Here's what I need to do: 1. Get Hobby, 2. Floss. Blogging just gets in the way.
I was on the phone with Dad last night when I got a bloody nose. There was no warning. Just a funny taste in the back of my throat. I tilted my head back and told Dad that I'd have to call him back.
Dad didn't understand the urgency of the situation. He thought I had a call on my other line. He is opposed to call waiting. "I'm not going to sit here and wait for you to be finished talking to someone more important than Your Father," he said.
"No, Dad...it's not that. I have a nosebleed."
Most people would get off the phone at that point. Dad decided that it was a perfect time to reflect on the Great Nosebleed of 1987.
I grew up in the Tundra. Lots of snow, lakes, casinos, and the Mall of America. Winters were unusally harsh. The air was dry and my father got regular nosebleeds. One winter day, Dad got a nosebleed in the car. Just like mine, it started with no warning.
Dad uses paper towels instead of tissues due to the size of his nose. I'm not sure why he doesn't apply the same logic for toilet paper. I wish I had thought to ask him.
He groped around the back seat for the roll of paper towels. He checked under his seat. Blood dripped down his chin as he swerved into oncoming traffic while reaching under the passenger seat. My sister, strapped in her car seat squealed in delight and clapped.
There were no paper towels.
In fact, there seemed to be nothing absorbant at all in the car. Not even a discarded newspaper. He fished out an empty styrofoam cup from McDonald's and held it under his chin for a moment. The blood trickled through his beard and down his neck, cleverly avoiding the cup.
He threw the cup in disgust and thrust his hand back under the passenger seat. His finger tips met with a small frozen hand towel. He rejoiced and pressed the frozen absorbant cloth to his face.
Gradually, the bleeding stopped and Dad removed the towel from his face. Holding it up in front of him, he realized that it was not a towel, it was a pair of my sister's frozen training pants. My sister squealed in delight and clapped her hands.
It took him 30 minutes to tell me this story. I am still weak from blood loss. AB+ if anyone would like to make a donation.
Kiss Like A Sailor
Yesterday, I was reminded of my one-and-only blind date. My friend thought that we would get along smashingly. Also, the guy was "taking a break" from his girlfriend. There is nothing better than a date with me to remind a man of all the reasons he really, really loves his girlfriend.
We met for bloody Mary's which is an excellent start to a date. If it is a good date, it is an excellent way to end the date. I didn't mind that he was shorter than I am. I liked that I could rest my drink on his head. Nor did I mind that he was about the age of my father.
We went to a Braves game. I don't understand baseball. It just doesn't make sense to me. One team is always young and athletic while the other team always looks like my dad and his buddies. Also, I have been over stirrup pants for ages. I decided that it was best for me to sit quietly and drink $14 Bud Lites.
He was a gentleman. He didn't even punch the guy that asked him if he could take his daughter out after the game. "Thanks, Daddy" I said when he passed me another beer.
After the game, we decided that more drinks were in order. We found a quiet bar. Over vodka, he told me about his adventures in the Navy. I was on my best behavior. I asked pertinent questions and never once mentioned that I like seamen. I still thought it in my head, though. Which is probably why I decided to stick my tongue down his throat.
And this is right about when the date started to go wrong.
"You're not like most women I've dated. All my Naval stories seem to bore them."
"You're not like most men. You're different." I fluttered my eyelashes and tried not to laugh about his navel stories.
"I know," he said. "I've been circumcised twice."
Curiosity and vodka got the better of me.
Thanks, 123Valerie for stirring up the past.
My First Lesbian Experience
Last month, I nearly lost some of my favorite panties. Every time I wear them, I am thankful for my kindly neighbor who alerted me that they were outside for all to see.
I wore them Saturday. I remember putting them on. I poured a glass of wine and stepped into the panties (left foot, then right). Then I smoked a cigarette. I got dressed. I put on too much makeup. Then the drinking began in earnest.
My first martini was sweet and sticky. I cannot refuse limoncello. My fingers were sticky. The glass was sticky. I needed to balance out the sweetness with something salty. I ordered a dirty martini with extra olives. I got two olives. I demanded more olives. Olives count as a vegetable on the FDA food pyramid. All that salt made me thirsty, so I had a beer or perhaps, several.
Morning came quickly. I woke up naked sprawled out on top of my blankets. The cat was standing over me. He looked disgusted. I apologized, fed him and showered.
I reached into the top drawer and pulled out a pair of panties. They appeared to be the same pair that I had been wearing the night before. Confused, I checked my clothes hamper. The panties were there, right on top.
And then it hit me.
I've been wearing another b*tch's underwear.
This is the same as walking up to a random girl, stripping off our clothes and pressing my snatch directly up against hers.
I don't even know her name.
Stuff On My Mom
Mom and I come up with really good ideas. I like most of her ideas. Originally, I didn't think my sister was the best idea, but she has really grown on me. Still, I prefer when she consults with me.
A few months ago, Mom decided that we should write a book of letters. The letters would be based on those irritating letters that people send around the holidays to catch people up on all the activities of the ______ family. Our book of letters would be dysfunctional family letters. Letters home from rehab or catchinf friends in family up after relocating due to "Jimmy" being convicted of child porn crimes. We have had lots of fun with this idea. She writes the letters at work because she does deeply important work and also apparently, some of her co-workers are inspirational.
Last week, I sent Mom a link for Stuff On My Cat. Her cat, Vinnie is large and moves slowly. I thought that she could put lots of stuff on him for fun. She needs a hobby. She took this in an unexpected direction. Here is an actual exerpt from her email to me yesterday.
"I liked that site. We need to discuss my idea for "Stuff on my Mom" inspired by Stuff on my Cat. Has anyone done that? I want to put stuff on my mom and take pictures. I think it would be so funny. Wouldn't Dad's collection of little plastic airplanes look great on my mom? And my collection of shoes from the 80s. And like maybe some muffins. What do you think? I want to put lightbulbs on my mom. And maybe some Meow Mix. And I don't want this to turn into some elder abuse thing, but how about a set of Encyclopedia Brittanica. And those little wedge shaped sponges you use for makeup."
I can't wait to see Grandma for Christmas. I have already started thinking of things I'd like to put on her. Rubber gloves, Legos, My Little Ponies...
It looks like I finally have a hobby. I hope this doesn't interfere with my blogging.
PS: Fringes was lovely enough to let me take over her blog for the day. Read here.
I invited myself to Sandra's house for Thanksgiving. I find that it's best to crash these sort of events so that I'm not expected to bring anything. Just in case, I brought a pack of gum to share.
Sandra has this party every year. The invitees are all people without family members in town. This year, there was a man named Kevin who called himself an orphan. It seems that his parents are dead. I would have comforted him, but he was a mouth breather. Instead, I told him about the production of Annie that I was in when I was ten. He leaned in for a hug.
I needed a drink. Unfortunately, the crew on alcohol detail hadn't arrived. I slipped off to the bathroom for a few Scope shots before rejoining the other guests. Sandra buys wintergreen mouthwash. I prefer the orange flavored variety, but I was in a pinch.
I volunteered to help in the kitchen so that I wouldn't have to participate in the discussion in the living room which was why humans don't just have one ear in the middle of the face and something about feudalism. Sandra put me in charge of the microwave because it has no sharp edges, thereby reducing my risk of injury. My job was to reheat a sweet potato and marshmallow dish that she had prepared in advance. I put it in for ten minutes and backed away from the microwave. I have an irrational fear of radiation. Sandra has a very advanced microwave. It has a convection oven setting. Apparently, the term "convection" means "warp speed." When I opened the microwave, the marshmallow concoction had been replaced with a Goodyear tire.
Sandra sent me upstairs to find the gravy boat. While I was searching a closet, I heard a noise. A scratching rodent-like noise coming from directly above my head. I looked up and stared into the face of a squirrel. A man-eating squirrel. With fangs. And venom. I screamed.
Quickly, all of the guests were upstairs. The squirrel was trapped in the closet, paralyzed with fear. Then, it disappeared into a hole where a light fixture should have been. Sandra screamed. She had a look on her face that told me that she was considering how she was ever going to sleep in a house with a squirrel on the loose. "You can stay with me," I offered. She screamed again.
She called 911. Within moments, a squad car arrived. We explained the situation and brought the officer upstairs. He shined his flashlight in the hole. He scientifically pressed his ear to the wall. "It's in there," he said, motioning to the wall. Sandra panicked and insisted that he Do Something.
The officer nodded and asked, "Ma'am, do you mind a hole in your wall?"
He unholstered his gun.
Next year, we are meeting at a Chinese restaurant.
Don't eat too much...turkey
How Did You Get My Number?
I need to call my dad. It seems that he has been giving out my phone number again. All you have to do is say, "I went to high school with Mist," and before you know it, you have my phone number.
I think Dad should guard my phone number like an email password. There should be a secret question. What was my first pet's name? Last four digits of my Social Security Number? Mother's maiden name? Boxers or briefs? Something. He can't just keep giving it out.
Lloyd called me last night. I feel comfortable using his real name because he doesn't know how to read, so the risk of him finding this blog and being able to comprehend it, is one I'm willing to take.
I didn't recognize the phone number, but it had the magic area code. I always answer calls from that area code.
I knew it was Lloyd instantly. "Irregardless of everything that happened, I still think about you." No one else that I know uses the word "irregardless."
"Lloyd," I said, "it's regardless."
"That too," he replied.
We talked for a bit. Lloyd remembers things a little differently than I do. Lloyd remembers how I stuck my tongue down his throat. It's my signature move.
I remember our first date. In the car, he told me about his seven year old son and daughter. "Oooh, twins" I cooed. "Naw. Two weeks apart." We went to a trendy bar. I ordered a dirty martini. He ordered a Miller Genuine Draft. He commented that he had never acquired a taste for dirty martinis. I replied that I had never acquired a taste for MGD.
"It's not my first choice," he said.
"What's your preference?"
I wish I could say that I never saw him again. I believe in second chances.
In the early 90s, I fell in love with a thug. He knew of all the best parties and I look cute in a bulletproof vest. We were meant to be. Also, he wanted to be a rapstar and I totally wanted to be a b*tch. I got my wish. He is still rocking open mic night.
We were inseparable. He used to say the sweetest things to me like, "Wait in the car, G" and "hold my heat, Money" I loved it when he talked to me like that. He needed me. We had a partnership. If he said drive faster, I drove faster. If he told me to stash the drugs, I obliged. When he said, "Break yo'sef fool," I broke myself.
The first time he went to prison, I waited for him. I wrote letters and sent him sexy pictures of myself. I waited for his collect phone calls every night. We were like the urban Romeo and Juliette. Except we weren't suicidal.
When he got out, we went on vacation. He said California. I packed my bags. I was thinking Disney. He was thinking Compton. The initiation rites were entertaining and I still have lots of memories of the drive-by shootings.
We were together for years. In that time, I wrote many, many letters scented with my perfume and sold a kidney to pay for all the collect phone calls.
After one release, I decided to show him my world. We took a romantic trip to the mountain home while he was awaiting trial. One night, we took a canoe out onto the lake. He proposed. It was something like this:
#28472442: You know I love you, G.
#28472442: I got your back and sh*t.
Mist: Fo' sho'.
#28472442: I want to car jack people with you fo' eva. I love you, Lil Homie. Will you marry me?
This is when I realized that I wasn't sure where he'd spend the next 10-30 years. Also, there was no ring. Just a yellow gold chain with a blinged out Uzi pendant. I don't wear yellow gold. I declined.
He beat the rap. I missed the boat. He has a new b*tch. She has "LOVE 4EVA" tattoed on her knuckles. She keeps it real.
Last night he called me. Okay, he didn't mean to call me. His phone was in his pocket and he doesn't understand keyguard. I eavesdropped for a bit. It went something like this:
#28472442: Now I gotta f*ck you up. You f*cked with the wrong muthaf*cka, muthaf*cka.
Much scuffling ensued.
I miss him.
The day before my birthday (not saying how old I was turning), I was discovered. I was at a swanky bar, enjoying a martini larger than my bathtub. After a few dirty martinis I am grossly over-confident. It is charming. Really.
I flitted about the bar, smalltalking with the patrons. I must have tossed my hair a lot that night, because when I went to the restroom, DeeDee approached me and asked me if I had ever modeled. I had lots of practice posing in the mirror, so I said that yes, yes I had.
She handed me her card and told me that she would love to represent me and told me to call her Monday morning.
I called. Within 24 hours, I found myself walking a runway wearing a see-through shirt with Band-Aids over my nipples. I wore a skirt inside out. I was told that it was to express the concept of the skirt. I nodded in deep, profound agreement. My hair was tiger striped and teased to all new heights.
Thus began my not-so-glamourous hair modeling career.
My parents were thrilled. "We sent you to college to get brains, Mist. Brains, not braids," Dad yelled over the phone one night. Ignorance. I never had braids.
I sent my parents a photo of myself clipped from Modern Salon magazine. The caption described my hair as "a whimsical approach to texture." They were so right. I am totally whimsical.
I decided to take modeling seriously because I had no other prospects (read: no sugar daddy/liberal arts degree). I lost weight. I dropped a few pounds and achieved the waif look. I got more work. I dropped a few more pounds and achieved the heroin chic look. I was sent to Japan to work. I was the only person in Japan with ridiculously curly hair. I was an instant hit.
When I came back to the States and looked for work, I was unable to find anyone willing to hire a 80 pound anorexic (Note: Am not androgynous enough to work for Calvin Klein, nor am I that cute). I went without work for months. Until, I got a call from Guns & Ammo asking if I was available.
They needed a corpse.
I keep meeting people that look retarded. Droopy eyes and everything. I speak loudly to them and in short sentences until I find out that they are not retarded at all. Probably neurosurgeons or something. Then, I feel bad for them because they still look retarded.
Right now, I feel bad for myself.
I keep thinking of all those people that meet me and assume that I'm not retarded based on how I look. Honestly, I look like all my chromosomes are all in the right places. I can only imagine what it's like to talk to me and realize that while I look normal, I am perfectly retarded. They must be disappointed and also a little scared because I have a driver's license and play with sharp objects.
Last night, I decided to cook. By cook, I mean, heat something up in the toaster oven. I turned the it on and sat down to go through your blogroll. I heard the "ding" of the toaster oven and checked on my dinner, it was cold. I cranked it up again. Another "ding" and it was still cold. Irritable from hunger, I set the toaster oven to "Broil" and paced the floors like a tiger in the zoo. Upon hearing the "ding," I ran into the kitchen. Still cold. It seems that the toaster oven has to be plugged in. Right. Thirty minutes later, I enjoyed takeout.
This is the kind of thing that could happen to anyone. It doesn't make me retarded.
Dropping my cell phone in the toilet makes me retarded.
I don't usually send text messages from the bathroom, but sometimes I get inspired. I had a really great thought about installing a garbage disposal in my toilet and needed to share it with someone. That's when I dropped it. Yes, I reached my hand in and fished it (my phone) out.
I don't even know how to use my home phone. I had to find it first. It was buried under a pile of shoes in my closet. I had 249 unanswered messages dating back to 2003. I needed to call someone. Not being able to use my cell phone made me feel suddenly cut off from the world. The only phone number that I have memorized is 911. After being on hold for 20 minutes, I decided to go through more blogrolls.
I wonder if my wi-fi works in the bathroom.
My sister and I never really bonded. Our parents split up when she was young. I lived with Dad, while she lived with Mom. Dad also got custody of the cat because the judge found him to be a Highly Responsible Individual. A year later, I went to college (read: moved far, far away from those lunatics).
Now that she's all grown up, I've been trying to bond with her. The problem is that we really don't share any common interests. I like shoes, she wears combat boots. With everything. I like men, she likes women who look like men. I like pinot, she likes Smirnoff Ice.
I love the kid. I really do. Sure, I was a bad babysitter. And sure, I scammed her out of her birthday money and inheritance, but that's all water under the bridge. We are grown ups now. It's time for us to bond.
Recently, she mentioned to me that Dad writes personal ads. Writes and responds to personal ads. I know myself. I cannot let an opportunity like this slip away. We settled down to our laptops and searched for his ad. He's pretty easy to identify. Bob Dylan, former smoker, Socialist, dog lover. We had him.
Y'all without sin can cast the first stone.
We posted an ad. "Barbara" is 50, looks 49. Loves comedy and Dylan. Finds men with grown, yet immature children irresistably sexy. Loves dogs.
We left him a message. I did the talking because I am the one who can alter my voice without giggling. I mentioned that I look like Betty Aberlin (Dad made me watch "Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood" because he had a crush on Lady Aberlin).
Thus far, has worked like magic. Barbara and Dad have date this weekend.
He better not try anything funny.
Poof! You're Divorced
I am the Divorce Fairy.
My friend has a pornstar keychain. It's called the G-Spot keychain. When the button (G-Spot) is pushed, a woman's voice screams, "Yeah, oh yeah! Right there! Oh, Baby! Ohhhh..."
It's a little disturbing; especially when I answer the phone in the middle of the night and am subjected to a woman screaming "yeah, oh yeah..." That's my line, b*tch.
That's when I had one of my moments of inspiration. My friend works an unusual shift, so I got dressed and headed down to his place of business. His place of business happens to be a firehouse, so when I say I got dressed, I mean that I put on my garter belt and thigh-highs and left the house.
With the assistance of my friend, I crept into the room where all the firefighters sleep. After several moments of fantasy (read: masturbation), I snatched the cell phone of the rookie.
I scrolled through his phone book, until I found "Home."
I called his wife.
When she picked up, I pushed the G-Spot button. The keychain moaned. And groaned. "Right there! Oh G*d yeah, right there!"
At the end of the four minute orgasm, I hung up. I did a gratuitous slide down the pole and I left.
Poor bastard. He is in for a world of sh*t.
Trailer Parks, Mountain Dew, Crystal Meth
I have preferences. I like my potential suitors to be breathing. I am picky, but I believe that a girl has to have standards.
I may need to rethink my standards.
I let my friend set me up last weekend. She is dating a man who's father is a pastor in a rattlesnake worshipping church. She may not have been the best option as a matchmaker.
We drove out to Who Shot John, Georgia (population 27.5). It was instantly clear that my date for the evening, Ricky Dee, constituted the .5. He shared his double-wide with a man whose teeth grew in rows like a shark, an unconscious young woman, fifteen children all under the age of four, and eight dogs. The dogs ruled the double-wide, but luckily, the children were outdoor children.
I asked why all the children were tethered outside. "They're grounded," the toothy man replied.
Ricky Dee and I shared many common interests. I am a collector. Mainly, I collect pens that I inadvertently steal from people. Ricky Dee collects Mountain Dew cans. He had made an antenna for his TV out of hundreds, if not thousands of Mountain Dew cans. He explained that ever since the people in the trailer next to him had packed up and driven away, he didn't have cable, but the one channel that did come in had pretty good reception.
He poured me a vodka and Mountain Dew and we got to know each other a little better. He told me that he liked my fancy shoes. Ricky Dee knew how to soften my heart. The unconscious woman snorted and made a comment in her sleep. B*tch. Her shoes looked like feet to me.
I asked Ricky Dee what he did for a living. "I'm a cook," he answered. Things were looking up. "Ooooooh, cook me something," I crooned. He got up and clanked around in the kitchen for a bit. I tried to make small talk with the toothy man who was trying to pick the pattern off of the carpet with his thick fingernails. Ricky Dee appeared in front of me with a dinner plate. "You wanna smoke it or snort it, Beautiful?"
I left, but still, I could have used a pick me up to clean my house. Damn.
This week is the anniversary of Grandpa's stroke. It was the final blow. He never came back.
Grandpa was the funniest man that I have ever known. He is why my world is comical.
When Grandpa was young, he lived in North Dakota. He wanted bigger and better things for himself and so he applied for a sales job with an animal feed and supply company. The opening was a regional sales position. The man who interviewed him explained that he would be responsible for an entire region, including North and South Dakota, Iowa, Minnesota, and even a small territory in Canada.
"Canada!" Grandpa exclaimed. "There's only hockey players and whores in Canada!"
"My wife is from Canada," the interviewer said.
"And what team does she play for, Sir?"
He didn't get the job and became an Army Ranger instead. From this point on, my family has had a healthy respect for Canadians.
Just before Grandpa's stroke, he lost his leg due to complications of Diabetes. We stood vigil in the hospital. Uncle Greg brought cards, Aunt Mary brought snacks, and I brought a flask.
The nurse came into the waiting area and we gathered around her for an update. "He's conscious," she said. We pushed her out of the way and burst into his room.
Grandma asked how he felt. "I feel like I've got one foot in the grave." There was an awkward pause. The nurse paled. We roared in laughter. He was okay.
I miss you, Grandpa. Love always.
My shoe shopping habit has gotten out of hand. I need to practice restraint. So yesterday, I shopped for jeans.
I tried on a pair of the best a$$ jeans that I have ever worn. They were perfect, except for the cheap, glittery belt attached. I admired myself for a moment before deciding that I should let other people admire me as well. I pranced around the store, pausing dramatically in front of other shoppers. Strangely, no one commented on how fabulous my a$$ looked. Even the sales associate looked mildly annoyed. Haters.
Back in my fitting room, I turned around to appreciate the detail on the pockets. Also, I wanted another look at my butt.
I fumbled with the belt. It was stuck. I tugged at it. It didn't budge. I couldn't get out of the jeans. If only I hadn't broken my nails bowling, I am sure that I would have been able to pry the belt loose and avoid what happened next.
Slightly sweaty and panting, I called for the sales associate. Why don't fitting rooms have an emergency button to push just in case something like this happens? Or a phone, like the ones in elevators?
Four sales associates couldn't help me out of the jeans. It's usually not that hard to get me out of my pants. "Maybe we should have a few drinks," I suggested. Finally, after I promised to buy the jeans, the Manager on Duty gave the okay to cut the belt.
I've always wanted a sexy EMT to cut my clothes off. There are some flaws with this fantasy. The auto accident part isn't so appealing. Also, I'd have to make sure that I was wearing something flattering, but that I wouldn't mind having shredded.
This wasn't going exactly how I imagined.
When I was free, an associate asked, "Should I ring these up for you, ma'am?"
I demanded a discount.
The Lord's Bowling League
I agreed to go bowling because I am a Good Sport and there was the prospect of vodka. Mostly, it was the prospect of vodka.
First, I had to stop in the shoe store and buy socks. I also bought a pair of shoes, but they were on sale and for next summer so they don't really count. I had a choice of socks. I could purchase six pair for $8 or one pair for $6. I am a sensible shopper and so I bought one pair. It was a better deal than buying a half dozen and throwing five pair away (that's a savings of $2).
I was invited by a guy who owns a "modeling" agency and was meeting a group of people that I didn't know. I assumed that I would be bowling with really attractive cokeheads, which sounded like fun.
Naturally, I stopped at the bar for a martini first. I would need it, if I was going to put my feet in someone else's shoes. I always carry a tiny bottle of hand sanitizer in my purse. As I slipped my feet into the slightly moist shoes, I comforted myself with the knowledge that in an hour, I would be slathering my feet in hand sanitzer.
I walked over to our reserved lanes. "Excuse me," I said to the dowdy woman in my lane. "I think you may be in the wrong place." She was clearly not a model. "You must be Mist," she said. "I've heard about your hair." I thanked her for noticing my amazing curls and assumed that she must be an agent. I looked around. I was bowling with the frumpiest group of people that I had ever seen. Everyone wore fleece. Also, many of them owned there own bowling shoes. I was confused. But because I am a good sport (see reference above), I decided to bowl.
I am not a good bowler. My goal was to bowl my weight, but after four frames, I had bowled a thirteen. I weigh just over thirteen pounds. I decided that I had better reset my goals. I was determined to bowl my IQ.
I ordered a round of shots. In situations like this, I find that shots always help.
Eight Hollywood shooters arrived. The owner of the agency leaned over to me and whispered, "this is my Bible study group. We don't drink." I rolled my eyes and told him not to worry, the shots were for me. I wish he had told me that this was his Bible study group before I made everyone uncomfortable with all those ball comments (i.e. "Six pound balls are soooo hard to find" and "I've never seen more beautiful balls" and "I hope I'm not sore tomorrow from all these balls" and on and on and on). It is nearly impossible not to talk about balls when you are in a bowling alley. It's just one of those things. With the right audience, I would have been a riot. Or molested.
Eight shots later, I was still bowling a thirteen. Consistency is very important to me. I had managed to refrain from making any more ball jokes, which was a victory as well.
As we ended the game and I rubbed my feet with hand sanitizer, one of the men asked me if I wouldn't mind helping him with all the balls. I told him that he looked like he could handle plenty of balls and I walked away to exchange my shoes.
It was only five balls. Amateur.
Recently, I've been thinking that maybe I could use some fitness in my life.
I've been finding myself strangely attracted to sneakers. I have no real use for sneakers. My definition of fitness does not require athletic wear. My daily workout consists of one sit-up when my alarm goes off, and three more for each time that I hit the snooze button. Also, I have really acrobatic sex.
I try to eat right. Cheeseburgers have every food in the new and improved food pyramid. Wine is made from grapes and that counts as a fruit. Yes, I enjoy my cheeseburgers with wine.
This routine has kept me below my target BMI for years. Still, I keep thinking that I could benefit from a little exercise. To prepare, I bought two pair of sneakers (a pair of boots, and two pair of heels).
Feeling one step closer to my new fit lifestyle, I decided to stop by the gym and renew my membership. Several months ago, I was asked to leave the gym and never come back. Surely, they wouldn't remember. They did. I have to say that I have never looked better than the picture they have of me up on the wall behind the desk.
Not easily defeated, I stopped at the local movie store and purchased several workout videos. I am the proud owner of a complete set of dance workout DVDs. Bellydance, hip-hop, Afro-Cuban, Polka, Jazz, Tap, and Strip-aerobics.
I rushed home, opened a bottle of wine, pushed the coffee table out of the way and closed the blinds. I smoked a cigarette and sat down to watch strip-aerobics. I was feeling more fit already.
Just before bed, as I was brushing my teeth, I decided to try out some of the choreography. I stood in the bathroom mirror and undid my pants. They dropped to my ankles. I kicked them off dramatically. My pants flew up into the air above my head and landed directly in the toilet.
I am a quick learner.
One Flew East, One Flew West
Once a year, I take a vacation. I would take one more frequently, but my insurance won't cover it.
Two weeks of horseback riding, swimming, tennis, yoga, group therapy, meds, and some time in the Quiet Room always refreshes me. Also, I love Arts & Crafts.
I know it seems a little extreme to vacation in a state-of-the-art Nut House. I could just take a Club Med vacation, but the good people at Club Med aren't as all inclusive as they claim to be. You are on your own for drugs. At my preferred vacation spot, the drugs are included and you get to take some home with you at the end of your stay.
The med line is a bit inconvenient. I never like to wait in line. But when that little white paper cup is in my hand and I have tongued the pink ones for the girl down the hall who trades me for her yellow pills, the wait seems insignificant.
I have pretty good insurance. Other people aren't so lucky. It's not always easy to get accepted. Either I have to wait for someone to hang themselves in their sheets or I have to sell myself. Sometimes, I have to develop a facial tic. Other times, I have to wrap myself in tin foil and stand on the roof holding a wire hanger to talk to the aliens (they come in peace). Last time, I took to crafting clever little magnetic poems in the admissions lobby. I knew that it was a test. I wrote:
This solitary thought
A brilliant storm
I am beside myself
Then, I refused to answer any questions directed toward Mist 1. "Mist isn't here right now."
It's more than just good insurance. It takes a certain amount of skill too.
Of course, if that doesn't work, I suppose sleeping with the clinical director couldn't hurt.
Am Getting Dummer By the Minute
I am not a good listener. It is mainly due to the fact that I talk a lot. Sometimes, I talk myself hoarse. If I knew American Sign Language, I would have the most shapely fingers of anyone I know.
I have met my match. Moronda is the only woman on earth that talks more than me. We haven't seen each other in fifteen years. We were six when we last saw one another (that's right, I'm claiming 21 this year). For the record, it is impossible to catch up on fifteen years in four days. I am considering cutting off my own ears.
I think that substance is important. Everything I say is fascinating. I prefer to talk about my shoes and what color I should dye my hair next and the Ozone layer and stuff. Moronda doesn't share this belief in the importance of substance. Instead, she prefers to talk about every relationship she's had in the past fifteen years.
Aaron, Rich, Doug, Donald, Tim, Rasha, Vic...I needed a flow chart. Luckily, happen to have a large flip chart. I set up the easel and began taking notes.
We charted 2006. Seven men. It was a slow year. Tim tied her down for a few months. I got a cramp in my hand and had to take a wine break. After a bottle of wine, Moronda exclaimed that if we used seven as an average number of men per year and assumed that she had been f*cking for 15 years, well...that's a lot of guys. I still can't do the math on this one, but I am sure that it's a lot of guys.
"Wow," I said. "You must have a huge CD collection."
She looked at me like I was retarded. "I have an iPod and a lot of XL tee shirts to sleep in."
"You'd better get married." It was the best advice I could think of.
Mist 1, John 0
Sometimes, I believe in Karma. Usually, when it works in my favor.
Moronda and I went out for a few drinks last night. We staked out the best real estate in the place; the corner of the bar. We could see everyone from there. We scanned the bar for someone to talk about. We were feeling very cute and yet, slightly bitchy. We can be like that. We both can fit in our clothes from high school. Not that we would still wear them, but we could if we wanted to. Hate us now.
My eyes stopped on John. I had a brief fling with John a few years ago. It didn't work out because 1.) he left me for a (slightly) hotter chick, and 2.) I am a little bit crazy. He was with a girl that used to sleep with a friend of mine. A female friend of mine. She told that friend that she thought I was stunning (maybe she didn't use the word stunning, but I can't be sure).
I leaned over and whispered the story in Moronda's ear.
"You've got to do something," she insisted.
I hadn't thought of that. It's good to have friends.
We plotted. John avoided eye contact. We drank. John looked at his watch (sixteen times, if anyone had been counting). We schemed. John chain smoked. We giggled. John got up to answer a phone call. Then, I made my move.
I hit on the girl while he was in the restroom. I work quickly. I explained how I had lost her number and that if she was still interested, Moronda and I would love to "get to know her" a little better. Moronda waved coyly from the corner of the bar. You should see her when she does that move. She's awfully good.
The girl looked surprised at first and then agreed that we looked like waaaaay more fun than John.
"I'm kinda over him anyway," she shrugged.
I gave Moronda the signal, which was something subtle like jumping up and down and waving my hands over my head.
We slung our purses over our shoulders and headed for the door. I looked back and saw John returning to his seat. He looked a little confused. I saw his lighter on the bar. I took it and winked at him.
I sent a text message from the car. It read:
I got your date & your lighter.
It was my third most gratifying moment to date.
The Morning After
Lately, I've been waking up laughing. The other morning, I woke up, propped up on my elbows. In my dream, I was reading a really funny book. I can't remember what made it so funny, but it was hysterical. I wish that I had written it.
I also look like Don King in the morning. This makes me laugh, but I pity anyone unfortunate enough to wake up next to me. It's a shock. I'm so sexy right before bed when my mascara is smudged and I smell like wine. I'm not sure what happens over night. How can I go to sleep looking like my usual self and wake up looking like a man? It's terrifying, really.
My dreams are always vivid. They have soundtracks and credits roll at the end. Some are even subtitled. When I wake up, I roll over and call Dad (this can also be uncomfortable for anyone waking up next to me). Dad wants to retire to do dream interpretation. He's very good.
I feel obligated to call people in the early morning hours. As soon as I am awake, I feel like everyone else should get up too. It's one of my charming quirks.
Yesterday, Dad didn't answer the phone. I called Mom instead. Mom was cleaning up the wreckage from Halloween.
"Did you have a party?" I asked.
"It was just George and me. I think."
"What do you mean? Don't you know who was there?"
"Well that's the thing...see, we got a few boxes of wine and made popcorn and handed out candy to the kids. I just found a bowl of fun size candy bars in the bathroom, but there's no wine anywhere. Not even empty boxes."
I began to tease her about drinking boxed Chablis when I heard George in the background yell, "Oh my G*d, I think we gave it to the kids!"
I am trick or treating in Mom's neighborhood next year.
This One's for my Street Cred
I've done time. The slammer. That's right. Me, flip flops, an orange jumper, and a shank I crafted out of a plastic spork.
It changed my life. I joined a revolutionary prison gang and changed my name to Mumia Abu-Mist Jamal. I had my hair braided. It was the worst six hours of my life.
I was arrested one night while driving with expired tags and an expired license. In my defense, I was out of the country for a few weeks and I forgot to take care a few loose ends. I was driving a truck, but could only produce an insurance card for a motorcycle. Just a few minor details.
I should mention that I was arrested after a hair show. At the time, I was employed as a hair model because I have a liberal arts degree.
The officer who arrested me couldn't even look me in the face. I had fake eyelashes and was wearing three pounds of makeup. My platinum and pink hair was teased into a four foot afro.
And that's what I looked like when I went to jail. Also, I was wearing a tee shirt that said, "The Devil Made Me Do It." If I had a wardrobe staff, they all would have been sacked.
The jailers weren't sure if I was a woman or a transvestite whore. After a search for body cavities and then a search of the cavities, I was put in a holding cell for women that looked like men.
I was photographed. They turned out well. I got the photographer's card. "I'll call you when I get out of here. I need some shots for my portfolio," I told him. He said that he had heard that line before.
I was fingerprinted. I was issued a jumper, a roll of toilet paper (doubles as a pillow), a mattress, and a pair of tan flip flops that were 12 sizes too big.
I dragged my mattress to my cell and scratched a mark on the wall to help me keep track of how long I'd been incarcerated. Then I joined the rest of the inmate population for "Wheel of Fortune." We placed our bets. I won a carton of apple juice and a pair of socks.
Just before dinner, my number was called. The guard told me to get my stuff, I had been bailed out. "Can I stay for Jeopardy?" I asked. The guard declined. I bet people on Death Row ask that all the time.
I grabbed my mesh bag of toiletries and pulled my mattress off the bunk. My cellmate offered to carry it down the stairs for me in exchange for my flip flops. Her's were too small. We swapped shoes and she hauled the mattress behind me.
Everywhere I go, I've got b*tches.
"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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