Here's what I need to do: 1. Get Hobby, 2. Floss. Blogging just gets in the way.
After Grandpa died, Grandma moved into a lovely retirement community. There is a pool for aqua aerobics. A peaceful chapel for meditation. A computer lab with high-speed internet. Once a week, they have game night (Scrabble, bridge, Twister). There are social clubs and committees.
Grandma doesn't want to put together puzzles or take a horticulture class.
I called Grandma this weekend. She's not the woman I remember. Talking to Grandma is a little like talking to Michael Moore. She ran a Kerry campaign from her tiny apartment (with a great view of the manicured grounds). When did Grandma get political?
We talked about Hezbollah. Hybrid vehicles (she never learned to drive). Condoleeza. Social Security. Abortion. Ozone. Saddam's hunger strike.
We also talked about "The Gays." Grandma thinks it's just awful that The Gays can't get married. The Gays are people too, she tells me. "You know," Grandma says lowering her voice, "I know two of The Gays." I am shocked. My Grandma? The Gays? Yes, it's true. She knows some of The Gays. And they are lovely folks. Grandma thinks that if everyone would just get to know one or two of The Gays, we wouldn't treat them so badly.
My Grandma. Revolutionary. Friend of The Gays.
P.S. I intend on referring to all groups of people now as The _______ (i.e. The Shiites, The Disabled, The Marrieds). It makes me smile.
Dude, Where's My Boyfriend?
My car's name is "My Boyfriend." This name is very practical. Consider the following scenarios:
#1: At the mall. Eddie (entire mouth of gold teeth) wants my phone number. I simply say, "I'm sorry, I'd love to talk to you, but My Boyfriend is in the parking lot waiting for me."
#2: At a dull work related event. Everyone wants to hear me tell the story about the time I ________ (fill in the blank) again. I simply say, "Oh, it's really not that interesting the 40th time. I really should be going. My Boyfriend is ready to take me home."
Yes, I am always thinking.
He's very special to me. He takes me everywhere and he's very dependable. He could bathe more, but I won't hold that against him.
Last night, I lost My Boyfriend. I left him outside and told him that I was only going to run in for a second, say hi to a few people, play a game or two of Golden Tee golf and then we could go home. Apparently, I took too long.
When I walked out, I went to the place where My Boyfriend is usually waiting. He was not there. I walked up the parking lot, down the sidewalk, and through an alley. Nothing. I began to ask people, "have you seen My Boyfriend? He was just here a minute ago." Nobody had seen My Boyfriend.
Not one to panic, I decided that the best thing to do would be to sit down and think (drink). In a bar. For several hours. Sometimes thinking (drinking) makes me have to pee. I wobbled down the hall to the restroom when it hit me. I remembered where I left My Boyfriend.
Sure enough, there he was. He was parked on the street. Directly in front of me. I had probably walked by him two or three times earlier that evening.
Clearly, I needed a ride home.
I went back to the bar and announced, "I'm leaving My Boyfriend tonight. Does anyone want to take me home?"
I believe in the wisdom of local government.
Today, at the courthouse, I saw a sign. An arrow pointed to the right and it read:
Marriage and Pistol Permits
I took a picture with my new camera phone, but because I am a Cro-Magnon, I cannot figure out how to post it.
At first, the sign struck me as funny. Then, I decided that this was an example of good planning on the part of my local government agencies. It just makes good sense.
I am with my beau. We are silly in love with one another and want to take the plunge into marital bliss. First we will need some nachos and a fountain beverage. Maybe we will even share an ice cream sandwich.
Hunger satiated, I will have to pee. Fortunately, the restroom is conveniently located.
Bladder relieved, I will be ready to fill out the appropriate paperwork so that we might begin our lawlessly wedded life with my beau.
"Sweetums," I will say, "why don't you be a lamb and get us a spot in line. I have one little errand to run before I join you in line." Sweetums will kiss me tenderly and take his place in the marriage permit line.
I will blow Sweetums a kiss and take a number for my gun permit.
The Women's Resource Center, an organization dedicated to erasing domestic violence is located on the first floor. I did not miss the irony.
I Work in the South
Recently, I was reading the minutes of a committee meeting that I had missed. I am sorry that I missed this one; it was a good one. Lots of important decisions were made.
Decision #1: There will be no more prayer before meetings. The committee actually had to vote three times on this one to finalize it. Motions have been made to have a moment of silence. Apparently, some people are offended by beginning a meeting with a prayer. I don't understand this; I pray all the way through meetings. I pray that I can stay awake. I pray that they will serve me lunch. I pray that no one will expect me to give my report. I pray that the fire alarm will sound. I plan to continue this kind of prayer until I see some new bylaws.
Decision #2: There cannot be alcohol and guns at any meeting. From now on, there can be only alcohol or only guns. Not both. I am not making this up. If there is to be drinking (always makes the meeting more enjoyable), committee members are to leave all firearms at home. If the meeting calls for gunslinging (and really, what meeting doesn't?), there will be no alcohol served. I know that this poses a dilemma for several committee members. If I had been in attendance, I would have stood up and offered the following suggestion.
Mist 1: Hey, I know what let's do. Y'all listen up. I'm gonna put a tape line down the middle of this here floor. If'n you have a gun, stay over on this here side of the tape. If'n you plan on drinkin', stay on yonder side of the tape.
Committee Members: Much groaning and booing in unison.
1st appointment with my new shrink. The first appointment is not a good time to tell me that I may be a teeny bit autistic. I am trying to keep an open mind. But some sh*t just tests my limits.
I have headphones on and I'm lying on the couch. She's asking me to remember my cat, Baker. I got Baker when I was five. He died a decade ago. I have grieved and I am over it. Or am I? The headphones are buzzing in my left ear, then right, left, right. What do you remember about Baker?
I was so afraid that I was going to conjure up his zombie feline ass in that office that I almost didn't want to open my eyes.
That was so much fun that we decided to try another exercise. This time when I closed my eyes, I pictured myself at five years old. I was supposed to talk to five year old me. Here's how the conversation in my head went:
Mist 1: Hey, Mini Me. I'm sorry that I haven't spent much time with you since I grew up and sh*t. Oh, sorry about my language. Don't ever say that okay? Your mom will kill me.
Inner Child: This shi*t is retarded. Mom doesn't care if I curse, you know that.
Mist 1: Right. Well, I am supposed to ask you if we can spend some time together. Wanna play?
Inner Child: Damn, you haven't changed at all. You still don't have any friends, huh?
Mist 1: I have friends...they just don't like me right now, that's all. Look, I have a $500 deductible, so can we just play with your little worm farm?
Inner Child: Just sit there and try to look like you're having an out of body experience. This sh*t is too weird for me. Go spend some quality time with another imaginary kid. Pervert.
I miss Baker.
Sprint -- Part Deux
I may be the last person on Earth to own a camera phone. I have already taken a picture of my hand by accident. I do not read manuals. Maybe I will figure out how to post the photo of my hand here. Then everyone can admire it for its artistic merit.
I had to call Sprint to activate the phone. I chose option 2 because I am an existing customer. I was tempted to press 3 which is the option for dead customers, but I was not in the mood for games. I talked to one person in every department. I enjoyed the diversity of their unhelpfulness.
Unhelpful Employee #1: At the risk of sounding xenophobic, I could not understand a single word out of this woman's mouth. I really tried. I spoke really loudly to her thinking that would help. No luck. She did not speak English any more clearly. I am certain that she called me a stupid American when she transfered me to Customer Care.
Unhelpful Employee #2: At the risk of sounding homophobic, I could not figure out if I was speaking to a man or a woman. We tried to forward my text messages to my email address with no luck. Finally, he/she suggested that I forward the messages to a third party, turn on my new phone, and then request that the third party forward my text messages back to me. This would have been a good idea, except for the fact that I will be using these highly sensitive text messages in my upcoming court case and would die of humiliation if anyone other than a judge read these messages. I am certain that he/she called me a stupid heterosexual when he/she transfered me to Tech Support.
Unhelpful Employee #3: At the risk of sounding like an arrogant asshole, I could not tolerate the number of times this man put me on hold. I am not a very important person, but I do not like to hold. After being placed on hold six times, I received another call and kindly asked the man to hold while I took my call. I clicked over and read an email to a friend before clicking back over to Sprint Employee #3. He did not seem to mind at all and promptly put me on hold again. I am certain that he called me a self-important asshole when we hung up.
After this process, I couldn't make or receive any calls for 2-4 hours. I wish he had told me that before we started the process. I would have waited until I was about to go to sleep.
I have mentioned before that I don't pay for parking. My Ethiopian parking attendant's name is Abdul El-Hajj Muhammad Muhammad, which means There is no God but God and I am the prophet of this parking lot.
He always saves me one of the six best spots in the lot. Did I mention that this is downtown where there is absolutely no parking?
I can leave for a meeting and come back later in the day and my spot will still be there. One time, he gave my space away. He gave me his own parking space and swore to Allah that he would never make such a mistake again. He also begged me to scratch out his eyes, but I coyly declined.
Abdul El-Hajj Muhammad Muhammad is a nice man, but not much of a conversationalist. We mostly talk about the weather in Addis Abba. Today was different.
I pulled into the lot and up to his little booth. I waved and smiled. He jumped out of the booth and talked to me for 15 minutes about the following:
- Coffee (Ethiopian)
- Coffee (Starbucks/Ethiopian)
- Food (Ethiopian)
- Weather (Ethiopian)
- Weather (Local)
- My parking space (still available)
- Our budding friendship (nine months now)
- How nice I look today (thanks for noticing)
- Coffee (Ethiopian)
I waved again and drove to my space. I reached over to grab my purse (gray, shirred, very cute) and realized in horror that my right breast was exposed.
I could die right now.
I have tiny boobs. Bras are optional. Today I should have opted for one.
I imagine that Abdul El-Hajj Muhammad Muhammad went back in his booth and said, "I have been saving that nice lady a space for nine months and finally she thanks me."
I wonder what size cup I'd have to have to get a covered space.
I have a financial advisor. There are several things that disturb me about this.
His name is Bill. The irony here does not amuse me.
I talk a lot. So does he. He also charges by the hour. Each session means that I can own one fewer pair of Manolos. I love Manolos. Bill does not appreciate fashion.
Bill has several locks on his door. He locks us in a room together when we are going over my irresponsible spending habits. Bill also does not appreciate bathing.
The last time I saw Bill, I walked into the office, locked all the locks and took my customary seat. Instead of waddling over to his side of the desk he disappeared into the back room (I have never been in the back room). He re-emerged with two cocktails.
Is it a bad sign or a good sign when your financial advisor offers you a drink? If it had been champagne, I would know that I could afford an early retirement. But scotch (which I haven't acquired the palate for) confused me.
I took the scotch and tried to appear at ease. Bill sat down and said, "You have reached the point this year where you could have bought a new car with what you've spent on clothing."
I said, "Let me know when I could have bought an airplane."
Apparently, I will never be able to retire at this rate. He asked me how I thought I was going to be able to afford all these shoes and handbags when I'm a little old lady in a wheelchair.
He's got a point.
When I'm in a wheelchair, I am going to have the cutest shoes. I will be able to wear four inch heels all day when I'm in a wheelchair.
I am going to contribute more to my 401K.
Dead Eye Dick
I fell in love with a blind man when I was younger. I'm not sure if I really loved him, or if I loved his blindness. He told me that I was beautiful. The way I saw it, if a blind man said I was beautiful, it had to be true. Maybe I was even beautiful on the inside. I was young. It seemed reasonable at the time.
I learned to read braille. I even learned to type on a brailler so that I could leave him naughty notes. Of course, sometimes he couldn't find my naughty notes because...well, he was blind. It sort of takes the steaminess out of naughty notes when you have to say things like, "You're getting warmer, oh you're on fire, now you're cold again" or "okay, it's on the kitchen table at 9:00 or is it 3:00?"
When I stopped seeing him, I rearranged his furniture. I had a good laugh when I thought about the bruises on his shins.
It was wrong. I know this now.
The Universe has a way of setting things right. The Universe is going to make me go blind.
Tonight, before I brushed my teeth, I leaned over the toilet to spit out a cough drop. A drop of toilet water splashed up over the seat and landed squarely in my left eye. Unfortunately, I am predominantly left eyed.
It is only a matter of time before I live in a world of darkness. I feel like Mary from "Little House on the Prairie." Only not blonde.
Thank God I still know how to read braille.
I've got a situation.
I am sure that the P.I. is aware of this blog, so I am not writing in Pig Latin to throw him off. I have nothing to hide.
Here is a snippet of yesterday's conversation(all names have been changed to protect the innocent):
Magnum: So, where were you mid-May?
Mist 1: Um, can I check my calendar?
Magnum: You don't know what you did in the month of May?
Mist 1: Well, you see...I used to have a blog. If I still had that blog I could tell you exactly what I did. But since I don't have the blog anymore, I have no idea what I did in the month of May.
Magnum: I see.
Mist 1: So, can I get the calendar now?
Magnum nods. Mist 1 runs (in heels/turquoise & green--very cute) to get the calendar.
Mist 1: Ah yes, May...looks like I was pretty tied up with volunteering for underprivileged children and um, the lepers that month.
Magnum: Did you, or did you not falsely request a waxing kit from ***** Co., Inc.?
Mist 1: Wax? Er, like candles?
Magnum: Ms. 1, I think you know perfectly well what I'm talking about here.
So, yeah. I'm busted. I hope it's not a felony. But if it is, think of the pictures that they will have to take to prove their case. Thank Gawd I'm waxed!
In other news, I have started to receive mail at work from Chippendales. I am very excited by this. I am thinking that I will be able to write this off on my company Amex. Ladies, I have an extra ticket. Who want to meet me at Harrah's Casino?
Interview With a Therapist
I need help.
I recently switched insurance companies. As a result, I can no longer see the same therapist. For the past few months, I have been talking to a Freud action figure that I keep on my desk. It seemed to be working okay.
Recent events have made me decide that I really shouldn't have let my therapy appointments slide. It turns out, I'm still nuts. Also, I had a fortune cookie that said, "God has given you one face, and you make yourselves another." That "yourselves" part worries me.
Friday, I shopped for a new therapist. I love shopping, even if it's for a therapist. I think I chose one. My decision making skills have never been that good. But I think I made a good selection this time.
When I told my prospective therapist exactly what my problems are she said, "Oh good. I love stuff like that."
That takes some of the pressure off of me. I mean, I want to make our sessions worth her time. She went to school for too long to listen to me complain about childhood (which was excellent, by the way) or to hear about my dreams (always bizarre). I like to keep therapy exciting. I didn't even have to tell her about how I read the obituaries and then go through the phone book to cross out names.
Recently, I have had to charge some things to the game. The laptop (love the new hp), public humiliation, the old blog (thanks to those of you who remember)...
The other night, I got a little payback. At the courthouse. But now how you think.
It turns out that the courthouse at 11 pm is a good place to meet chicks if you are Court Personnel. I met a bailiff who insisted on introducing me to every cop that walked in the place as his wife. I smiled politely and shook their hands. I informed him that for every hand I shook, he owed me $25.
After $75, I let him know that for $100, I would tell witty anecdotes of where we met, our first date, and what I was wearing.
I am $275 richer.
This is American justice at work.
Last night I went to the Sprint store. Sprint does not pay their associates a commission based on sales. Here's how I know this:
Mist 1: Hi. My battery keeps...
Brandee: Um, I used to work for Nextel (motions to Nextel sign as though I needed a visual), so I don't know anything about Sprint. I probably can't help you.
Mist 1: Well it's just that I dropped my...
Brandee: There's a Sprint store right across the street from the mall. They can help you way better than I can.
Mist 1: I'm sure, but do you carry replacement...
Brandee: Do you want to see my favorite phone here?
Mist 1: Okay. I guess I could buy a new...
Brandee: Isn't it cute? It feels really cheap though.
Mist 1: Right. So do you recommend...
Brandee: My next favorite phone used to be right here, but someone stole the display model yesterday.
Mist 1: Thanks for your help.
Brandee: Hey, try the kiosk downstairs!
To Brandee's credit, she did end her personal phone call when I walked up to the counter and stood in front of her for four full minutes.
New Name, New Blog, Same Girl
"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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