with me.

The pup had the squirts. He had several messes between my place and the booze store and by the time we got back he was exhausted. I won’t lie, it made it easier when friends came over a little later since he wasn’t completely at his most hyper. But upon arriving home (absolutely drunk) from Big Top Denver, I noticed the smell and then saw the piles on my rug. He had had accidents in the apartment (Aside: This is a dog who has held it for 16 hours, so I know when he does this, there was no way for him to hold it).

The sweet face of the dog who shit all over my apartment.

The first mistake I made was looking at it, zig zagging over to my window and then opening it, then passing out. I really should have cleaned it up, but I could barely see straight.

OK, flash forward to the familiar sounds of the runs happening. Now picture the hangover I mentioned before and add to it the smell of sick dog poo wafting through the air. If you have a dog, you know what this smell is. It’s different than regular dog poo smell. It’s worse. Now add the fact that Zed gets MORE hyper in the moments before he gets diarrhea in a desperate attempt to get outside to go. So he’s ramming the bed, it smells like poo and he’s putting his stinky dog breath in my face.

Attempt one to get out of bed (at 6:30) fails miserably. The best I could do was take two Excedrin and then lay back down.

Then I heard a new noise. The sound my dog makes when he’s throwing up. I didn’t even look. At this point, I knew the mess I had to clean up was substantial. But then I heard poo sounds again.

I sat up and looked around. More poo on the carpet. AND ON THE HARDWOOD FLOORS! Sonofa. Oh, and the puke was on the floor too. I got up, cleaned up the shit and vom off the hardwood and proceeded to get ready to take the dog out (at 7:30). But not before I threw up several times. I made it into the toilet. Brushed my teeth, gargled some mouthwash, and downstairs we went. It was quick. I didn’t even have the energy to walk.

Between 8 and 10:30, there were two more poo incidents and another puking episode. The last straw was when zed hopped up on the bed to cuddle with me (naturally! He felt bad and he wanted a snuggle). Except he had stepped in some of the shit and tracked poopy paw prints all over my clean sheets.

Mind you, my nausea and vertigo still had not subsided, but I got up and got ready to give the dog a bath.

Now, living in an apartment, the only way to bathe a dog is in the tub. And Zed hates it. So I can’t actually give him a bath, it has to be a shower, which means I have to get in the shower with him to hold him still.

So, here I am at 10:30 on a Sunday morning, soaking wet, squatting and partially bent at the waist trying to hose off a filthy, sick pup who wants nothing to do with the bath I’m trying to give him. Then the worst thing possible happens.

Zed shit in the tub. On my foot.

I don’t know how I didn’t throw up or freak out, but I didn’t. I shit stood there, waiting for the shower to washed the crap down the drain. Then I finished washing and drying the dog. I knew he would get sick again because of how agitated he would be when I let him out of the bathroom, but there was nothing I could do. I let him out and he rain around rubbing his wet fur on any material in the apartment. This includes the bed, the couch and the rug (I had rolled up the poopy part because I knew he would roll in it otherwise and I had decided I had to throw the rug out).

The scene of the crime.

I got back in the shower and scrubbed all the sick dog off me. By the time I got out, there were two new piles. One was crap, the other was a huge pile of water vomit. At this point, I started freaking out, because there was blood in the stool. I had a debate in my head as to whether to take him to the Vet Emergency room or not, but then realized that the blood was likely from a tear after all the messes he’d been having.


I walked the pup and got some hangover food. He had one more mess outside and when we got home he passed out. I tried to feed him rice and chicken broth, but he wouldn’t touch it. This is the sickest my dog has ever been.

However, after about 1, things started to turn a corner and by the evening, he had eaten the food, even though he was still exhausted.

The next morning, as I walked Zed, and saw his morning poops, I did a little victory dance on the side of the road.

It was completely solid.

So, all said and done, I’m out a rug, an entire pack of swiffer wet floor sweepers and two rolls of paper towels. Also, a little bit of my dignity died the moment I got shit on.

But I’ve got my pup back. And he’s just as annoying as ever.

I love that creature.


Bad Food Choice: A Step by Step How to Guide January 5, 2011

Filed under: No Common Sense — dulcedementia @ 5:25 pm
Tags: , ,

Lately I’ve been eating healthier and eating the right amount for my activity level most days and it’s got me feeling pretty good. However, I still do, on occasion, make egregious meal decisions. Today was one such day. So, whether you want to replicate the horror or avoid it, here’s a play by play for how I made a bad food choice.

Yes. With fucking beans. God, I'm stupid.

What You’ll Need:
-One (1) Can Hormel Homestyle Chili (see where I’m going with this already)
-Overwhelming Hunger
-Complete Disregard for Nutritional Information Provided on Can
-Fuckton of Tums
-Anti-Diarrhea Pills (optional)

Step 1: Open can. Look at the contents. Feel slightly unsettled, but dump contents into a bowl. Cover and nuke for 2 1/2 minutes.

Step 2: While chili is warming, go to the medicine cabinet and take two (2) preemptive Tums.

Step 3: Feel apprehension.

Step 4: Remove magma hot plate and bowl from microwave. Look at the contents. Feel even more unsettled, but stir the contents anyway.

Step 5: Take a bite. Instantly know you’ve made a horrible decision and you’re going to be paying for it all night.

Step 6: Feel overwhelming regret.

Step 7: Take a few more bites.

Step 8: Stop. Put the fucking spoon down. No hunger pang is worth the discomfort this will cause. Discard remaining chili into the trash can.

Step 9: Go take more Tums. Wait two more hours then take more Tums and anti-diarrhea pills, if necessary.

Step 10: Suffer all night for the poor decision I made this afternoon.


Insomnia, My Old Friend December 7, 2010

Filed under: No Common Sense — dulcedementia @ 1:17 pm
Tags: , ,

It’s noon. I’m caffeinated to the brim. My hands are shaking, my mind is zooming around corners and it’s all due to the fact that I got 3 ½ hours of sleep last night.

But, you know, lately, this isn’t really that odd. Somehow, between August and now, I fell into a habit of insomnia and rather than try and fight it with medicine or going to bed earlier, I’ve ended up doing the opposite. I now occupy my mind as much as I can through the night until my body literally cannot hold itself up any longer because it’s so exhausted.

When I tell my coworkers or new friends what time I went to bed and what time I woke up, I get this appalled look from them, like I’m absolutely crazy for only averaging 4-5 hours of sleep a night.

But, really, all I can think is, how do people get anything done when they go to bed at a reasonable time?

I mean, you get off work at 5, maybe 5:30. Then come home, and what, eat dinner, watch a few shows and then go to bed at 10?

My mind cannot comprehend how you get anything done! I mean, I get home at 5:30 or so, walk the dog, then either go to a yoga class or, if I have time, I’ll make some food beforehand. If I don’t have yoga, chances are I have plans with a friend. If I have neither, then it’s Netflix time! I’ll watch a couple episodes of whatever TV series I’ve got, detect a slight rumble in my stomach at 9 and start making food.

Then the internets. Oooooh, internets. I’ll spend hours on here. Writing emails, roaming various sites. I’ll listen to music, clean, do laundry. In the next few weeks, I’ll probably be crafting my ass off for Christmas. How am I going to get all of that stuff done by 10?

The answer is, I’m not.

At first, I fought the insomnia. I tried to force myself to go to sleep. I would lay in bed at 10. Stare at the ceiling until midnight, getting progressively angrier as the hours ticked by. I took pills at 9 pm. I stopped drinking caffeine at 2 pm. Nothing worked.

So fuck it, now I just get a ton done at night and I sleep like a coma victim on the weekends.

I’ll sleep when I’m dead, right?


Writing When Everything is Just Fine November 23, 2010

Filed under: No Common Sense — dulcedementia @ 6:47 pm
Tags: , ,

It happens every time. Without fail.

I got through a period of heartbreak or big personal growth, only to find myself snack dab in the middle of contentment and general happiness with my life.

Yeah. It sounds awful, doesn’t it? Well, yeah, I know, it’s not. But there is one downside to all this “everything’s coming up roses” attitude I have on life right now: I find it nearly impossible to write.

Most of my writing experience thus far has either been commercial or completely personal, where I just spit words out onto a page and post this shit. Now, I can do commercial writing for forever; just give me a topic, I’ll write about it. But the problem I’m facing right now is a general malaise when it comes to growth in my personal writing.

Just. Fucking. Write. You TWAT!

Every morning, I wake up and I think, “Ok, so you don’t have any truly amazing revelations and you don’t have anything deeply personal you want to muse about, but dammit, Kelly, you still have to write!”

So I brainstorm on the walk to work. I thought about writing about the whole TSA thing going on right now, but then I would just be one blog in a haze of other, cleverer blogs ranting about the same thing. So I let the task of writing that day slip through my fingers.

And honestly, I’m kind of feeling a little bit private right now. I’m working out a lot of the kinks in my life, slowly but surely. I have nothing much to complain about. I have amazing friends and family and have found activities that nourish me. Hell, even my appetite is back on track.

I know some of you want to give me a running bitch slap right now, but suck it up. Life ebbs and flows and some of you may be going through a rough patch and some of you may not. Just know you’ll probably switch positions in a few months. If not, jeebus, let a sister know and I’ll do whatever I can to turn that frown upside down.

I digress. My point is, I’ve found it increasingly harder to write the better my mood gets. I’m not sure how to overcome this hurdle, but I definitely want to. I don’t want to have to be a mopey sad sack in order to write well. And I certainly don’t want to have to give up writing in order to be happy.

Any writers out there that have solutions to making themselves write when they just don’t seem to have any inspiration at all?


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