Here's what I need to do: 1. Get Hobby, 2. Floss. Blogging just gets in the way.
It's Halloween. This is my favorite holiday.
Dad teaches in a Somali high school. Their first Halloween is always hysterical. This has got to be the strangest day of the year.
But today, I am thinking of more serious topics. Specifically, protecting children.
I have never been a very good babysitter. Mostly because when I get to the kid's house and they have cable and all kinds of food that I don't have, I lose my mind. I don't give a sh*t what the kid is doing as long as he/she gets me another beer and hands me the remote.
I got the opportunity to babysit for the local Chief of Police's son. He's a sweet kid. He ran over me with his scooter, but I'm pretty sure it was a display of afffection.
I met Chief Jr. while I was working for a summer camp program. Every day, I picked up the attendance sheets and made nasty phone calls to people who hadn't dropped their kids off because they owed us money. It was an enriching experience for all.
One day, I noted that Chief Jr. had been dropped off late. I radioed his counsellor to make sure that he had joined his group. The counsellor hadn't seen Jr.
I looked around the facility. I searched the areas that seemed logical for a person to go to. I looked in the women's bathroom in case he was plucking his brows. I looked in the parking lot in case he was smoking. I even looked in Pier One a few miles away because they were having a great sale. He was no where to be found.
Calmly, I called his mother. I asked Mrs. Chief how she was doing. She replied that she was enjoying her time in Savannah and asked if everything was okay. Here's the part where I started to panic. Naturally, I lied to her. "Super," I said, "couldn't be better." I'm pretty sure that I sounded cool and collected.
I hung up on Mrs. Chief mid-sentence and called the precinct. I prepared myself for the worst moment in my brief career. The Chief was out. I left a message.
I paced the floors and made several important decisions. I decided that I would change my name (yes, Mist 1 does sound good). Then I decided to move to Cuba. Fidel and I were destined to be together anyway.
As I began to pack up my personal effects and practice my Spanish (otra cerveza por favor), the Chief called. I teared up and began my speech.
He interrupted me. "Jr. and I stayed up too late last night. We ate all kinds of junk food. When I dropped him off in the morning he puked on the floor. So, I brought him home. Please, don't tell his mom, she's out of town and I'm in charge."
I half laughed and half choked. We agreed to keep it a secret. I became their babysitter after that.
I still get out of speeding tickets in his zone.
Pick Me Up
I have this fantasy. It's not that original. It's the fantasy where a guy picks me up at a bar. He buys me a drink and before you know it, we are going home together. It's cliche. I know.
In an effort to make this fantasy a reality, I decided to stage it. D and I were going out the other night. I gave him explicit directions. I always give him explicit directions. He is awfully good at following them.
It was simple. All he had to do was let me sit at the bar and look sultry for ten minutes. Maybe fifteen...tops. Then he had to sit at the bar. Not next to me, but close enough. Buy me a martini. Dirty martini. When I asked the bartender who sent over the drink we were supposed to exchange glances. I would do that whole raise the glass, take a sip, lower my eyes and blush thing. I had rehearsed it. It was convincing.
From there, he would come over to where I was sitting and we would make brief conversation before going home together. Simple.
On paper, this was a beautiful plan.
To be fair, D couldn't have prevented what happened.
I got to the bar. I took my seat. I ordered a martini. I did my I-am-so-bored-with-this-scene look. That's when my ex approached.
We get along well. He's the only man that I used to sleep with that doesn't want me dead. We hugged and chatted about how good I look since the last time he saw me. I agreed. I've never looked better. "How's tricks?" he asked. I did that playful punch thing that is soooo cute. Then he motioned to the bartender. I did need another martini. He's still got it.
The bartender brought another filthy dirty martini. We toasted to his health and to my wealth.
And that's when D walked in.
Suddenly, he looked pathetic. Why did I buy him that Multiple Orgasm Donor tee shirt? Why was he retarded enough to wear it? And why tonight?
For a brief moment, I thought that maybe I should explain. For a second, I didn't know what to do. I looked at my ex. I looked at D in that stupid f*cking tee shirt.
I pretended not to see him.
I said fifteen minutes tops, dammit.
I met Dirty Old PR Guy a few months ago at an event that his really, really important PR firm was hosting. I was there out of obligation (read: open bar).
PR Guy and I chatted over the shrimp dip for a while. I have this problem, everything I say is fascinating. It's a curse, not a gift. Also, my skirt was inappropriately short for the occasion and the drinks were strong.
We waxed philosophical for a bit. I told him my opinions on public stoning (I am pro-stoning) and mentioned my desire to be featured in Beaver Hunt. I could tell he was smitten immediately. I am a charming young lady.
We exchanged numbers and I did my best to remember his name.
We met for cocktails a week later. Cocktails were followed by shopping (have I mentioned that I worship shoes?). I may have stuck my tongue down his throat, but it was for a good cause (please see shoe reference above).
Over the next two months, we met for drinks, shoes, and my tongue down his throat in the parking lot a few times. Then, I grew bored of his company. I stopped answering his calls.
I ran into him at another event last night. He was with his wife. His lovely, philanthropic wife. Seriously, she does G*d's work when He is too busy. I was enraged. He needed to be Taught A Lesson. I stewed for hours.
When I got home, I called L to tell her about the evening. I have to explain that L only appears appears to be sensible. Her advice makes sense at the time, but the morning after, I have to wonder what kind of drugs we were doing and where I can get some more.
"Call him," she says. "Put him in his place."
how the conversation went, as I remember it:
Me: I'm glad you answered.
Dirty Old PR Guy: I'm glad you called.
Me: I've been thinking about you. Have you missed me?
Dirty Old PR Guy: Like crazy.
Me: I have a question and I want you to be completely honest with me.
Dirty Old PR Guy: (Pauses) Okay.
Me: Do you like vibrators?
Dirty Old PR Guy: Um, yeah.
Me: Then why don't you go buy one and f*ck yourself?!
Then I hung up.
I am seriously considering enrolling for seventh grade at the local middle school.
Asshole. Still, I am eternally grateful for the shoes.
A girl makes one little post about driving people places, and all of a sudden everyone wants a ride.
C needed a ride to a concert. He likes a band that's older than dirt and had purchased a ticket. Because he is cheap, he didn't want to cough up the $10 fee for parking. I dropped him off into a sea of elderly gentlemen wearing chains attached to their wallets and walkers and women with lipstick climbing up the creases in their faces.
Figuring that an elderly rock band couldn't possibly do more than three songs, I decided to get a drink at a nearby bar. I found a quiet looking nightclub with boarded up windows. Signs outside advertised Live Girls. Perfect. I hate Dead Girls. They smell.
I took a seat at the bar and ordered a beer. I avoided eye contact with the man wearing a gold suit and stroking his pubic-like beard at the end of the bar. I also avoided eye contact with the bearded lady who paid for my beer. I played Bejeweled on my phone until I had sufficiently worn down my battery. Then, there was nothing to do but watch the Live Girls.
Some of the Live Girls were clearly not Union Girls. Union Girls get one week a month off, Paid Menstrual Sabatical (PMS). This week is crucial if you are a Live Girl. Strings were flying everywhere. At first, I stared in disbelief. Then, I gagged. The pimp in gold ordered me another beer. I nodded my thanks and settled on my stool.
Sometimes, I think about what my stripper name would be. I think I would like to be Willow Ray or Amaretto or Porsche. These girls had all the typical names. There was Jade and Kashmir and Swallow. I watched attentively. I had a few more beers (the bearded lady was in competition with the pimp), and just when I was getting ready to excuse myself for the restroom, Lactacia came on stage.
Men crowded around the stage like it was a holy site. Curious, I joined them. She was magnificent. Braids. Boots. An a$$ that started in the middle of her back. She could do that thing with her a$$ where her cheeks move independently of one another. I practice that move every day, but Lactacia had it down. Solid. And her breasts...tremendous. I asked the bearded lady for a dollar to tip her.
I approached the stage. Smiled. "I think you're amazing," I said before I realized how creepy it sounded. I held up the dollar. She bent over and took the dollar from my hand with her breasts. My hand was caught between her breasts for a split second. Right before she sprayed me with breast milk.
The men in the club roared. I retched.
I think I am lactose intolerant.
When I have female questions, I call S. She asks me her man questions in return. I'm not sure how I feel about that. I usually just make up an answer and see how long it takes for her to call me back and curse me out.
I called her in a panic yesterday. I had dropped my morning birth control pill and it rolled under my dresser and disappeared. What should I do in this situation? Take the next day's pill thereby screwing me up for the rest of the month? Open a new pack and take the corresponding pill thereby screwing me up next month?
S knows everything about birth control. She has been on the shot, the pill, the patch, Norplant, wild yam, and has also flung herself down a flight of stairs to control her fertility.
She told me to pray and called me a slut.
Satisfied with her valuable advice, I decided to ask her another question. For the record, S is not a doctor, nor does she have her GED. Still, she is really informed when it comes to important issues.
"Ever since I started this new pill, my boobs are really sore," I told her. "I think they're growing. Is this a side-effect?" I asked with my fingers crossed (my cups runneth under).
In her convincing scholarly voice, S said, "Lots of women at your age go through a period of breast growth. Usually, it's about a full cup size."
"Really?" I asked. I felt conflicted. Glee at the prospect of growing real live breasts and concern as to where I put the receipt for my new bra. Maybe I should exchange it for a B cup.
"Yeah f*cking right. Hahahaha, you little tittied b*tch!"
I love her.
In return I told her that her new boyfriend sounded like a stand-up kind of guy. She was worried because he has two seven-year-old kids, by two different women. "I love twins," I said. She agreed.
I still haven't found that pill. The cat probably ate it. At least he won't get pregnant.
Another Stroke of Genius
I, like many others, do my best thinking in the bathroom. This was one of those moments.
It happens from time to time. A stroke of genius. How have I lived this long without a Nobel Peace Prize?
I took a shower yesterday. This, in itself is an accomplishment. On the floor of my shower, I have several non-slip pads. They are pink and shaped like flowers. I have busted my a$$ in my shower before, and so I went to Target and purchased a set of these convenient stick-on pads.
I got out of the shower and really had to pee. I don't pee in the shower. Let me amend that. I don't generally pee in the shower. I pee in the shower at other people's homes because I don't like to sit on toilet seats that are not my own. I'm not saying that I park myself over the edge of the tub when I have to go. What I mean here is that I pee in the shower at other people's homes when I am taking a shower.
I lurched out of the shower and plopped onto the toilet seat. In hindsight (hindsight is Mad Dog 20/20), I should have dried off before sitting. I had to go. Badly. I slipped right off the toilet and caught myself with my ribcage on the edge of the tub.
So, I have a new invention. Non-slip toilet seats.
The seats could be non-slip, or one could purchase the adhesive stickers and apply them directly to the existing toilet seat. They will come in cute colors and shapes. Butterflies, hearts, flowers, rubber duckies, green clovers, and purple horseshoes.
Yes, they will be slightly abrasive. I prefer to call that "exfoliating." A smooth a$$ and no more risk of knocking myself out on the tile floor. What more could I want?
My ribs are bruised, but they will heal. My bath mat is soiled, but is is washable.
Must get to work on prototype.
Mom, Dad and Gorgeous Sister (GS) came for a visit. I love them. F*cking love them. Thank G*d we live so far apart.
I am the only person in my family that has not made out with a girl. Even Dad's dog has humped a girl's leg (R.I.P. Tobie). I am not opposed to making out with a girl, but I am waiting for the right girl to come along. We have to wear the same size shoe (6.5 but I can work with a 7 if she is smoking hot).
In an effort to show Mom and GS just how cool I am, I took them to my local lesbian bar. We left Dad in the hotel. Mom didn't bring her ID. I could have killed her. $20 later, we were in. We headed for the bar. Have I mentioned that I f*cking love these people? I ordered dirty martinis for GS and me. Mom wanted a beer. The bartender suggested a light beer. After I pried Mom off the bartender's face, she ordered a Newcastle. I hope the bartender grows her eyes back.
We found ourselves talking about the good ol' days. The days when Mom told me, "Mist, never get married. Never." And the days when I had to explain to Mom what a 40 was. Sigh. GS looked around blankly. She is too young to remember the good ol' days.
After a few drinks, the urge to dance was overwhelming. I am a sexy b*tch when I have had a few martinis and a little champagne. My trademark move is the one where my arms are flailing clockwise over my head and my hips are swirling counter-clockwise. It is rhythmic and it is hot. Seriously.
There was no one on the dance floor. No one. Unless you count the couple writhing in the corner. I stepped over them and began my sexy b*tch dance. I have all the moves. I reversed the direction of my hips and when my brain figured out that I had changed direction, I was able to swing my arms in a new direction as well.
I dropped it like it was hot.
Many drinks were purchased for me.
Mom was on her cell phone. She is 19 years old. I grabbed the phone, "Mom can't talk right now. We are sexy b*tches." Click. I am awesome.
Mom insisted that I keep my arms down when I dance. I did my best, but the arm thing is like my second best move. I cannot control myself when the Dance speaks to me. The music was awful. I brought sexy back. I also brushed my shoulders off. I think I even raised the roof.
GS would have liked to die on the spot. Our G*d is not a merciful G*d and so GS had to bear witness as Mom and I grinded on women with beards. Women wearing camo and fleece.
Finally, it was time to go. Mom had been propositioned by a lumberjack and I was telling the only man in the place that I had aspirations to be a rap star. We put our arms around each other and staggered back to the hotel.
The next morning, we had brunch at the hotel. Kids eat free and my parents are cheap. GS and I had to tell the server that we were under 10. I think she believed us, but it was a hard sell as we smelled like vodka and ashtrays. That should be a Tommy perfume. Vodka and Ashtray by Tommy. I would buy the gift set.
Dad asked, "So what did you girls do last night?" My lovely sister threw up in her pumpkin pancakes. Mom scrolled though her text messages wondering just what the f*ck she had said to people the night before. I said, "Oh, nothing" and ordered three bloody mary's.
I miss them already.
I am awfully handy around the house. I can change all the lightbulbs that I can reach and I know how to clog and unclog a drain.
Mom called me the other day and mentioned that the drain in her shower was a little sluggish. Always helpful, I offered my expertise. I told her to use the most powerful and toxic chemicals that she could get her hands on. She listened attentively and followed my useful advice.
The following is the account of what happened, according to Mom:
The next morning, Mom unearthed a bottle of Drain-O in her basement. It was vintage Drain-O. Not the liquid kind. The crystals of pure fire. While she knew that this bottle was potentially a valuable antique, she decided that she had no option but to use it.
She took her morning shower as usual. She got out and wrapped a towel around herself. Leaving the hot water running, she grabbed the bottle of poison and attempted to pour it down the drain. After years in the basement, the granules stuck together. She shook the bottle. She tapped it on the side of the tub. The steam from the hot water began to soften the crystals slightly and the chemical process began to take place.
By "chemical process," I mean that the lye based agent in the bottle began to heat up. Rapidly. Lye heats to 200 degrees (I think that's like -8 Celcius) in about 2.5 seconds (I don't know the metric conversion for seconds).
The bottle was rather warm. Mom, in her infinite wisdom, grabbed a second towel to wrap around the bottle. She continued to pour. When the fumes began to strangle her, she decided to call it quits. Plus, her hand was beginning to melt into the bottle.
She ran downstairs with the bottle in hand. I'm not sure where the towel around her body was lost, but she continued to run. She threw open her patio door and ran outside. Nude. Towel and scorching hot bottle in hand. She lobbed the burning, smoking bottle over her patio and into the large lawn separating her condo from the rest of the community. Did I mention that she was completely naked?
After several hours, she retrieved the now melted bottle from the scorched grass. Unsure of what to do with it, she looked for a place to dump it. Noticing that her neighbor's cars were gone, she disposed of it neatly in their trash can.
I told her that this was a crime. Almost as bad as the whole motor oil on the neighbor's plants incident (accidental, I'm sure). I told her that the neighborhood association was sure to kick her out for this offense. "What are you going to do?" I asked.
"I'm going to deny it, of course. I'll tell them that it's all lyes."
I was the last of my friends to get my driver's license. They all took Driver's Ed. together in high school. I felt a little left out when they talked about the "stimulators." I peeked my head into the classroom one day to see for myself. They were playing driving video games. No one looked very stimulated. It would be years before I experienced stimulated driving for myself.
When I was finally old enough to get my license, I decided that I'd rather not take Driver's Ed. It didn't seem necessary. Grandpa was the head of the State Board of Driver's Examiners. That made him Influential. And that made me Golden. I have always enjoyed the abuse of power when it is on my side.
I made an appointment for my written exam. My boyfriend, Waks Thatass, drove me to the testing site. I spent most of the allotted time writing Mist + Waks = Love on the back of the test booklet. Also, I practiced writing my name and his last name in cursive. Mist Thatass. I still like the way that sounds.
At the end of the test, the proctor asked us all to choose a partner and exchange tests. He handed out answer keys and instructed us to correct each other's exams. There was an odd number of people taking the test that day and I got to correct my own test. I rounded down the number of incorrect answers to two.
Thirty days later, with appropriate paperwork in hand, I returned to the DMV for my behind-the-wheel test. The examiner studied the forms and asked, "Mist 1? Any relation to Mr. Take 1?" I told him that I was his granddaughter and that Grandpa expected me to do exceptionally well on the test. Then I asked him how to spell his last name. His voice cracked as he spelled it for me. I wrote it down and asked if we should get started.
As I mowed over cones and rolled through stops, I asked him if he liked his job. He nodded; eyes never straying from the road. I completed the slalom portion of the exam flawlessly. I parallel parked in two smooth motions. To this day, I can still parallel park. Sometimes, I even get close to the curb.
I got my driver's license that day.
My parents made a sizable donation for improvements to be made to the grounds; a little area now known as "Pedestrian Memorial Parking Lot."
Driving Mr. Daisy
In a moment of poor judgement, Mr. Daisy asked if I would take him to the hospital for surgery. I am not even a good candidate if you need to be picked up from the airport. I have rules when I drive: 1.) Do not touch my stereo, and 2.) Only scream if I am screaming.
I agreed to do it. That was before I knew it was surgery on his hammer toe. When he told me, I giggled. "Hammer toe" sounds an awful lot like "camel toe" to me.
I have never seen a hammer toe. I asked to see it. Mr. Daisy refused. He knows that I have a strange fixation with disgusting feet. "I don't want to see my feet on your blog," he said. "Trust me," was all I said. It is ridiculous that he trusts me enough to drive him to the hospital, wait in the hospital bar until he's ready to go, and then drive him home, and yet I am not trustworthy enough to see the hammer toe.
When I picked Mr. Daisy up, I found him slumped over and drooling into a newspaper. I slapped him. He had taken a Xanax. "A little anxiety about the procedure?" I asked. "No, it's for your driving." I would like to state that I drive just fine. It's the talking on the phone, finding the right song, plucking my eyebrows, and applying mascara that get in the way.
The Xanax pretty much knocked Mr. Daisy out by the time we got to the hospital. I filled out the paperwork to the best of my ability. I am now next-of-kin.
The 30-minute procedure took all day. The surgeon took several time-outs and there was a half-time show before the insurance clock ran out.
I was getting hungry. I found the cafeteria. The smell of hospital food wafted through the air. The door was locked. Lunch ended at 2:30. Time on my phone: 2:36. The snack bar was in the new wing, past ICU, past Labor and Delivery, and past the psych ward (stopped in to apologize for the time that I smeared my feces on the wall). By the time I reached the snack bar it was almost 4 o'clock. I grabbed a tray and sensibly selected a grilled chicken salad and green beans. Also, I selected a slice of pizza and a bowl of soft serve ice cream and chicken tenders and a slice of yellow cake and a Diet Coke with Lime.
Finally, the nurse called me to let me know that it was time to pick Mr. Daisy up. They wheeled him out. His right foot was in an open-toe boot with a velcro closure. I was the two-inch long yellowed toe nail and the chicken fingers in my stomach churned.
When we got in the car, Mr. Daisy produced a vial filled with clear fluid. He reached over my shoulder from the back seat and shook it in my face. A little eggshell colored orb danced inside. "Here's what they removed!" he proudly exclaimed. I screamed in disgust and swerved into oncoming traffic.
Mr. Daisy popped another Xanax.
I love shopping in adult novelty stores. I have so many questions. I always ask for help. I try not to ask the creepy guy with his hand in his pocket that is usually standing next to me.
I also like to give unsolicited testimonials. I told the guys looking at stretchy rubber cockrings that while they were a lot of fun, they should use caution to not fall asleep with one on. I told them that I know from first hand experience. They looked at me strangely. I explained, "well not first hand, but I was there. Just trust me on this one. You want to remember to take it off." They tried to ignore me, so I continued. I gave them details about what it would look like in the morning in the event that they forgot about it. When one guy's face went pale, I told him that it was exactly the same color his penis would be in the morning if he slept with it on. They didn't thank me for my expert product review, but I understand. Some people have hang-ups about stuff like that.
Last night, I found a new item. The Vibrating Panty. I am sure that this invention has been around for a while, but it was on the top shelf. The one that I cannot reach. So, I have lived all this time without a single pair of vibrating panties. I have wasted so much time.
I went to the cashier and politely asked, "excuse me, could you get those panties down for me?" They were a pretty teal and had a butterfly on them. When I clarified my request she pulled them back up and got another girl to get a pair of vibrating panties off the shelf for me.
According to the package, they are very discrete. There is no tell-tale buzzing noise. You can wear them anywhere (except in water or thunderstorms). The higher end model had a wireless remote control (battery included). The panties required only two AA batteries for the inconspicuous battery pack.
"Where do you put the battery pack so that it's inconspicuous?" I asked.
The sales associate responded with a gesture. No words were necessary.
I bought a pair. The package says "one size fits all." I'll be the judge of that.
To the untrained eye, I may seem like a good petsitter.
1. I have kept my rodent alive for four years.
2. I have lots of time on my hands.
3. Between trips to the package store, I am generally home.
4. I am cheap.
It seems, that the above are the criteria to petsit. I am thinking that the criteria should be tightened up a bit. Not that I'm not the picture of responsibility, because I totally am. For instance, I usually take off my makeup before I go to bed and I don't remember the last time I used spray paint inappropriately. It's been ages, really.
I hope that the people who put me in charge of "Penelope" the Hamster never find this blog. To protect her anonymity, Penelope's name has been changed.
Last week, I was asked to watch Penelope while the "Smith" family visited Grandma and Grandpa Smith. I made several strong arguments against the arrangement. In the end, I lost. Penelope was in my charge.
We had a rocky relationship. At best. She ate a piece of my finger. She ran on that f*cking wheel all night long. She got out of her cage and gnawed on the trim. But by far, the worst thing that Penelope did was to give birth.
I couldn't count them all. A dozen, maybe more. Naked and pink. Naturally, I wretched. Then I ran for the camera. I thought of the glee on the Little Smith's faces when they saw the babies. I thought of the horror on the faces of their parents. Must find camera. I found it in the bathroom. A perfectly logical place for it. Please, no questions.
I ran downstairs to take a picture of the glowing new mother and her slimy offspring. There was only one problem. The babies were gone. Not a single baby was in the cage. I checked my pills. Counted them. Not enough missing for hallucinations to occur. I looked in the cage again. Not a trace. No blood. No bones. No ranch dipping sauce. Penelope stared at me. I gagged again.
The Smith's need never know what happened here.
When my self-esteem is low, I go to Home Depot. Home Depot has the best customer service (if I am wearing a bustier). I like to ask where the lubricant aisle is. Army's of employees in little orange aprons, rush to my aid. I always ask for an item on the top shelf. I love it when they have to climb up the ladder to help me. I wish they had to wear bright orange bikini bottoms.
When I am feeling needy, I buy shoes. Yesterday, I felt needy. No one could comfort me but Steve Madden and Kenneth Cole and Nine West. They called out my name. Softly at first. Then louder. I was in a frenzy. One pair. Then two. Then five. I couldn't see over the tower of shoe boxes. I walked through the aisles in a daze. One shoe on; a little nylon stocking clinging to my left foot. I wanted to take them all home. Except for the fur lined clogs.
Shopping makes me thirsty. So does typing and reading and napping and thinking. I needed a drink. I dragged my bags to Applebee's (I was in the upscale mall, clearly). I walked past the barber shop (please see reference to classy mall). I have a technique for walking past the barber shop. I walk verrrrry slowly. I sway my hips rhythmically from side to side. Sometimes, I drop something and have to pick it up.
This time, I noticed a sign in the window. The sign invited me to worship in the barber shop on Sunday mornings. They offered an early service and a late one for the heathens who were out drinking the night before. I thought of the convenience of shaving my head and praising Him at the same time. If I ever shave my head, I will make sure that it is on a Sunday.
The name of the small church is T.H.U.G. Ministries (True Honor Under G*d). I am joining. I stopped by the Kiosk of Bling and purchased a "platinum" chain with a large "platinum" blinged-out hand grenade dangling from it.
Word to Our Father. Can I get an A-Mizzle?
Yesterday, I went to Robert's house. Robert has an amazing collection of antiques. He goes antiquing every weekend. I love to sort through his latest acquisitions.
I sifted through dishes and jewelry (love the new bracelet). I asked him where he finds all his stuff.
"Well, I read the obituaries and then I break into their homes. I could use an assistant."
I declined his offer to accompany him next weekend. I told him that I had to shop for shoes. I looked down at my polished toes and sighed. "I'm going to miss my flip flops," I said.
"I've never worn flip flops," Robert replied.
I thought about it. In the two years that I've known him, I have only seen him in boots and sneakers.
"I have ugly feet."
"Robert, all feet are ugly."
"Mine are really ugly. I never let people see me barefoot."
I begged to see them but he refused. On the drive home, I remembered leafing through his old yearbook. He was the captain of the swim team.
Robert must have webbed feet. There is only one way to find out. Next summer, I am having a pool party, and I am inviting him.
It Must Be In the Air
People are falling in love. Everywhere. I have tried to warn them.
Well, maybe I haven't tried very hard. I like to watch catastrophes that aren't mine for a change. I don't have a hobby. That's my excuse.
I didn't warn Miranda (a.k.a. Moronda) that her new conquest was going to fall in love with her. I confess that I am self-interested. He's an Ambien representative. I am holding out for free samples. T-shirts and frisbees and the like.
And I didn't have the chance to warn my Gay Boyfriend. He works too quickly. There's nothing I can do to help now. I ran into GB at the park yesterday. We walked together. Really it was more of a sashay, but it was a power sashay and we looked good.
We haven't talked in a few weeks. I caught him up on my love life. My code is: Don't Even Fall in Like. It doesn't always work because sometimes, I get all cute and flutter my eyelashes and say sh*t like, "I've been hurt before...please, be gentle with me." That phrase, it seems, is really endearing. It might have something to do with my eyelashes too. I've never asked.
GB repeated my code to himself a few times. When it was committed to memory, he told me his situation.
They met online (the fact that GB is in a relationship already is irrelevant, so I didn't ask). They chatted for a bit and then decided to meet the next day.
"Ooooh, I love first dates. What did you do?" I asked.
"What gay guys do," was his reply as though I am in the loop.
"Hair?" I asked.
GB stopped power sashaying and put his hands on his hips for a second. He wiped his eyes and said, "yes, Mist. We did hair for 40 minutes." He didn't comment on my brassy highlights, so I didn't press him any further.
They have done hair six times in the past two months. Now, the online guy won't stop calling. He is is love with my Gay Boyfriend. He said it via text message, so it's pretty serious.
GB doesn't know what to do. He asked for my help because I am totally a people person. Also, I have been practicing my look of Genuine Concern for days in the mirror.
"Wow, you must do some good hair," was all I could say.
All The Better To Touch Myself With, My Dear
I have that disease where my mouth and brain don't communicate very well. Also, I am kinda (c)rude. I have never been able to gracefully join a conversation. Generally, I just try to speak louder than the person that everyone is paying attention to. I am a hit, where ever I go.
Last night, over darts and beer, I overheard a conversation about shoes. I felt that it was deeply important that I share my vast knowledge of shoes with them. After pointing out how adorable my shoes were, I demonstrated my expertise on the subject by pointing out the flaws of the shoes of the people around us. I think everyone was impressed because they tried to change the subject.
A man with dark curly hair and piercing blue eyes (not that I was staring) mentioned that his right foot was larger than his left. I complemented him on his shoes (size 13!) and used my best scientific voice to explain that it is not uncommon for one foot to be larger than the other. Frequently, this occurs on the dominant side. I lowered my eyes demurely, hoping that he noted my use of the word "dominant."
At that, other people around began to announce which foot was the larger one. Wanting to be different, I loudly announced that the fingers on my left hand are bigger than those of my right.
Silence. Then giggles. The dark haired man said, "But Grandmother, what large fingers you have."
I bought my left hand a drink and talked dirty to it for the rest of the night.
Sunday morning, I was recovering from a sudden onset of Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. Fetal Alcohol Syndrome is when you have to stay in fetal position until you get up the strength to make a Bloody Mary to take the edge off the night before.
I wasn't quite ready to stand completely upright when my phone rang. I tried to sound perky, as though perhaps, I was not wearing last night's makeup. It was one of my neighbors.
"Mist, I think you might have dropped something outside."
"Thanks, I'll get it later."
"No, you might want to come out here now, it's um...personal," he insisted.
"Can you grab it for me and set it near my door?" I asked.
"I think you'd better come out here. It's um, your underwear. They're black and lace up the back."
They were mine. I wasn't surprised that he knew what my panties looked like. I wear low rise jeans and I am perpetually either pulling up my pants or pushing down my underwear. What I wanted to know, was how they ended up outside.
Sure, I have come home with my panties in my purse. Who hasn't? Usually, I forget they're in there and pull them out someplace inconvenient, like the grocery store with the 16 year old cashier.
I got out of fetal position and threw on my bathrobe. There they were. Neatly laced up the back. On display for my entire community. When I picked them up, an acorn from the big oak fell out.
That's the first time those panties have had a nut in them.
I giggled a little and slinked back inside.
I Am Stunning
I check my mail infrequently. More accurately, I check my mail when the mailcarrier rings my doorbell and hands me a stack of crumpled up magazines, bills, and pieces of mail addressed to The Sensible Driver at my address. I read the magazines and pay the bills, but I generally send the mail for The Sensible Driver back to Geico. No one fitting that description lives here.
This week, I have checked my mail every day. Monday I got my car title. It is suitable for framing. Tuesday, a card from Grandma (with check!) arrived. Wednesday, I received a lovely postcard from Belgium. But I was waiting for something special.
KJ has known me for half my life. When we met, I was jailbait and we have managed to maintain a platonic relationship ever since. He's an interesting guy. A bit of a pyromaniac, and a little scarred from the skin grafts, but still an interesting guy.
Last weekend, KJ called me to tell me that I simply must use the kind of pepper spray that law enforcement officers use. I told him that I already have pepper spray. I told him what kind it was and he said, "Mist, I eat sh*t hotter than that. If someone used that on me, I'd kill them and lick my fingers afterwards."
The next day, I took a trip to my local Pepper Spray Depot and picked up a bottle of Freeze Plus P. I had to sign some hold harmless paperwork, but I am pleased with my purchase. I cannot wait to mace someone. Bring it on b*tches.
I called KJ to tell him that I took his advice. He said, "You need a dog." I am not responsible enough for a dog. Sometimes, I don't even pick up my own crap in the yard. "Well then, you need a Taser." Yes, yes I do.
Why do I not own a Taser? All these freaking accessories and not a single Taser. I told him that I wanted the kind with a camera on the end so that I could post pictures of the people that I Tase on my blog. He said, "I'll see what I can do."
Thursday, I opened my mailbox. Inside was a package addressed to The Well Accessorized Woman at my address. I squealed when I saw the return address. My own Taser. At last. I hoped that it was the Ladies Special with a pearl handle. I looked over my shoulder suspiciously and brought the package inside. Before I unwrapped it, I opened my notebook with the list of people that I would like to Tase in it. I made a few additions to the list and bumped one person up higher on the list. Then, I opened the package.
The following is the phone call that I made (as near as I can remember it):
Mist: What the f*ck is this?
KJ: So, you got "the package."
Mist: What the f*ck is it?
KJ: I made a taser out of a disposable camera. You might want to cover it in tape so you don't shock yourself.
Bring it on b*tches.
I am a food snob. I like to buy exotic produce at the Farmer's Market. If it is strange and I don't know how to eat it, it excites me.
Last night, G and I went to dinner. G is worse than I am. The eyelids flutter (am moderately jealous of G's incredibly long lashes), deep gutteral moaning, groaning, pounding of the table with fists...it's a spectacle. People at tables near us always ask to be reseated.
I scanned the menu. First, for wine. Then, I ordered the seasonal cheese plate from the local dairy.
I thought the cheese plate was divine. G doesn't like chevre that tastes like dirt. I made a show of relishing it. I also made a show of scooping up a spoonful of potting soil from the plant next to our table and savoring it. It helped to get the dirty cheese flavor out of my mouth.
I ordered the skate. I thought of Steve Irwin, but only briefly. G ordered a giant mushroom with tomato essence. Seriously. We are drinking a (ridiculously expensive) bottle of wine and G orders something that grows in sh*t. The last time I ate a mushroom that size, I saw G*d. Changed my life. No joke.
Although there were only eight people in the restaurant (including staff), our food took ages. The wine was disappearing. I made eye contact with Chris (who had informed us earlier that he would be our server for the evening). He must not have seen me. I waved my arms in the air and called out his name. He folded napkins into swans. I knocked over my glass of water. As he swept up the glass, I sweetly asked for another bottle of wine and to see the menu again.
I vetoed the shrimp lollipops. I could not stand to see G make sweet passionate love to a shrimp on a stick in public. "I'll order," I said confidently.
Chris returned with a second bottle of wine and asked if we had made a decision. "We have," I said as I handed him the menu. "We would like the Dick Lover Mousse." G's eyeballs bulged (damn those eyelashes). I shot a chilly look back.
Chris (looking rather flushed) said, "I'm sure you'll enjoy the Duck Liver Mousse."
Note: I still deny that I actually said this, but G insists.
"Always Be Prepared." I remember hearing this phrase a lot when I was dating that Boy Scout troop.
I feel prepared. I'm just not sure what I am prepared for. My desk is covered in feathers and bug wings. I have a charcoal pencil in my car. My only cookbook is titled "Smoothies." My purse-of-the-moment holds a pair of goggles. I know the Apocalypse is nigh, but I hope it doesn't come until I am ready for it.
Yesterday, C asked me, "Why don't we hibernate?" I reminded him of my fear of commitment and told him that if I were to hibernate, it would have to be alone. He gave that look which I think means that I am either a.) a creature of great mystery, or b.) about to be strangled. He revised his question, "People. Why don't people hibernate?"
Maybe people should hibernate. This winter, I am going to try. I am not going to get fat this fall. Nor am I going to cancel my upcoming waxing appointment. I am already practicing napping during the day. Obviously, this is hard-wired into my DNA. I am a natural.
I made some progress today on my hibernation preparation. First, I fed the ducks. Next, I got a pedicure. Then, I went to Sam's Club for some wholesale shopping. Wholesale shopping makes me feel like I am starting a new cult.
I now have no place to store the following items (purchased in bulk):
- Paper towels. The pick-a-size variety due to my control issues and also because they do not come in bathsheet size. Will not be doing laundry during hibernation but may want a bubble bath.
- Smoked salmon. Bears like salmon. Bears hibernate. Simple logic.
- Toothpaste. I know what my breath is like in the morning. I can only imagine what it will be like after a long winter in hibernation.
- Wine. In case I get thirsty. Forgot to purchase libations for pre-hibernation kickoff and post-hibernation celebrations.
- Dishwasher detergent. As I don't actually do dishes, I have no explanation for this one other than it goes with the Jet-Dry which I also purchased.
The other necessities (apple sauce, Texas Pete hot sauce) purchased today are neatly crammed into the 1/2 bath, which I now refer to as "The Pantry." The AA batteries (120-pack), I will just keep in my bedroom. They are for my flashlight. In case I wake up. Of course.
I still have to pick up some sleeping pills if I want Quality Rest for the next few months. It turns out that Sam's doesn't carry those in bulk. The sales associate gave me a look of genuine concern when I asked which aisle they were in.
Geri(atric) & Me
My friends pity me. I'm okay with that. But it's for the wrong reasons.
I will never be ambushed for a "dinner party" again. I agreed dinner, but I didn't agree to the 97 year old man that was to be my date for the evening.
Introductions were made. I graciously shook hands with couple after couple. Sitting alone on the couch was an oversized plush toy that looked a bit like those creepy dried apple head dolls. I jumped when it moved. He thrust his hand into mine, closed his wrinkly lids and kissed my hand. I tried not to recoil. "Mist, this is L. I am sure you two will have lots to talk about." Much winking ensued.
Over dinner, we talked about where I grew up, where I went to college, what it was like when television was colorized, and the outrageous cost of Coca-Cola (apparently, it used to be $0.05). I tried to relate to him and told him that as an adolescent I had a mobile phone attached to a large black box. He nodded and closed his eyes, lost in memory.
Dinner was excellent. Pureed, but tasty. He excused himself four times to use the restroom. During his absences, I glared across the table at my smug, coupled friends.
After dinner, we retired (he re-retired) to the livingroom for conversation and after-dinner drinks. I made an excuse about my medication wearing off and said that I had to go before things got ugly. He offered to walk me to my car. I protested, but in the end, he accompanied me down the driveway. I loosely held his elbow to keep him from falling and breaking a hip.
He leaned in for a kiss. I breathed in the smell of Bengay and enjoyed the menthol vapors clearing my sinuses. His breath reminded me of the little cups of Effordent that I used to soak my retainer in. I coyly turned my head and let him kiss my (bright orange) hair.
As I turned to get into my car, I stumbled in my heels and reached out to him to steady myself. Flailing, I grasped him by the waist. Something crinkled. A soft, plastic rustling sound.
"Will I see you again?" he asked.
"Depends!" I said with my hand still on his raisiny a$$.
He smiled and blew me a kiss goodnight.
My Homecoming Date
Thursday morning, I awoke with a small red spot on my cheek. Bubonic Plague, I thought and shrugged it off.
By evening, it was clear that I was growing a second head. I rejoiced. Having two heads would significantly increase my dating potential. Guys are always telling me how much they like head. So, a girl with two heads would be something really special.
On Friday morning, I had an angry red pimple. Centered perfectly on my left cheek. Most people with a pimple of this magnitude stay indoors. It's like being on glandular house arrest. I am not most people.
I looked at my ravaged cheek in the mirror. Elated, I realized that this bout of acne made me look even younger. I looked like a teenager. This pimple could not have had better timing. Homecoming was Friday night. I put on a pair of slightly slutty jeans and too much makeup. I had just enough time before the parade to make a sign that said "Don't Hate Class of '08!"
Technically, I know that I am supposed to remain 100 yards from the high school (due to an unfortunate incident with the band), but with my new pimple, I fit right in.
"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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