Listen Up!

So I've been lying to you all! Yes that's right you voyeuristic bitches... But it's on now.. The train is barreling down the tracks at top speed and she can't be stopped.. Can you hear my whistle? Yep - I'm talking to you Mom, you "The Surge" and you Dad, who probably reads this shit every day but can't be arsed to call your own daughter for very silly, immature reasons. Let's see if we can make it to 2007 without speaking.. It'll be fun!

This is my journal.. and as such, I'm going to write the same shit I'd write in the journal I used to keep tucked securely under my bed. If you can't dig it, quit reading. As all who know me are aware, my vocabulary is comprised mainly of fuck, motherfucker, fuckhead and that ol' British fave, fuckwit. I am rapidly learning to enjoy a roll in the hay with cunt as well. Deal with it.

Was thinking today, as I often do, and I discovered I've been writing this blog for all the wrong reasons. That's just bullshit, isn't it? Toned down musings on sex, love and marriage sprinkled with stupid similes and metaphors, when what I really wanna do is throw a tantrum, scream and tear my hair out over whatever putrid bullshit I happen to be wading through.

Here's one: I've yet to wrap my very fucked up brain around the fact that I'm married. I will not go gently into that betrothed night because it still fucking freaks me out! I don't want to sit around in one of ten sweater sets and kaki's, ass digging a deeper groove in my Pottery Barn couch, shoveling Valium in my yawning maw faster than the baby dirties his diaper. I won't do it! And I won't romanticize the shit like a smug married either. "Marriage is so fulfilling dahling.. let me set you up with a dear acquaintance of mine.. You simply can't enjoy being alone." Cuz that's a load of crap too.

Nor do I want to be the main breadwinner while my husband follows his passion across the globe. So where does that leave me? When The Surge divorces me am I destined to be the crazy lady on the corner with all the dogs (fuck cats) shrieking at all the youngsters to stay off the goddamn lawn?

Was thinking the other day, as I'm prone to do, that the best way to have a kid is to get knocked up at about 23.. Rush headlong into that which society impreses on us is the proper route. No time to really consider all the havoc bringing a child into the world will wreak on my life. No time to wonder if I'm really prepared to be a proper mother. Now that I'm' older, have had time to contemplate the whole child raising affair I am absolutely terrified.. not that that's on the horizon, I'm just saying..

I got married quickly - afloat on love at first sight, moxie and heart. But, I didn't know the dude. Now I love him with all my heart, but it's been a fucking grapple. A motherfucker of a year. And still is. But just because a couple Marah fans read this shit, I ain't gonna continue to edit so's he comes off lookin' good. Sure I'm not gonna hang my dirty laundry, bloody crotch stains and all, out for the world to see.. but I'm gonna tell it like it is.

Here's why: I loathe people who pretend like they're the cleverest, most fantastic, put together of the bunch. Fuck you. Wait, let me say it again. FUCK YOU. All you do is twist your insecurity into some witty facade in an attempt to make the rest of us feel inferior in the shadow of your contrived magnificence.

I'm here to dispel whatever damn myth I can. For instance, I am still figuring out how to be married, it doesn't come naturally, trust me. You can love someone with every fucking fiber in your body and your union can dissolve faster than a sand castle at high tide.

Is this blog about The Surge? No. We're doing fine. Better than ever, in fact. I've just decided that I don't care whether you all lecture me for being THE GIRL WHO is sometimes jealous, insecure, contemplative, depressed and just plain stoned out of my gourd.

It's who I am.

You've Made Your Bed, Now Lay In It

Making the bed. Such a simple act, isn't it? Yet representative of so many things in my life, namely my state of mind.

I'm the kind of person who generally makes the bed in the morning. It's a tidy start to a new day. Smoothing out the wrinkles, pulling the covers taut, stacking pillows just so - big square ones in back, shams that match the bedspread in front.

Making one's bed is a positive gesture, a sign of mental health. It's says 'I'm facing today with conviction' or else it conveys the fact that you're pretending to face the day with conviction by going through the motions, which is really the same thing, isn't it?

I haven't made my bed for the past few days. Perhaps with The Surge on tour I don't feel obliged. I'm chalking this run up to lazy, not depression.

When the fog rolls into my head, shrouding the sun, casting the nefarious corners of my mind into shadow, the bed goes unmade. Sometimes because I remain in it for the most of the day. Other times because I pull off the quilt, wrap myself in it like a burrito and crash on the couch. With the quilt otherwise employed, the bed stays unmade.

But when I want to blow the dust off, get cracking, the first thing I do is make the bed. A made bed says KEEP OUT, go outside, face the day.

An unmade bed beckons me like the welcoming glimmer of a coffee shop on a rainy day.

I haven't made my bed yet today. If I made it, I'd just lay in it.

How He Blew It

I was recently interviewed by a NY Post reporter who was writing a story on how guys can blow it on dates. You know, that one moment on a date when a guy crosses the line.. those little dealbreakers we women have that, once broken, have us at home on the phone with the girlfriends describing the horror of the date with the guy we will never, ever date again.. It's a pretty cute article, check it out.

Drunk Dials Be Damned!

My very dear friend Anna and I are taking bold steps. Being the intelligent, creative, stunningly beautiful types that we are, (it's true: at the bar last night I told Anna she's creative, she informed me I am too. Then, after three more shots of liquor I said she was intelligent and she said I was too! The stunningly beautiful part? After two more shots of Jagermeister, we felt that's as obvious as Tom Cruise's sexual proclivity) we've decided to enter the world of inventions. We figure if the guy who invented Post It notes is rolling in cash, two inventive vixens such as ourselves will be hobnobbing with Jay-Z and Beyonce on his yacht in the South of France in no time.

Under cover of night we are currently hard at work building a prototype of our very first invention. Eli Whitney and his cotton gin ain't got nothin' on us. Are you ready? Brace yourselves, you are the first to hear our plan of worldwide domination:

Drunk Dials Be Damned! You'll never again wake up hungover, feeling like a cat shit in your mouth, only to realize you've ruined months of hard work building Upper Hand in the tragic wake of being dumped by FuckHead, by drunk dialing his sorry ass the night before to express your undying love.

Here's why:

Are you ready for this? Y'know how cops have those thingamajigs folks have to blow into in order to test blood alcohol levels? And y'know how some folks who've been busted drunk driving more than once sometimes have to get one of those thingamajigs attached to their car and then blow into it in order to start the car? Well, my dear friend Anna and I have decided to build a breathalyzer right into our cell phones! Easy peasy! I was going to say Japaneasy but figured in this day and age that ain't politically correct. Strangely, the words honky and cunt are gaining momentum as terms of endearment. Anyhoo.. what'dya think? A grand idea! I know Andy, Richard, Chris, Cory, and Tim will thank me profusely for my inventive effort.

Picture it: You've just finished your fifth shot of whiskey when The Song comes on. You know the song. The one that makes you tear up and say "Oh my god, this soo reminds me of (insert Fuckhead's name here). You get to thinkin' about all those good times you had in between the two times he cheated on you and the other time you walked in on him masturbating and now you want to call him "just to say hi." At three o'clock in the morning.

With sobriety working in our favor now, I'm certain we can all agree, calling an ex ain't a good idea at ANY time, let alone three in the A.M. But you don't know that. In this scenario, you're as loaded as the pistol Sean Penn keeps lashed to his right leg..

So you flip open your cell phone... but what'dya know? Thanks be to jesus you've purchased one of Monica and Anna's Drunk Dials Be Damned! YOU FAIL THE BREATHALYZER! Thankfully, you won't be drunk dialing anyone tonight. We've just saved you months of ground work attempting to rebuild post relationship Upper Hand by "accidentally" running into him while your hot cousin pretends to be your new boyfriend or starting a rumor that you lost 20 pounds and got offered a job in Paris.

I know, you're getting excited I can sense it. Seems like a good idea now, doesn't it?

What's that you say? What if you're really in trouble and need to use the cell phone to call for help? Why, Anna and I are a step ahead of you! If you roll your car, are getting chased down a dark alley or discover your boyfriend dead from auto erotica related asphysxiation, simply tapping in the digits 9-1-1 deactivates the breathalyzer.

Look for us on a QVC channel near you!

The Surge Demonstrates His Very Fine Training On Dealing With A Sick Wife Who Must Let The World Know Just How Sick She Really Is

"Hullo?"
"Hi baby..How are you?"
"I'M SIIII...."
"We sold out the San Francisco show last night."
"...IIIIIIIIII..."
"It was funny because Dave broke a guitar string in the middle of a song and Donny Pizza Sauce...."
"...IIIIIIIIIIIIIIII..."
"Anyway,I miss you and Max a lot."
"...IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII.."
"Hope you feel better."
"...IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII..."
"Love you. I'll check back in about two hours. Bye!"
"...IIIIIIICK!!!!!!"