Here's what I need to do: 1. Get Hobby, 2. Floss. Blogging just gets in the way.
I will track down the person responsible for giving me this cold and when I find them, they will be severely punished.
The CDC should have a special forces unit to help me hunt down the carrier of this virus. There should be a cold/flu court with a quarantined jury. After proving guilt, the sentencing should not only include compensation for lost wages and reimbursement for money spent on OTC remedies, but the guilty party should have to listen to me whine and fetch stuff for me until I am well again. I wanted to call the CDC to inquire about such a service, but I was too weak to dial the number.
I spent yesterday moaning and sniffling on the couch. I am out of Theraflu so I had to drink wine instead. Then the chills set in. I dragged my sneezing *ss to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. The lights were out and the blinds were closed. I crashed into the wall, hitting only my left hip and. Even in sickness, I am precise. I put the kettle on and filled the tea ball (I am too sick to think of any clever comments about tea balls or teabagging). Three minutes later, I sat down with a cup of parsley tea. Apparently, I cannot make tea in the dark. Also, I need a labeler.
My phone rings incessantly during the day. I am not sure what I said to the telemarketers but I think my new carpet and satellite dish will be installed tomorrow. I hope that does not conflict with the dates of the cruise that I won. I feel fortunate that I consolidated all my credit cards, so that I can afford all of these luxuries.
I took the opportunity to do a breast exam while I was lying naked in misery on the couch. I found a lump. In a panic, I consulted a friend. He was happy to help. He assessed the situation, "That's your rib, Mist. You're going to live."
I want a second opinion.
Dating (A Little)
It seems that some people got the wrong idea from my I'm Little post.
I am not a Little Person. I am just on the smaller side. Or perhaps I am on the large side for a Little Person. At 5'4", I could probably be a Little Person supermodel. And although my head isn't unusually large (it is a little large), I do have rather big hair. I am practically the symbol of beauty for the Little People. Too bad they kinda freak me out.
Since making this post, a dear friend of mine has decided to help me get over my little complex.
Did he make me say positive affirmations about my diminuitive size? No.
Did he tell me that people come in all shapes and sizes and that we are all God's/Allah's/Darwin's children? No.
Did he buy me a pair of orthopedic shoes? No.
My dear friend thought that what I needed was THIS. That's right. Online Little People meeting for friendship, fun, romance, and more. Lots more.
I have chatted with some really interesting Little People. And, I've met someone. We've talked politics, religion, Brittany Spears, our families...he's great. Really. There's only one problem. I lied to him. He has no idea that I'm a hulking 5 foot 4 inches. He doesn't know that my head is only slightly larger than average. I am so ashamed. I know that he'll lose interest in me when he finds out the truth. Even worse, what if he's just interested in my for my freakish body?
I guess that'd be okay, too.
I can always find something to do when I need to kill some time. It's harder to find time to kill.
I had some free time before therapy last night. I made a mental list of ways to waste an hour and a half:
1. Drink beer.
2. Take a walk.
Showing up at a shrink's office smelling like a bar is generally frowned upon. Going anywhere smelling like a locker room is also frowned upon. I needed more options. I made a new list:
1. Work in a quicky.
2. Go to the library.
Showing up at a shrink's office smelling like sex is generally frowned upon. Plus, after the quicky, I would still have to figure out what to do with the remaining one hour and 28 minutes. I decided to go to the library.
I selected several books from the young adult section because if Homeland Security pulls my library records, I want them to think that I'm much younger than I really am.
I sat down and paged through them. The man next to me was completely engrossed in what he was doing. I wish the library would post a sign that reads, "Please refrain from scratching yourself in the library."
Scratching yourself in the public library is not okay. You will look like a pervert. Even if it's a legitimate itch.
I couldn't concentrate. I could hear the steady rasping of his fingernails. I cleared my throat. No reaction. I slammed a book shut and sighed heavily. Still no reaction. Finally, I whipped my head around, ready to confront the Pubic Library Scratcher (PLS). Usually, I like to have something clever to say. Something more clever than, "Do you mind?" but I couldn't think of anything else. Just as I opened my mouth to chastise PLS, he withdrew his hand from his pants...
...and sniffed his fingers.
True to form, I retched.
I hurried to the check out and after writing a check for a $2.72 fine, I walked out with four books. I went to therapy early to sit in the lobby and read. I flipped open the cover of a book. Inside, was a feathery mustard colored stain.
This Has Never Happened Before
I've reached the point in my life where I have finally said the following phrase:
"Dammit. I forgot the Cialis at home."
I never thought I'd hear myself say this. Mostly because I'm a woman.
Naturally, I said this in public. Loudly. It would have been different if it had been in intimate setting. Then, it could have been romantic. I could have leaned over and said something like this:
"Dammit. I forgot the Cialis at home. I guess I'll have to resort to other tactics." (Followed by much winking and purring, etc.)
No. I said it in public. Realizing what I had said, I blurted out:
"I can explain. It's not for me. I mean, of course it's not for me. We've never done this before."
There was nothing I could say to undo the damage. I wanted to explain. It really wasn't for us. There isn't even any damn us. It's for someone else. Honestly.
See, there's this guy who likes to play practical jokes on his coworkers. Last week, he chose the wrong person for one of his pranks. Because the prank involved putting cosmetics on a man in his sleep (violation of Man Code 188.8.131.52), retaliation is necessary.
Always one to be helpful, I offered a Cialis that I have been saving for an opportunity like this. What sweeter revenge is there than a Cialis in a cup of coffee? Poor bastard.
As for how I acquired the Cialis...a friend swiped it from her (elderly, obese, sweaty) dad. It grosses me out to think about her dad taking Cialis. Ugh. I wonder what her mom has to take to get aroused. There's not enough vodka in the world.
There are some things that I should keep to myself. But this one is just too good.
I was eavesdropping yesterday. Now I am the keeper of some top secret information.
A crime was committed. A murder. I think. Sometimes, my imagination is hyperactive. It involved the following people:
1. Innocent Young Woman (a.k.a. IYW)
2. Concerned Gentleman (a.k.a. CG)
3. Innocent Young Woman's Boyfriend (a.k.a. IYWB)
4. "Ponytail" (a.k.a. "Ponytail", because really, there's no better nickname than "Ponytail")
CG and IYW were talking. I was minding my own business. I heard the whole story. It happened like this: Innocent Young Woman called Concerned Gentleman one day to tell him that Innocent Young Woman's Boyfriend was acting strangely. CG was worried about IYW. CG decided to go to IYW's home to check up on her.
When he arrived, IYW was alone and IYWB hasn't been seen since.
Reassured, CG drove back to work. He stopped for a pack of cigarettes and a refreshing beverage. End of story. CG knows nothing of IYWB's whereabouts.
Does IYWB have any enemies? Why yes, it turns out that he does. You see, there's this guy named "Ponytail" who never liked IYWB very much. IYW asks what "Ponytail" looks like. CG tells her that he's only seen "Ponytail" in the dark, so he doesn't know what he looks like. In fact, he can't even tell if "Ponytail" is black or white.
"Ponytail" is beginning to sound like a man of mystery.
IYW wants to contact "Ponytail" to ask him if he knows where IYWB is. CG broke the news gently. It would be impossible to contact "Ponytail" because he is on his deathbed. He has recently been taken very ill. CG suggests that they just let the poor man die in peace and let the Lord do his work. IYW murmured something inaudible.
I took my car (a.k.a. My Boyfriend) in for maintenance last night. Took care of his fluids. Lubed him up. Made him feel good. I get a little jealous when those other guys have their hands all over him, but it's only fair. He never complains when I get a massage. Why should I mind when he gets a little foreplay?
I always feel good about myself when I take him in for an oil change or to get his brakes fixed. I have not always been so good to cars. I once built a car out of pieces that had fallen off of my previous car. I picked the items up from the side of the road and stowed them in the trunk until it was time to create a new vehicle.
I have vowed that this time would be different.
I was doing okay for a while. Then a really large black plastic piece came loose from the front end of the car. I dragged it for several miles before I decided to pull over and tear it all the way off. It didn't really seem essential. Less drag means better gas mileage. Problem solved.
I carried that piece around with me in the trunk for several months. Recently, I decided that I was going to throw it away. I was not going to go down the same road as I had with the last car.
Everything was going so well.
Apparently, my car came with a few extra parts. The mechanic assured me that these parts aren't absolutely necessary. I mean, sure...if I want to control the amount of air intake from the sides of the radiator I might consider putting the pieces back on. But really, it's the sides. Who gives a f*ck about the sides?
When I comb my hair (rare), do I look at the sides of my head? No. I look at the front. That's all that matters. When I brush my teeth, do I brush the sides of my teeth? No. I brush the ones in front. Again, they're all that matter. Cars are probably much the same.
So now I have two small black plastic flaps in my trunk. I also have a wig, a formal dress, a pair of heels, a mask, and a roll of toilet paper, but that sh*t's practical.
The Kitchen Stink
The kitchen sink (a.k.a. The Kitchen Stink/The Kitchen Swamp) situation was out of hand.
The drain has been sluggish for months (so have I, but I haven't done anything about that either). Periodically, I poured a bottle of highly caustic chemicals down it. This problem is just too big to be handled by homeopathic remedies.
I have invited people over, just to get their opinions on the kitchen stink/swamp situation. They always suggest something nice like baking soda and vinegar. I am not making a f*cking volcano for my science class. Something has died in my drain, been reincarnated, and is coming back to haunt me.
I tried the plunger. I have no control over a plunger. It slid around the greasy bottom of the stink/swamp and when I jerked it free, particles of salsa, grated cheese, corn, and an unidentifyable slimy substance hit the ceiling fan. It did leave a rather lovely spiral print on the ceiling which I admire every day.
I went to Ace Hardware and asked for advice. I didn't want Mike to know how disgusting I am and just how long I've let the situation fester. I pretended that I was shopping for Drain-o for a friend. As though that's perfectly normal. I even made pretend phone calls to my own voicemail to get the details for him. "What? You say it's pretty backed up? It's been that way for how long?"
I think he was convinced.
Mike sold me a bottle of "Liquid Fire." It had a picture of a skull on it, so I was willing to pay the $6. He placed the bottle in my hands like it was Holy Water and warned me to only pour a tablespoon down the drain. I looked him in the eye and gave him my word.
I knew that I would pour the entire contents of the bottle down the drain as soon as I got home.
I poured half the bottle down the drain. It began to smoke. I ran the cold water and stepped outside to make a phone call. When I came back in, the sink was nearly overflowing. I retched. Then I cursed. Then I poured the rest of the bottle into the stink/swamp. Nothing. The neighbors were grilling so I invited myself over. It smelled like eggs. "Are you boiling eggs?" I asked. They weren't. I ducked back in the house to grab my valuables. I waved goodbye to my neighbors, "Sorry, I can't stay...I erm, I just remembered that I'm late for something very important. If anything blows up tonight, I don't know anything about it." They looked confused, but they are used to me.
When I got home the next morning, nothing had changed. The kitchen stink/swamp was full. It smelled worse than ever. G came over for a cup of coffee and poured the grounds into the sink.
It has worked perfectly ever since. I bet my neighbors have a hell of a clog.
I love free samples. I don't care what it is. It's free. And free=good.
Thursday, the doctor gave me free samples of various medications. He doled them out generously until I got greedy and asked for things with street value. Then he cut me off.
Friday, I got a free sample of KY 2-in-1 warming massage oil/personal lubricant. Yes, warming. The tiny bottle was so cute that I promptly dropped it in my purse. It made sense at the time. I keep tiny bottles of hand moisturizer in my purse. I have been known to carry little samples of perfume in my purse. So why not massage oil/personal lubricant?
Last night I went shopping. I stopped in a little store that carries silver and turquoise jewelry. I asked to see a tray of rings. I tried several on. Too big. Too chunky. Too complicated. Finally, I found the perfect ring. I slipped it over my finger. It was a little snug. But it looked amazing.
I admired my hand for a moment. Then I admired the price tag. I couldn't justify the purchase. And I can justify almost any purchase.
I tried to take the ring off. It was stuck. I tugged until my finger turned red and started to swell a bit.
I believe that what happened next is what's commonly known as an "Aha!" moment.
The salesman paled a little bit when I pulled the massage oil/personal lubricant out of my purse. I avoided eye contact and muttered something like, "Erm, how'd this get in here?"
Then I wiggled my finger free.
I bought a dream catcher instead. "Sweet dreams," the man said as I left the store.
I am waiting for someone to recognize my genius. It is so difficult to be the only person who knows just how brilliant I really am.
Sometimes, I get dressed in the dark, but since I rarely wear socks it's usually not a problem. Last weekend, I rolled out of bed and got dressed while still in a half-sleep state. I ran a few errands. While waiting in the checkout line at CVS, I noted that my underwear was a little uncomfortable. I'm gaining some weight, so I assumed that I had outgrown my panties.
When I got home, I ran upstairs to get out of those uncomfortable drawers. I had put them on sideways. The leg hole was around my waist. I laughed at my stupidity, but then I realized that this mistake could solve many problems in the lives of people everywhere.
Yes. Six day underwear. It's really very simple. Each day you simply rotate your underwear a turn. After three days, turn the panties inside out. Then rotate for three days. Lather, rinse, repeat.
I rotate counter-clockwise, but that's just a personal preference.
I Swear, I am Not Making this Up
It happened again.
I went to the doctor yesterday. It was a simple heart check up. While I was waiting, Mom called. I left the office to take the call. I didn't want to stand in front of the door to have my conversation so I walked through a second door and stood in the hallway.
Mom wished me a happy birthday and remarked that if I am getting old then she is really old. We decided to coordinate our stories. We are both now rounding our ages up to the next decade and telling people that we are older than we really are. That way, people will think that we look really great for our ages.
When I got off the phone, I tried to open the door to get back to the entry of my doctor's office. The door was locked. I giggled nervously and tried the door again. Still locked. What are the chances that I could get locked in two doctor's offices in a week?
I knew the drill. I headed for the stairs. They were roped off due to repairs. I thought about jumping over the edge and risking them anyway. At the bottom of the stairwell was a large black iron gate. It was chained and locked.
I headed for a door at the other end of the hallway. Surely, it would be open. Defeat. Must remain calm. Have heart check up. Cannot get blood pressure up. Say the mantra. What is that f*cking mantra again? Must remain calm.
I did the only thing I could do. I called the doctor's office. The receptionist who checked me in answered. "Um, this is Mist, Mist 1. I'm um, locked in the hallway."
She came out and opened the door for me. I avoided eye contact. When we walked into the waiting room she said (a little too loudly), "We don't use that door because of the stairs." The other patients nodded their heads behind their People magazines from December 2001 as if they were aware of the stair situation.
I think getting this must be a sign. I feel a little like David Blaine, except for the part where he escapes on his own.
Yo, I'm Ill
I think I'm sick.
My hypochrondria is flaring up again. I was on placebos for a long time. But I got hooked on them. I've done some things that I'm not proud of for those damn placebo pills. I've been through treatment and I think I've worked through my placebo addiction. At first, detox is painful. Sweating, crying, convulsing, indecently soliciting pills from the nursing staff...the usual. But now I know that I can beat this hypochondria thing without drugs.
If only Mom hadn't given me that book. 101 Diseases You Don't Want to Get. I've had almost all of them. And I've never even been to Africa. I guess I'm just sensitive to mutant viral strains.
I went to the pet store last night to buy guinea pig food. (I don't want to talk about the part where I picked up a peanut butter doggy snack that was in a bowl on the counter and...yes, I ate it. Thank you.) I always play with the critters in the store. I love to play with the ferrets. If they can put a man on the moon, I don't understand why they can't make a ferret odor-free. The ferrets were happy to see me and they jumped up my arms and climbed over my shoulders and down my back in that happy-to-see-you ferret way.
One ferret left several scratches on my arm. Scratches that broke the surface.
I am certain that I have some sort of zoonotic disease from this. It's a million times worse than Cat-Scratch Fever. I always thought that Mom made up Cat-Scratch Fever to keep me in line. Turns out it's a real problem. But what I've got is way worse. I am dizzy and confused and irrational and irritable and off-balance and have double vision and selective deafness and excessive thirst. Also, I am overly confident in my abilities to dance, I am talking loudly and I am forgetting things (like did I pay my tab?). I have made a doctor's appointment. I may have to take a cab to get there.
I hope I'm not dying because it's my birthday. It's not a good day to die.
There's got to be an easier way to take a day off of work.
This is what I do when I get home:
1. Pour a glass of wine.
2. Strip off work clothes.
3. Put on flip flops.
There is something about wearing a thong and flip flops that just isn't sexy. I felt silly and moderately tacky. G called me in this state.
We talked about the beach and the weather. I flopped into bed. We talked about rain and thunder and meetings and fashion.
G uncorked a bottle of wine. "Mmmm," I said. "That sounds good."
I got out of bed, wobbled downstairs and poured a glass for myself. "What are you drinking?" G asked.
It dawned on me. We were phone drinking. It's better than phone sex because you don't feel as ridiculous.
"Can you hear the cork, Baby?"
"Yeah, that sounds tasty. I want some."
"Let me hear you open a beer for me."
"You wanna hear me open a beer, Baby? Listen. Oh yeah, that's for you."
"Oh my God, you're making me so thirsty."
Phone drinking is hot. I hope it doesn't become a problem. I don't have time for another support group:
"Hi, my name is Mist and I'm a drunk. I was phone drinking all night. I stayed up way too late. I went over my minutes and I really can't afford that. I even drank on the phone with my own voice mail last night. I am crying out for help. "
Still, it kinda turned me on.
No Way Out
It was like being in a movie. Only without the all-star cast.
I walked out of my therapist's office and greeted the child (crazier than me, based on appearance alone)and his dad waiting in the lobby. The fact that my therapists sees children is something that I am trying very hard not to think about. Although it does explain all the crayon drawings taped to her walls.
I thanked her and headed to the elevators. I pushed the down button and made a phone call. Ten minutes later, the elevator had not come. I decided to take the stairs. I walked down four flights of stairs and encountered an Emergency Exit Only Alarm Will Sound if Door is Opened sign. And a large, looming camera.
I walked back up to the second floor and headed to the elevators. I pushed the button and made a phone call. Five minutes later, the elevator had not come. I walked to the south exit and went down two flights of stairs and encountered an Emergency Exit Only Alarm Will Sound if Door is Opened sign. And a large, looming camera.
I am stuck in the building.
Third floor. Elevators do not respond. Fifth floor, same story. Trying not to panic. Deep breathing. Talking to my inner child to calm her down.
This is not a crisis, I remind myself. If I freak out, I can always go back to my therapist's office and curl up in fetal position outside of her door. She will understand.
I make a phone call. "Just go back to her office," S says. "I can't," I tell her "the kid up there looks really crazy. I would hate to interrupt. He really needs the full hour."
I run up and down the stairs. North exit. South exit. Third floor. Sixth floor. I am not going to freak out just because I am locked in a building. Then I see the strange man hiding in the corner of the stairwell. Okay, it's a pipe. Not a killer. I laugh at myself. I sound a little like a hyena.
I go back to her office where the kid's dad is in the hallway talking on the phone. I blurt out, "I can't get out of the building." I realize then that I am sweaty from the stairs and slightly hysterical.
He points me in the direction of the elevators (genius). I explain that the elevators won't come. Have I pushed the button? Of f*cking course I've pushed the f*cking button you f*cking moron. He tells me that they always exit the building via the elevators and shrugs. He returns to his phone call, "sorry about that..."
As if I'm the idiot. Okay, so I still can't figure out how to exit the building. But I'm no idiot.
I hear a noise on the fifth floor. I run up the stairs and open a door. The janitor is in the closet muttering to himself. He looks a little homicidal. But I am desparate. "The elevators..." I say. "They don't work," he says.
He walks me down to the emergency exit doors and opens them. No alarm. I am an idiot.
I hope the large, looming cameras had a good angle of the look on the face of the dad trapped in the stairwell with the lunatic kid when he realized that they were trapped in the building.
Every now and then, I am reminded that I am disgusting.
Some days, it's mild. As demonstrated by:
1. I have been out of dishwasher detergent for two weeks.
2. Collection of bug wings on my desk.
3. Failure to floss.
Other days, it's moderate. As demonstrated by:
1. The smell of death emanating from the drain in the kitchen sink.
2. Yesterday's underwear on the bathroom floor.
3. Toenail that's dangerously close to falling off.
Yesterday, it was extreme.
I paint on the weekends. I like to paint outside, there's less clean up that way. Last weekend, it started to rain on me as I was painting so I rushed everything inside. I set the painting aside to dry and I put my brushes in a jar of water on my desk. The brushes have been sitting in that jar for a week.
Sunday, I prepared to glue more bug wings onto the painting. I had everything ready. I peered into the jar of water to select the perfect brush. There was movement in the jar.
Clearly, sobriety was getting to me. I poured a glass of sangria and looked again.
Swimming and flitting about was a small community of parasitic larva. Yes, little worms. An entire colony in a jar. Just like in my high school biology class. Only this time, Mr. C. wasn't going to give me any extra credit points.
I did what I always do in these situations. I retched. Twice. Then I called people to tell them about my disgusting sea monkey pets.
I flushed the entire microcosm. As I watched them swirl around the bowl, I remembered that mysterious invasion of little flies that I had about a month ago. Mystery solved.
Just Gimme the Damn Cake
My appetite has been voracious.
Generally, a meal looks something like this:
Last night, I needed a cake. Not a slice of cake. A cake.
I went to the bakery at my local grocery store. The problem with buying a cake in the middle of the night is that everyone knows that you are going to go home and eat the entire cake yourself. I had to throw the Bakery Lady off. I am pretty clever sometimes.
Mist 1: I'd like to order a sheet cake, please. Marble. No purple frosting.*
*Purple frosting tastes like cancer.
Bakery Lady: (Adjusting hairnet) What would you like it to say?
Mist 1: Happy birthday Christopher.**
**It was the longest name I could think of. Eleven letters. That's a lot of frosting. Not Chris. C-H-R-I-S-T-O-P-H-E-R.
Bakery Lady: (Motions toward book on counter) Do you want a theme cake?
Mist 1: It's. Not. For. Me. It's for Christopher. And yes, he'd like an Incredible Hulk cake.
Bakery Lady: Ma'am, that cake has purple frosting. See, his pants are...
Mist 1: (Getting nervous) F*ck the theme. Just a sheet cake. Nothing fancy. No purple frosting.
Bakery Lady: (Raising eyebrows) Okay...
Mist 1: I gotta pick up some balloons and sh*t. I'll be back in 30 minutes.
I sat in my living room, licking frosting off my fingers all night. Tomorrow, I will suck the helium out of the balloons.
There are some advantages to being little. I love the hug that lifts me off the ground. I am a confessed lap-sitter. Clothing in my size is always on the clearance rack. When I pretend that I can't lift something heavy, generally someone will come to my rescue. And when I get locked out, it's really handy to be able to slip my arm in through the mail slot and unlock the door. Especially when it's not my house.
One thing bothers me. The piggy back ride. I hate the piggy back ride. People always want me to hop on their backs. They think it's cute, but it's just not as adorable as it used to be.
I look like a burden up there. A burden with a g-string sticking out of my jeans.
Please, stop with the piggy back rides. Here's what will happen:
I will choke you as you navigate through narrow doorways. Your eyes will bulge. Your lips will turn blue. You will bump my knees into walls and parking meters and I will scream obscenities into your ear.
It gets really ugly when I start to slide down your back. My shirt will ride up. My jeans will sink down even further. Inevitably, my shoe will fall off and you will not notice. I will scream, "Stop! My shoe! You big oaf!" I will begin to beat you with my (green faux croc) handbag. When you bend over to retrieve my shoe, I will almost fall off your back, causing me to tighten my choke hold on your neck.
Now if you have a pony...that's different. Just once, I wish someone would say, "Mist, you're little. Wanna ride my pony?"
Wait, that's not so great either.
I have done some bad things. To be fair, I can explain:
1. I lack empathy.
2. I have a grandiose sense of self.
I like these facets of my personalities.
However, in light of the whole Voodoo Priestess thing, I have decided to clean up my Karma.
The opportunity presented itself yesterday. I witnessed a truck back directly into a parked car and drive off. I sprang into action. I reached into my purse. Pulled out my business card and a pen and wrote, "I saw what happened to your car." Then I tucked it neatly under the windshield wiper.
Did I get the tag? No.
Did I chase down the driver? No.
Did I demand that the security guard on the loading dock review the surveillance tape? No.
But still, I think the owner of the vehicle will feel better just knowing that I cared enough to take the time out of my busy day to leave a note.
Here are some other things I plan to do to realign my planets:
2. Pick up a bar tab for someone that I don't even know.
3. Complement my co-worker on her new hair.
4. Try to mean it.
I Am Not Cut Out For This
Some people feel more valuable when they work. I am not one of those people.
1. I do not like work clothes.
2. I like to control the AC.
3. Deadlines are meaningless.
Also, I am:
1. Not a team player.
2. Easily bored.
Some things that we suit me better would be:
1. Sitting by the pool.
However, the consequences of the above choices are:
1. Skin cancer.
3. Admitting that I have a problem.
So, I will continue to work.
Lacy has been waxing me for years. She knows how I like my eyebrows. I like a subtle arch. I don't prefer the look of shock and awe on my face. She also knows how I like my, um...
I made the appointment last week. No one called me to tell me that Lacy was ill. When I got to the spa, Heather greeted me. I almost balked. Waxing is intimate. I hardly know Heather. She did my brows a few months ago. She's a small-talker. "So, what are you doing this weekend?" and "Any vacation plans coming up?" I am not good at small talk. Especially when my pants are off. When I get my brows arched, I prefer not to talk as I want to keep my face as neutral as possible. I am there to correct that unruly left brow, not to talk about my social calendar.
There was no way I was going to be able to drop my pants for Heather. Except for the fact that I was overdue for a waxing. Really overdue.
I should have waited. Now, my eyebrows are a little too thin. And elsewhere, well...I look a bit like Hitler with a harelip. It will all grow back in time. I remain loyal to Lacy.
G and I were discussing the intimacy of waxing. I mentioned that I would prefer to combine my gynecologist and waxing appointments. I could walk in and have my blood pressure checked, the nurse would draw blood, the esthetician would remove all unwanted hair, and the doc would handle everything else. G agreed, saying that the doc could prescribe a localized pain killer before the hair removal.
At first, I thought this was a good idea. But then I started thinking. I hate the feeling when I leave the dentist. That feeling that my mouth is really large. I drool and can't drink from a straw and I am certain that my entire face is swollen and distorted. I can only imagine leaving the OBGYN/Esthetician with the same sensation. Only not on my face.
Someone wants me dead.
I am sure that a Voodoo priestess has been paid to do the job. Maybe not a very talented Voodoo priestess, as I am still alive. But certainly someone that has taken a few classes and has enough power to make some really traumatic sh*t happen.
In the last 36 hours, I have had three near-death experiences:
1. Pot of "Seafood."
I lived, but it was close. I am recovered and I am svelte.
2. The man driving the white Ford F-150.
It is all I can do to not make the offending driver's tag public knowledge and encourage people to find him and do him bodily harm. He cut me off, only to stop abruptly in front of me a block later. Driving 70-80 mph (as I usually do), I try to pass him on the right (as I usually do). The passenger door opens and out jumps a child. Luckily the front end of my car sustained only minimal damage.
He sped off again and as he did, a lawn chair flew out of the bed of the truck. It narrowly missed me. I took a detour, probably saving my life.
3. Black Widow spider.
A phone book was delivered to my front door a week ago. Not the helpful kind of phone book. It was one of those little Community Guides. The kind of phone book that never has the number of the pizza place that I like. I was feeling so good about my renewed lease on life that I picked up the phone book to bring it inside. I grabbed the yellow plastic bag, when I got to the kitchen and noticed something swinging from the bag.
A Black Widow spider.
I am afraid of ordinary spiders. This was not an ordinary spider. This one could kill me. That's why it has a creepy name. The red hour glass image is burned in my memory. It was terrifying.
I dropped the spider and phone book in my sink. Anything that lands in my kitchen sink dies on contact (409 means nothing to me). It's legs curled up and it was still.
I left. Immediately. No purse. No lip gloss. Just car keys and a cell phone. When I came home later, the spider was in a different position. I left. Immediately. No purse. No lip gloss. Just car keys and a cell phone.
Note: To the person/people who want me dead...get a new Voodoo priestess. Check her references.
Mist 1 does not feel like herself today. That's why she's writing about herself in third person. Generally, she finds this annoying. However, in her current state it's all she can do.
Mist had to have Chinese food for dinner last night. She had several options but she chose Chinese. When Mist walked into the restaurant, she noticed an unusual odor. A sour smell filled her nostrils but this did not sway her. She was resolved.
After examining the menu, Mist ordered the Pot of "Seafood." Never did it cross her mind that this could be a fatal mistake.
She consumed tiny "lobster" claws, "scallops" with a texture resembling pencil erasers, wrinkled "shrimp," some sort of "fish" pasty substance, and "mussels" that looked like genitalia and tasted like mud. These "sea creatures" had been stewed in a pot of tangy juices.
Mist was driving home when she began to sweat and shake like a crackhead. Then the colorful spots appeared in front of her eyes. She knew that she was not going to make it home. She had no choice. She stopped at Borders and bolted to the restrooms. After retching loudly and recreating the Pot of "Seafood" Mist felt better. Dizzy, but better.
The (overly) friendly woman washing her hands struck up a conversation with Mist at the sink. She remarked that she loved Mist's curls. Usually Mist is up for a conversation about her curls. Instead of thanking the (overly) friendly woman for the complement, Mist puked in the sink. The (overly) friendly woman did too.
Mist is going to wish that she had not forgotten the doggy bag in her car.
Mist 1 (not herself)
I am re-evaluating the new shrink.
There are several criteria for picking a good mental health professional. I have my own criteria.
1. Must be within walking distance.
2. Must have good parking because I probably won't feel like walking.
3. Must have good magazines.
4. Must not be magazines that I subscribe to.
5. Must not be cuter than me.
6. Must not mind that I am cuter.
I am also re-evaluating my criteria.
I think that it's more important to get a good look at the other clients in the office. The objective is to determine if they are:
1. As crazy as I am.
2. Less crazy than I am.
3. Crazier than I am.
I showed up early to see who she sees before me. There was no "Do not disturb. Session in progress" sign on the door. So I had to listen at the door for just a second. Or two. I know it was wrong. I'm working on it.
I paged through magazines for another ten minutes before they emerged. The woman appeared totally normal. (Less crazy than I am. Single.)
After my session, I walked out into the waiting room. The couple sitting on the couch looked startled when they saw me. Based on appearance, they are receiving therapy to acclimate to living in modern society and deal with the grief of leaving the hippie commune. (Crazier than I am. Not single.)
I think I am onto something. I just don't know what. Only a $300 deductible remains.
Crazy Quilt Lady
I have a friend who loves The Brown people. Cannot get enough of The Browns. Dates The Browns. Reads The Browns' literature. Hangs out with The Browns.
We went to the Heritage Arts Festival together. I knew when she said "heritage" it meant "ethnic" or "urban" or whatever The Browns prefer to be called. I also knew, that due to my affiliation with The Browns that I would be required to answer any questions that she may have.
We stopped to see a booth of quilts and textiles. A lovely lady was displaying seven generations of her family quilts. She instructed us to look closely. We would be able to see the code that guided the slaves to freedom via the Underground Railroad.
We looked closely. I saw thumb tacks holding a presumably 100+ year old textile to the wall. I saw a perfect machined edge on the fabric. I saw a price tag of $400 stuck directly onto the fabric. $400 is a reasonable price for an item of such personal and historical significance.
I mentioned these things to the lovely quilt lady. Suddenly, she morphed into the Crazy Quilt Lady. She began rattling off names of all of the people that are really black. George Washington, Abraham Lincoln (duh), and Andrew Jackson. I nodded and started to glaze over. My friend began taking notes.
The Crazy Quilt Lady, looked me over. Her eyes stopped on my hair (pigtails!). She sneered at me and said, "The Indians had slaves too." My friend was scribbling furiously trying to keep up.
I wrapped my arm around my friends waist, brushed her hair aside and whispered, "It's time to go."
Crazy Quilt Lady made a noise in the back of her mouth. We exited briskly before she could say, "The interracial lesbians had slaves too."
"All of this happened, more or less." - Kurt Vonnegut
Location: Dirty South, USA
Yes, it is about me. Thanks for noticing.
123 Valerie Strikes Again
A Day in the Life
A Day in the Wind
A View From The Watter's Edge
BNR - Blog Name Removed
Burnett's Urban Etiquette
Burt Reynolds' Mustache
Carnival of the Mundane
Dan's Blah Blah Blog
DKY Bar and Grill
Exorcise My Devils
Fantasy and Sci-Fi Lovin' Blog
Fresh Air Lover
Guilty With An Explanation
How to go Insane
I Am Woman, See Me Blog!
It's Go Time!
It's No Picknick!
Jen (and Andrew)
Ketchup With My Fries, Please
Little White Liar
Maiden New York
Mindy Does Minneapolis
Much Ado about sumthin!
Single Life As I Know It
Secret Suburban Misfit
Southern Circle of Hell
The Assimilated Negro
The Death of Retail Price
The Dragon: 050376
The Morning Meeting
The Post College Years
The Wonderful World of Nothing Worthwhile
Tiny Voices in My Head
No Love, Courtney
Change of Pace
Pants and Entertaining
Inner Ear/Alien Spawn
Header image photo by Alison.
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