Wow. I suck. I mean really bad.

So what if you were nice enough to let someone stay in your home for one month? What if you cooked for them and tried to make them feel at home as much as possible? What if they took your hospitality and decided to write exaggerated things about you on the Internet? What kind of person does that make you?

Or actually, I should be asking what kind of person does that make me? A pretty shitty one, I think.

Yes, I did all of the above. Someone was nice enough to let me into their home only to have me turn around and completely misuse their generosity and kindness.

I was going through an extraordinarily rough patch in my marriage and I completely focused all of my anger, confusion and lack of self confidence on a totally innocent person. All the things I say will never make anything ok.

I am not a good person.

I'm thinking this will pretty much be my last blog entry as I would never want to inflict any sort of hurt on anybody else. What I thought was going to be a fun way to make fun of myself turned into something completely different.

The only thing I can say is that I am sorry and that is completely worthless now.

I am truely sorry for saying everything. You are one of the strongest people I have ever met. Your continual loyalty and perserverance through a seemingly never ending nightmare is something to be revered, not made fun of.

You are an amazing parent with an absolutely beautiful child and I can only hope that one day I will have one half of your patience and kindness.

Thank you for being an inspiration. I have always looked at you and known that I could not complain because of the sacrifices you make on a daily basis.

I don't know if we will be friends again, but I hope so. You were so good to me and I've thought of you often since moving.

You know the part of the skin after a baby get circumsized that gets thrown in the trash? I feel like that piece of skin. Actually, I'm waaaay lower than that.

Good bye.

No More Drinkie for Marfie

I'm so retarded.

So, my friend Heather came to visit a couple of weeks ago and the last couple of nights she was in town I got shit faced. I know...huge surprise, right? In particular though, the last night she was in town I was a complete drunk truck. When I awoke on Sunday morning, still groggy and dry mouthed, I rolled over to Donny and said, "I think we should stop drinking until Russo's (his good friend's) wedding." Well, the f-ing wedding is at the end of August.

WHAT DID I DO!?!

This was just the crack in the door, the chink in the armor Donny has been looking for for years! He didn't waste any time saying, "What a great idea."

I have been completely sober for 1.5 weeks. I seriously can't remember the last time I went without one drop of alcohol for this long (sad, but true). I'm always making jokes like, "let's just get wasted" or "I want to drink so much I puke and pass out" as a way to test Donny's conviction to this pact that we made. Maybe it's my less than subtle approach, but he's definitely not budging.

Do you know how hard it is to not have a beer during a hot summer day on the beach? It's like eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with no jelly...your mouth gets all dry and thirsty. Or going to happy hour and not ordering a glass of wine (why in the hell would someone go to happy hour otherwise)? Why bother going out at all? My husband says, "just because you're not drinking, Martha, doesn't mean that we can't go out." What f-ing planet is he from? Of course it does!

The worst thing is that we made a "ring swear." It's basically like a pinky swear, but with our left ring fingers (you know, the one the wedding bands are on?). This is serious business too. I mean pinky swearing is important stuff, but ring swearing is like life or death to the old D-man. I can't go back on it.

I do have to admit though that it is pretty f-ing nice not to wake up with a heartbeat in my head...or being completely immobile for an entire weekend (Donny always wants to go be "active" and shit)...or feeling like crap because I ate an entire bag of Cheetos...or slowly remembering fragments of my actions of the previous night...or not remembering anything at all and having my husband relive his embarrassment (hee-hee).

Maybe this not drinking thing is the way to start living my life.

Who am I kidding? How in the hell am I supposed to deal with awkward social situations, a hard work week, a Saturday afternoon or anything other situation I deem drinking worthy? I'll tell you this much, I'm certainly not going to address the circumstances in a mature and responsible fashion.

Actually, shouldn't we be training for the wedding in all reality? Getting together with college buddies is a hazard in itself, but not being in tip top drinking shape is just plain dangerous. Maybe I'll start using that angle...

I Hate Interviews

Seriously, sitting in an interview as a potential candidate for a position is like sitting on the toilet while your bowels decide whether or not to release the mountain of crap inside of you, it's just plain painful.

I think the interviewer knows within the first ten minutes if they think you're suitable for the position. It's like dating, you know right away whether or not you want a second date. Unlike dating however, being in an interview requires extensive ass kissing. Between the obscene amount of smiling, laughing and generally attempting to look interested and genuine, I'm exhausted! Plus, do you know how hard it is for me to act proper for longer than 10 minutes? When I get to my car I usually call my husband and start spouting disgusting, rude and tactless comments. It gives a whole other meaning to the word turrets.

I never listen to anything people say if I'm not interested, especially at work. I just do the whole nod my head and make eye contact, but I'm either wondering what would happen if punched them in the face or what they would do if I took my shoe off and started licking it. Does this mean I'm destined to be like Michael Douglas in the movie, "Falling Down?"

I once went to an interview with a CEO of a bank that lasted 1.5 hours and the A-hole interviewing me didn't let me get a word in edgewise. He was too busy talking about himself including how effective his management style was, how he rose through the ranks to make a bazillion dollars and how big his dick is (I'm sure he thinks Ron Jeremy has nothing on him). At the end of the interview he gave me this book and I actually thought it was a nice gesture, until I got home that evening. Take a random guess about who wrote the forward...you're right, the A-hole! He was obviously just trying to spread his literary genius. Dick head.

Then there's the questions. The f-ing questions.

1. Where do you see yourself in 5 or 10 years?
Rolling around in a pile of money while watching you kiss my ass.

2. What were the five most significant accomplishments in your last position?
There's only one, not getting fired.

3. What do you look for in a job?
To work in an environment that allows me to write my blog during the workday, not be expected to follow through on assignments given and the ability to verbally berate customers who are not behaving in a fashion I deem worthy. Oh, I want to get paid a shit load too.

4. Can you explain your salary history?
Yeah, it's pretty lousy.

5. Do you have any questions for me?
Are you done wasting my time?

It's inevitable that I will have to wade neck deep in this crap if we ever want to hightail out of So-Cal. Thinking about it makes me want to kill someone.

Our House F-ing Sucks

So our house has been on the market for about 300 years now and there's no buyer in sight. I would eventually like to leave this silicone boob infested cest pool known as San Diego and move back to a simpler lifestyle.

I'm over spending my life on an interstate moving 5 miles per hour or at a dead stop with my palms sweating and my anxiety level at an all time high because I'm going to be late (when a reasonable person would deduce that leaving one hour in advance would be plenty of time). Back and forth, to and from work I spend anywhere from 45 minutes to 1 and a half hours driving 18 miles.

I'm over spending $16 for a pitcher of Miller Lite and no, this is not a joke. I would never joke about the golden piss. The other night, Donny, myself and my friend Heather went to happy hour. Well, there was absolutely nothing happy about it. Heather and I ordered the $3 happy hour house wine. "That's actually not bad" was the exact thought that went through my head, that is until I saw the size of the wine glass (shot glass would have been a more accurate description). One gulp and I was heading out the door to the liquor store.

I'm over spending an arm and a leg a month for our mortgage payment. By the way, our house is 1,000 square feet. And now that I think about it, it's not even a house, but a condo and technically, we don't actually own the land. So basically, we own the air inbetween the walls. Hmmm, I'm spending a shit load for air?

I know that if we ever actually got offered good jobs in Montana, I would probably shit my pants, but I miss the little things that made life easier. I know this is an atypical post for me, but I'm hungover and feeling a little sentimental.

Two Pounds Down, Ten To Go

Arg! I've gained 10 pounds (okay fine, 12 pounds) and I can't seem to lose any of it! I've basically had to purchase a whole new wardrobe (gasp!) because I literally can't fit into my work attire. Alright, maybe I can squeeze into a pair of pants, but I can't exhale, bend over or walk. Then there's this issue of my work out shorts...my thighs literally eat them. If I don't constantly tug on the nylon out of the cottage cheese, it ends up looking like my crotch actually eats shorts. I also get scared that if I don't constantly pick my ass, I will lose my workout clothes to a black hole. Who know's where they'll end up?

Oh yes, there's more.

I gain weight particularily in the thigh and ass sections (couldn't have guessed that one, right?) and I swear to God that's where each pound I gain goes to. I would be the most awkward looking obese person ever. The majority of my upper body would be relatively slender and from my calves to my ankles wouldn't be into too bad of shape either. I just wouldn't want anyone looking at my midsection. You've all seen a gross lady with a HUGE fat ass. You know it's actually as big as it looks because you can see the green cotton shorts stretching to barely cover the fatness (not that I've ever noticed such a thing).

So I've been hitting the gym like a complete psycho. For those of you who are familiar with me personally know that the word "psycho" is definitely fitting for my work out ethic (let alone my entire personality). Lifting weights, running, doing seemingly endless stints on the stairmaster and the eliptical machines and not to mention killing my abs has rendered a weight loss of frickin' two pounds!

Why does my weight fluctuate like twenty pounds in one day (you know what I mean)?!? Seriously, one day I was feeling pretty good and then the next day I felt like I was right back to square one! Alright, I know there's no mystery when I eat like an absolute pig and drink like a f-ing camel, but it's still a little frustrating.

The truth is I'm getting older and my metabolism is slowing down, but that still doesn't mean this bull shit doesn't f-ing suck ass!

I seriously think my body is changing. Or maybe that's just my excuse until I can fit into my pants without hearing the seam rip, but what if that day never comes? I can't bear the thought.

Then I somewhat take solice in the fact that I was unable to run for a couple of months because I aggravated a nerve somewhere in my ass and as a result, I got kind of depressed and started drinking and eating a little more than ususal. Fine, I ate and drank like I was being transfered to a concentration camp each and every day. I just remind myself that I didn't grow out of my pants overnight and I won't be able to fit in them in that amount of time either.

Happy 4th of July (almost)!

Ahhh... Independence Day is right around the corner. This is a day to give thanks to our forefathers for the trials and tribulations they encountered in order to for people to have the precious freedoms that are so often taken for granted.

Let's get serious people.

The only things I will be doing on the Fourth are keg stands, shots and puking and rallying. I love how Americans unite on the anniversaries of this country's history to eat a shit load of food, drink cases of crappy beer and show up to work the next day hungover complete with bloodshot eyes and trips to the bathroom (because at this point in time, it's probably coming out both ends).

There is apart of me, however, that actually feels the pains of guilt at holidays such as Memorial Day, Veterans Day, Labor Day, independence Day, etc., for not truly appreciating the sacrifices that so many Americans made in the hopes that future generations would be able to enjoy a better standard of living.

Then I drink...and drink some more...puke...and drink more. Amazingly, the above thoughts and "pains of guilt" disappear and are replaced with the following:

1. Shotguning Miller Lites.

2. Jumping in the community pool fully clothed.

3. Proceed to call everyone "pussies" for not joining in on #2.

4. Eating anything that anyone dares me to. This includes floral arrangements, day old suckers on the pavement and generally anything out of a trash can.

5. Shotguning more Miller Lites (this is where the puke and rally technique comes into play).

6. Talking to the neighbors (doesn't sound too bad, but wait):

Neighbor A - The alcoholic, drug abusing dude and his retired stripper girlfriend. Folks, she's worked at the same adult book store/strip joint for 30 plus years and I'm not joking. The dude is a deep-thinker-drinker, you know the one that corners people talking about politics, the administration and world hunger (c'mon you idiot, it's the f-ing Fourth of July!).

Neighbor B - This house is a three bedroom, two bath residence currently occupied by three adults and four kids. This is Santucky (Santee) at it's finest. The "adults" chain smoke, drink more than I do, intermittently scream obscenities at the children and as the day gets older, they get louder. Oh, they apparently feed my dog cigarette butts and beer because that's what his breath smells like after they play with him.

Neighbor C - Grandma and Grandpa Alchoholic. I have never seen any either of these people sober. They have the pleasure of living right next to Neighbor B. Grandma told one of the adults that she was going to kill him with her husband's rifle. She also accused Grandpa of poisoning fruit that he bought her. She wears so much makeup that when she's done walking her dog, her face looks like a melted wax sculpture.

So all I have to do is pick a house, any house to hang out at.

Disclaimer: We actually have one set of normal neighbors. Homeboy's in the military (flying helicopters that drop the soldiers on the ground) and Homegirl's a stay at home mom with their infant girl.

On second thought, maybe this year Donny and I will venture out of our town (the place where each KKK spawn was dropped off at) and head to a more civilized area, but I'm still bringing my Miller Lite damn it.

Here's Martha (yes I know that's a particularly "hot" name)

Oh...my...gawd (for those of you religious folks). I know I've been "absent" from the world of blogging; however I have a good excuse; grad school. Thank goodness that's over with.

Yes, I am especially ashamed to admit it, but I indeed dropped out of school (but I feel like I should be a latina or pregnant to give me a legit excuse). Okay, I just made myself laugh outloud, but I'm pretty sure that's because I'm drunk. Seriously, does anyone know how hard it is to type when you're drunk? These two paragraphs have taken me three hours! So, that might be a bit exaggerative, but I've also been smoking weed!!!

I just made myself laugh outloud...again, damn I am retarded. Don't worry dad, I don't smoke week on a regular basis or tonight for that matter. I'm drunk on a Wednesday night, but I'm unclear about whether smoking weed on a regular basis or being drunk during the work-week is worse.

Before I start a stand-up routine, I must go to bed. I am tired, but still kickin'.

Nothing else is new...just working (at my job that I could take 2 hour naps at a time), being married (yea, some of you know how that goes), and showing up hungover at work. Umm, is that bad?