Here's what I need to do: 1. Get Hobby, 2. Floss. Blogging just gets in the way.
I never thought that I'd use this blog to advertise for a company. To date, no shoe company has signed a product endorsement contract with me and so this blog remains ad-free.
I am about to make an exception to this rule.
Last night, I flew home on KKK Airlines. They cater mostly to Flight Supremacists, but I encourage everyone to fly KKK Air.
My ticket was cheap. Pretzels were served. No one had done the crossword puzzle. I got a blanket. The floatation device was actually under my seat (I checked). I didn't have to share my inflight beverage with anyone else in the aircraft. I even had an unused airsickness bag. It was by far, the best air travel experience that I have ever had.
I was upgraded to First Class because a woman refused to fly next to a man who appeared to be Middle Eastern. The woman who gave up her seat was enraged that the good people at KKKA would rather make a law abiding citizen such as herself fly standby rather than kick the suspicious looking gentleman off of the flight. She claimed that it was un-American. Spit gathered at the corners of her mouth as she ranted about her tax dollars and her rich American heritage. "These colors don't fly!" she spat at all of us gawking at her.
I was happy to take the available seat, but when they threw in a gift certificate to a local restaurant, I jumped at the opportunity to sit next to a real-life potential terrorist.
She offered to pray for my soul as I boarded the plane. I wished her all the best in her travels because I am a decent individual.
The man that I sat next to didn't appear to be ticking, but still, I summoned the flight attendant for a drink. If I'm going to die in a ball of fire, I want to be tipsy from vodka.
The captain came on the intercom and told us that our estimated flight time would be two hours and four minutes. The man next to me sat motionless. Apparently, the timer on the bomb strapped to his torso was preset. The captain also told us the altitude that we would be flying at. I'm still not sure why this is relevant information. I pressed the button for the flight attendant and asked her why we wouldn't be flying at 22,000 feet tonight. She gave me a bag of pretzels.
Before departure, the captain urged the flight attendants to put on their hoods for take-off. They pulled white pillow cases over their heads and pointed out the emergency exits; the two in front were marked Whites Only.
The man next to me offered me a piece of gum. I noted that the gum had a liquid center and politely declined. I wonder how he got it through security. I had to surrender my hand sanitizer and yet he was able to smuggle an entire pack of liquid center gum onto the plane. The whole thing reeked of an inside job.
We watched a movie on my laptop, sharing the earbuds. It was kind of romantic in that Forbidden Love sort of way.
As we landed the captain updated us on the local time and weather. He thanked us for flying KKK Air and gave instructions as to where the White passengers could retrieve their luggage.
I love airplanes. I even love airports. I make up stories to tell the poor bastard in the seat next to me. There's nothing like a captive audience.
I don't love the Transportation Security Administration.
The last time my sister flew, she got caught with 17 lighters in her purse. The TSA agent asked her if she was aware that she was carrying 17 lighters. "I'm a smoker," was all she could say. I thought that Kleptomania would have been a better explanation.
I was worried about the amount of dental floss that I had in my carry-on. I walked through the metal detector without any complications, but my bag was stopped. The agent dumped out the contents of my purse. Humiliated, I tried to explain the panties. He avoided eye contact and fished out my tweezers.
I have a few obsessive-compulsive behaviors. Body hair grooming is one of them. I forgot to remove the tweezers before I got to the airport. I use professional tweezers. I had to get licensed and bonded to purchase them. I showed him my credentials. The agent was not impressed. They were confiscated and tossed into the bin with the other contraband items. I protested. He also took the panties.
The first thing I did when Mom picked me up at the airport was demand that she take me somewhere to have my brows waxed. I would not be able to face my home town without proper eyebrow care. I told her what had happened to my tweezers.
"What do they do with all that stuff?" she asked. I told her that they sell everything back to the public for profit. She was outraged. Mom thinks that the items should be donated to the homeless. She has a point. I think that if the homeless had tweezers, they could probably find affordable housing.
Tweezers have the power to change lives. I would probably still be on the streets if I had never had my brows shaped.
I am flying home today. I have already called the beauty supply store to make sure they have my tweezers in stock.
I Used to Live Here
I know what it's like to live in a Developing Nation.
I had to drink tap water yesterday. I am sure that I have guinea worms now. There's nothing I can do but sit and wait for them to emerge. It could take a year. I have started collecting sticks. I read that I will need to wrap the worms around the sticks and gently turn them every day. I hope that the worms grow out of my head so that I can disguise them in my hair.
While I have never stayed in a refuge camp, I bet they have wi-fi. Otherwise, all those people wouldn't stay there. They would claim Internet Asylum and move far, far away. My current internet options are:
Yesterday, Mom's furnace decided to die. I am sleeping in the basement of her house. I can see my breath. I wore layers to bed last night. I put on gloves, thinking that she might say, "Do you want to stay in a hotel tonight?" but she just said, "Don't forget to turn off the stereo." She is a tough woman.
- Steal from Mom's neighbors. This requires sitting outside in the cold. I feel like a crackhead.
- Use Grandma's dial-up. This requires the patience of a saint. I am not a saint.
- Sit in a coffee shop all day. This requires mass consumption of caffeine. At my post Christmas weight, 12 more cups of coffee will kill me.
I dreamt that I was climbing Everest. In the dream, I fell and lost my radio. I woke up burrowed into the blankets with a make-shift splint tied around my leg. I will probably lose a few fingers, all of my toes, and maybe the tip of my nose.
I am thinking about opening a vein.
I can't wait to get home.
This holiday season, I acquired a hot commodity. I'm not saying what it is because I value my life. I would just like it to be known that this is the kind of thing that inspires people to pitch tents outside of Best Buy.
I don't pitch tents. I pitch fits. I was arrested two years ago for Urban Camping; it turns out that there's an ordinance that states that it's perfectly acceptable to spread a blanket out in a park and take a nap on it, but as soon as you get under the blanket you are committing a crime. Another good mugshot. Ever since then I have been strongly opposed to sleeping outdoors.
How I acquired this item is not significant. All I will say is that I Know People in this city. We met in a dimly lit parking lot. I wore all black (very slimming) and carried a large sum of cash. If I ever make another parking lot transaction, I am going to get one of those metal briefcases. I think that will make me look like a Professional. It's important that the local hoodlums take me seriously.
I sped out of the parking lot just in time for a red light. I will have to work on my getaway route before next time. As the light turned green, the driver of a Cutlass honked at me. I'm not a good driver. When people honk at me, I always assume that I cut them off or that I almost killed them. I was too high from the rush of my transaction to care. I weaved through traffic to avoid confrontation.
He followed me. I skipped from lane to lane with him behind me all the way. I started to get nervous. What if he was some kind of holiday road raged lunatic? It became clear that I could not go back to Mom'a house. Abort! Abort! Abort! I pulled into a parking lot where I planned to do a move that I call a U-Turn. As I debated whether I should turn to the left or the right, the Cutlass pulled into the parking lot.
I imagined the evening news. The tragic story of a ridiculously cute woman found gunned down wearing all black (very slimming) in a parking lot. The trunk of the car would be left open and the receipt of my ATM withdrawal would still be clutched in my hand, leading authorities to suspect fowl play. Reporters would interview Mom's neighbors but would not be able to find anyone who had anything nice to say about me. They would end up paying a vagrant $5 to tell the cameras that I was a G*d fearing woman, (sexually) active in the community, and the last person you would ever expect this sort of thing to happen to. That part still makes me smile a little bit. It's almost true.
I parked the car among the other cars. I was going to walk into the store and Be Cool.
The Cutlass pulled up and rolled down the window. A man with gold teeth and a white ball cap turned sideways was inside. Always quick with words, I said, "what's up?"
"What's up?" he replied.
We repeated this phrase to one another for a few minutes. In a panic, I told him everything. He could have the item, just please, don't hurt me.
"I was just trying to get to know you," he said. I think he called me Shorty.
I gave him a fake phone number and sped back to Mom's play with my new unspecified item.
I'm taking the day off to open my presents...
Call Cher, It's Mask II
I'm not good in emergencies. Unless they're fashion emergencies. Then I shine.
Last night, I got a phone call from a friend needing a ride to the hospital. She had the kind of emergency that made her make stupid requests.
She rattled off a list of ailments. I pretended to listen. "Are you typing?" she asked. I couldn't tell her that I was posting pictures of my toes to a foot fetish Flickr group. I lied. I told her that I was checking her symptoms online. To prove my point, I asked her if she was having a buning sensation during urination or pain in her left arm. "It's my face, Idiot." I didn't ask her where she went to medical school.
I asked her to hold and put down the phone. I stood up and did a field sobriety test. After reciting the alphabet backwards, I agreed to drive her to the ER.
When I say, "I'll be right there," I mean that as soon as I check both email addresses, sitemeter, and my feeds, I'll be on my way. Also, I remembered that you're supposed to wear clean underwear to the hospital. I made a quick change.
As I touched up my hair and makeup, I hoped that she wasn't hemorrhaging. I took a final glance in the mirror. My sweater was all wrong. Maybe it was the jeans. I ignored her calls as I changed my shoes.
I looked spectacular when I arrived at her house. I felt a little bad when I saw her. She looked awful; a little like my last mug shot. The right side of her face was nearly unrecognizable. Her eye was swollen shut. I wondered if she had always had a cleft palate. It seems like I would have noticed, but I've never seen her without makeup.
I have watched enough medical dramas to know what to do. I retched. Then I stabbed her in her face with my EpiPen. I'm sure she'll thank me when she wakes up. There was no way that we could have spent the evening in the hospital, there's no free Wi-Fi.
I Wonder Where He Puts It
When I was a kid, I played with Cabbage Patch Kids. I had several. Sparky Allen and Paige Alexis were Premies. They were small and bald and adorable.
Mom had a little plastic case in the bathroom which held a tiny rubber swimcap. It was a perfect fit for when I wanted to dress Paige Alexis up in her swimwear. Later, when I adopted David Walker, I imagined that he was Jewish. The swimcap became the perfect yarmulke.
I'll never forget the day that I showed Dad how Paige Alexis could swim. "Oh crap! Honey, Mist found your diaphragm!"
Later in life, I decided that a diaphragm was the way to go for all my birth control needs. My doctor explained the proper insertion technique and left me alone in the exam room with a tube of K-Y and a tray of different sized diaphragms to try on. It was like shopping. I wondered if I should leave the room and ask the nurses, "does this diaphragm make my cervix look big?" It never got to that point. I lubed up the first one and attemped to slip it in. Instead, the slippery thing shot out of my hand, bounced off the wall and landed on the floor with a splat. I decided to stick with the pill.
Last week, I went ice skating. My friend had the clever idea that we should play a prank on another guy on the ice. He knelt down behind him and I skated up and pushed him in the chest. When he stood up he yelled, "Damn! You pushed me in my diaphragm."
Clearly, his doctor didn't show him how to wear one. I pushed him in the chest.
In my 10th grade chemistry class, Mr. Glock fascinated me. He always wore a leather apron. He cautioned us that hydrochloric acid may "tickle" a bit upon contact with human flesh.
He let us ask any question we wanted. We took advantage of this. Rumor was, Mr. Glock would tell you all about his addictions if you just asked. Risking five points off my final grade, I asked, "Mr. Glock, what was your first addiction?"
"Women," he replied. The class giggled because he was ancient and we were adolescents and couldn't imagine him as a young, vivacious man. For another five points, I asked what his second addiction was.
And with that, I was in love.
I have addictions (men, index cards in bright colors, shoes). I have worked through many, many others (lip balm, pickles, WebMD). But there are some, that still have a tight hold on me.
I am entirely powerless over Dental Floss. I have floss in the drawer in my coffee table, next to my bed, and in my desk. I even have those handy flossers in my car because I drive a stick shift and need at least one hand on my stereo at all times. I own every kind of floss. Waxed. Unwaxed. Mint. Cinnamon. Organic. Flouridated.
I floss my teeth several times a day. I floss when I wake up and before bed. I floss before and after meals. I examine my floss closely because I am a disgusting individual. I am thrilled to retrieve anything from between my teeth, especially popcorn. Once or twice, I have even flossed out an entire chunk of flesh. Then, I call it quits until the next day.
It consumes me. Sometimes, I find myself driving by drug stores that aren't on the way home. Maybe they will have a two-for-one special. Maybe an advance in dental floss technology will have been made since my last floss purchase.
I wish that I could clean my body the same way that I clean my teeth. A cleansing rinse would be first. Preferably nothing whitening. I think that's what happened to Michael Jackson. That would be followed by a soft bristled brushing with a minty soap. Minty soap is orgasmic. I can spend hours in a peppermint bath (masturbation optional). Then, I would remove any remaining particles from hard-to-reach areas with body floss.
Body floss should be pre-soaped; just add water. It's an ideal product for those last minute touch ups before sleeping with someone. "Just a minute Honey, I have to floss my a$$."
My name is Mist, and I'm a flossaholic.
PS: Thanks Stewart, for giving me something to blog about.
Tell 'Em What They Want to Hear
About once a year, I go out with a guy I used to date. We try to rekindle the flame. We have cocktails and pretend that everything didn't end horribly wrong. Then, I stick my tongue down his throat. For a moment, we don't regret it. Then, it goes horribly wrong all over again.
Over drinks, he gives me the update on his life. He's been commisioned to do a painting. He's got a new record deal. He's going on tour. His limited edition prints are selling all over the globe. He's been nominated for an Oscar and is runner-up in a beauty pageant.
I counter. I've recently donated my bone marrow and saved a set of quints that would surely have died if not for my good deed. I've adopted an African baby. I've had to decline an offer to be spokesmodel for a major cosmetic company because they test on animals.
Then, K told me that nobody really wants to know how I'm doing unless I'm miserable.
Why didn't I figure that out?
I called him last night to test her theory. We went out for drinks. He told me that he's just returned from working with a colony of lepers. He's been knighted. He was single-handedly responsible for OJ's book being pulled from the shelves.
"Enough about me. How are you?" he asked.
"Honestly," I said scratching at the scab on my lower lip, "the syphilis is resisting treatment causing my vision to fail. I'm going to prison for tax evasion after the first of the year. Mark Foley is text messaging me again. My Osteopornosis (a degenerate disease) is flaring up again and the cat hates me."
He seemed pleased. "Well, I'm always here for you."
It was the most caring moment that we've shared in years.
Thanks Big Pissy for submitting my blog to Bloglaughs for review. I will try not to let it go to my head. Bloglaughs is looking for reviewers; no purchase necessary, minimal commitment involved.
I've also guest blogged for Michael Thomas today at Cardiac Fantasies. A girl needs a hobby.
The 1 Family Christmas
There are some things I should explain.
A few months ago, Mom said to me, "do you want to hear about the drama of my love life?"
I need her to break things to me slowly. I would have preferred to hear, "I have a love life." After digesting that information, she could have continued, "recently, there has been some drama."
This is not the way my family works.
On their first date, Mom said to George, "I'm really into you. You're very cute. You're smart. But, I'm not a lesbian." Maybe I should have mentioned that George is a woman (she is nearly my age and has a mohawk; facts that are irrelevant here). George informed Mom that she isn't a lesbian either. I cannot explain. Please, do not ask me to. It is a match made in heaven. They have been seeing each other for several months.
Mom wants George to spend the holidays with us. By "us," I mean Mom, my sister, myself, and Dad. "What will we drink?" I asked.
"Everything," Mom replied.
"Well, this won't be the weirdest thing we've ever done," I said.
At least I know what to get everyone for Christmas this year. Vodka.
PS: Dawn, thank you for the new template. Please add your ability to work with "special needs" clients to your resume. Alison, thanks for the floss photos. You are fabulous.
I change my hair color like I change my panties. Quarterly.
My hair is automatically curly. I have no idea what color it really is. Usually, I have a large mass of reddish or brownish curls on my head. Sometimes, I like a change.
In the winter, I like to have black hair. Jet black. It makes me feel Ethnic and Mysterious. I don't know what color would make me feel Rich and Powerful, so I stick with Ethnic and Mysterious.
I decided that in addition to dying it black, that I would wear it straight for awhile. In this context, "wear it straight" has nothing to do with my sexual preference. Ladies, feel free to email me. Guys, you too.
Nobody recognizes me.
Mo said, "You should rob banks." As I am currently unemployed, this seemed like an attractive business venture. "Couldn't we just chain an ATM up to the back of a truck?" I asked. We weighed the pros and cons of this idea. Mo is the kind of person who says "ATM Machine," which drives me nuts. It is not an Automatic Teller Machine Machine. But, he is like two years older than me, so I held my tongue out of respect for elders.
"I meant that you look like a different person. Like a Spanish person," he clarified. Si, por supuesto.
My Spanish is excellent. Here's what I can say:
And the ever helpful phrase:
- Yes, I would like another beer.
- Juan, please pass the salt.
- I'm sorry, is this your husband?
All this ethnic ambiguity is fun for me. It opens up entirely new worlds. New bars. New grocery stores (bodegas, if you will).
- I think the cat has worms.
I have been using my four phrases for an entire day. I have been slapped once. I have had several beers. My food has been extremely salty. And, it turns out that the cat does, in fact have worms.
Please take a moment and visit one of my favorite bloggers, Fair Maiden. She knows at least five phrases in Spanish. Friday, she runs a regular feature, A$$hole of the Week. Today, she has graciously/foolishly allowed me to guest blog.
Emmay Uno (Mist 1)
A Snake & My Pipes
I've been plagued with a slow kitchen sink for months. I have had enough. Time for action.
I get excellent customer service in hardware stores because the best way to describe my attire is "slightly slutty." I handle all the nuts and the guys go wild. I have persuaded many of them to come home with me and "fix" stuff.
The new guy at the hardware store passed off the man in coveralls to another employee to help me. "I'm a plumber. It's what I do," he explained to his jealous associate. This is my new favorite line. Since I don't actually do anything, I have substituted "plumber" with all kinds of other professions. I love the way it sounds. Brain Surgeon, Broker, Golddigger. No matter what, it just works.
I giggled a thank you and said something about laying pipe, thus securing good customer service.
I explained the situation. I told him that it turns out that I don't actually have a garbage disposal. I toss everything in the sink and flip the light on and off. I have done this for years. I have poured every caustic chemical down the drain with no success. I have even used Professional products. I needed a snake.
He demonstrated how to use the snake. "Oh," I said. "I'm sure I can handle that." I think I even said, "tee hee."
I got home and ran 15 feet of coil down my drain. It promptly snapped off. It is still there. My sink vomited up a murky grey liquid with flecks of green and black in it. The kitchen suddenly smelled of cheese. Clearly, I have to move.
Tomorrow, I will wear a tiny skirt and return the part of the snake that is not stuck in my drain. I will demand a full refund. I will also slip the plumber my phone number.
I'm a tramp. It's what I do.
PS: Tomorrow, FairMaiden has graciously granted me the opportunity to speak about the A$$hole of the Week. Please stop by and check her blog out.
Self Esteam Room
I am an adult survivor of Ugly Duckling Syndrome. UDS is a less lethal strain of the Avian Flu (H5N1).
I was not a cute child. Dad denies this. "Oh, honey. All children are beautiful in their own buck toothed freakish way," he tells me. Mom is more honest. She still sends a Christmas card and a fruit basket to my orthodontist. My orthodontist refuses to pin my "Before" photo up on his bulletin board. I am a success story, but he doesn't want to scare off prospective clients.
I have a staff of people to thank for my recovery. At the end of my life, I expect to see all of their names roll by in the credits.
I've grown into my teeth and I've learned that my hair and mousse are not a good combination. I have not worn clothing sewn by my mother in years. I grew an a$, and I still have hopes that I will grow real boobs. Most importantly, I have developed the ability to breath through my nose.
All of the suffering that I endured has paid off. I am the picture of grace and humility. If I had grown up this cute, I would be a b*tch. I remember. Even on days like yesterday, when my hair was so fabulous that I had to leave the house just so people could see me. I wasn't showing off. I did it for the ugly children. I have not forgotten what it was like. I went to the middle school at dismissal time and stood outside, waiting for them to admire me.
I made eye contact with the especially homely children, as if to tell them, "All is not lost, little fugly ones." I didn't say it outloud, but I think they knew.
A pimply faced kid came up to me. I smiled benevolently, prepared to discuss the advantages of tetracycline. "Who's Mom are you?" he asked.
Instantly, I was 12 again. "Is that your face, or does your butt have teeth?"
It was the best I could do.
When people think "Responsible," they seldom think of me.
I am doing my best.
I have agreed to be responsible for an iguana. I am a natural choice for an iguana sitter because I have little fear of salmonella.
For two days, I have seen nothing of the lizard except for the tip of his nose and the end of his tail. He has not emerged from his hiding place to eat, sh*t, or do whatever it is that reptiles do when they are not eating or sh*tting.
Determined to win his affections, I went to the pet store to learn more about iguanas. The overly helpful PetSmart associate gave me an arsenal of helpful tips. Feed it apples and romaine. Spray it with warm water. Blow my scent into the cage.
Armed with apples, a spray bottle of warm water, and wearing a heavy dose of Dior's Hypnotic Poison, I felt prepared to woo the lizard. I have wooed many, many lizards with Dior, but never with produce. I placed a slice of apple in his bowl. I wafted my scent into the cage. Then, I gently misted G*d's little creature. He bolted out from his hiding spot. I stifled a scream. He hissed and inflated the extra scrotum hanging from his chin. Then, I screamed.
I misted. The iguana hissed. I misted frantically. He stood on the heat rock and closed his eyes. His tongue darted out and licked the drops of water from his nose and eyeballs. I cooed, "Nice lizard. I have a wallet that looks just like you. Good boy."
He opened his eyes and tilted his head affectionately. I kept misting.
Until, I noticed a snotty, egg white-like substance bubbling from his loins.
I have a way with animals.
I almost murdered a family of six pedestrians.
They were lucky. I was in the right lane; stopped at a red light. A MARTA bus was in the left lane blocking my view of the suicidal pedestrians who decided to dart out in front of my car when the light turned green.
I'm one of those drivers who likes to be First. I don't care if I'm just beating the other cars to the next red light. At least I got there First. The only time that I don't like to be First is when I'm putting on mascara. Then I like to have another car in front of me so that I know when to go. I hate it when people honk at me when I'm applying make up.
So, when the light turned green, I jumped out of the blocks. First!
And there they were. They had enough sense to pick up the baby and run. Their lives flashed before my eyes. As I didn't know them personally, it was a brief moment.
For a split second, I was scared. I almost killed them. With witnesses. Then, my rage kicked in. That's a typical response from me. I get especially angry at pedestrians who wear dark colors at night and walk in the middle of the street. I drive at night because reflective clothing washes me out. I understand that pedestrians want to be fashionable too, but is it worth the risk? I want to lean out of my window and shout, "I almost killed you, you son of a b*tch! Don't make me turn this car around."
I swear to G*d. I'll do it.
The word "pedestrian" seems funny to me now. I've used it so many times, that it no longer makes sense. "Pedestrian" sounds more like people from the country Pedestria. Beautiful countyside. Now I feel xenophobic for trying to kill them and hating them so deeply. I am ashamed. I have known some really nice Pedestrians. Decent folks. Stupid, but decent folks nonetheless.
Years ago, I bought some really expensive body lotion. I was abroad and this was when you could still travel with lotion and other liquids. The label on the bottle is so pretty that I couldn't bring myself to use it. Until yesterday.
I opened the bottle and inhaled the sweet citrus scent. I tilted the bottle slightly and poured the watery lotion into my hand and onto the floor. By my calculations, I poured $12.52 of lotion directly into the bathroom rug.
Disgusted, I smeared the runny lotion onto my dry skin. It covered one square inch of my body. I am larger than one square inch. I considered scraping the spilled lotion up out of the rug. I knealt down and examined it. I could pick the hair out. It would be fine. Except for that hair that I don't think is from my head.
I decided to shake the bottle. Maybe the thickening agents had settled to the bottom. I shook vigorously. This would have been a great idea if I had thought to put the lid back on the bottle. Creamy, white lotion splattered all over the walls and ceiling and floor.
I cursed. My bathroom looked like a scene from a porn movie. Viscous white liquid dripped from everything.
I know what I have to do. I guess porn inspires me.
There's this guy that I've been trying to get rid of for awhile. He doesn't take my hints. I hate to be a b*tch. It's time to take passive aggressive action.
I'm going to call him this weekend and see if he'd like to come over and watch a movie.
Before he gets here, I'll mess up my hair. Then I'll go into my bedroom and shake up the bottle of lotion again.
I can't wait for him to get here. Is it too much if I walk with a limp?
I Talk to Myself and I Am Not Alone
I talk. A lot. When I cannot talk to other people, I talk to myself. Once or twice I have even listened.
Sometimes, the conversation that I am having with myself if so good that I don't want anyone to interrupt me. Then, I put on my earpiece and walk around talking to myself like I'm on the phone. It makes me feel important. I talk about science and stuff so that the people around me will think I'm smart. I know a lot about science. Protons, Electrons, Fig Newtons and such.
I find it disarming when other people talk to themselves.
Yesterday, I had a meeting with a woman who talked to herself. She asked me questions and when I answered, she mumbled to herself. I begged her pardon a few times before I realized that she wasn't talking to me. It was awkward. She asked questions and I waited uncomfortably to see if I was supposed to answer. She gave me directives and I made note of them, not certain if I should carry them out. She set a date for our next meeting. I put it in my planner, but I'm not sure if I'm invited.
After the meeting, I needed a drink to sort through everything. Also, I was shaking as it was well past the time that I prefer to start drinking. I took myself out. At a table near the bar, I noticed a man having a heated argument with himself. He wasn't winning. I have never lost an argument with myself. I have talked myself into and out of all sorts of things, but never lost an argument. I am never wrong. Suddenly, I felt compelled to stand up for the man. "You can't talk to yourself that way!" I scolded.
I told myself not to join him. But, I didn't listen.
He talked about the CIA and telemarketers. I talked about science.
I think I'll start leaving comments for myself here.
I really like condiments.
I don't have any food in the house, but I have condiments from all over the globe. If I can't read the label, I buy it. I have chili garlic sauce, wasabi salad dressing, butter-like spread, and something that resembles garlic Vasoline.
When I am hungry, I open the fridge and look at all the little bottles. Then I imagine the foods I would pair with each condiment. Sometimes, I will have a baby carrot dipped in mustard, but only if I feel like cooking. Usually, I close the fridge and go out to dinner.
I love restaurants that generously supply condiments on the table. Like Waffle House. I try to use some of everything. Sometimes, I worry that my over-use of condiments will make the prices on the menu increase, but I cannot control myself.
Last night, I had dinner in a bar. I ordered hummus because I consider hummus to be a condiment. The man sitting next to me engaged me in a lengthy discussion about how he had never had hummus. I didn't offer him any. He also had never eaten sushi, oysters, fish tacos, or anything else that had ever lived in water. I didn't tell him that hummus isn't an aquatic animal.
I finished my beer and the man ordered me another. Maybe he wasn't so bad, afterall. "Thanks," I said. "I'm Mist. I didn't catch your name."
He stuck out his hand. "Dijon."
"Dijon? Like the mustard?"
I excused myself before I could make any inappropriate condom-mints jokes.
I'm a Muse
I am all for self-expression.
I paint. I know people that write poetry or play guitar. I know a man that sculpts the busts of celebrities out of chicken wire and some kind of vomity looking substance. Some people even blog.
Everyone can use a little help expressing themselves from time to time. A muse. Inspiration. A paycheck and benefits. A pair of Manolos. A fistful of dollars.
I find inspiration in the little things. I've always been good at letting people know what my needs are. I am good at Charades. Also, sometimes, I wet my pants.
The other night, in a dramatic display, I tried to show Lisa that I needed a glass of wine. I did my best thirsty look. I pantomimed a corkscrewing motion (in hindsight; may have been a little graphic). Two Words. First word: Sweet. Second word: Nectar. She didn't get it. She put on porn. I watched for a bit before dragging myself across the floor like a soldier in Kuwait.
Lisa slapped herself dramatically on the forehead, "Crap! I've got to express Ralphie's anal glands!"
I had never before had the privilege of anal gland expression. It is a rare and special experience between a dog owner and a dog, and sometimes, the unfortunate friend who is too drunk to drive home and is sickly sort of interested. It seems, that Ralphie (the dog) had not been dragging his a$$ across the carpet for reasons of hygiene. Rather, he was trying to clear his delicate anal sacs.
I stuck out my hand. Ralphie gave me his paw. I took a shot of Crown . Ralphie put his nose in my crotch. There was no time for a romantic dinner and a movie. I drank most of a bottle of wine.
And then, we started.
I am usually good with balls. Seriously. No one has ever complained in the past. I will not be asking Ralphie for a reference.
What I did next, I will only talk about in therapy.
I will never eat walnuts again. Also, hand jobs are out for a bit.
I'm not a cuddler.
I always feel like it's an obligation. I always want to say, "Oh, that won't be necessary. I'll just find my panties in the backseat and be on my way."
The thought of hot, moist breath on the back of my neck makes me cringe. All I can think is that my hair is going to frizz from the humidity. I don't like to be tucked under an arm like a football either. Unless it is roleplay. Then it's okay, but I don't like to wear the helmet.
There should be a ratio for the number of minutes that I am obligated to cuddle. A 1:1 ratio would be okay. I could deal with a minute of cuddling per minute of sex. That would be about four minutes. That works for me.
I would support a formula of cuddling based on gifts of shoes. This would be a sliding scale program. One pair of Valentino pumps would fetch 8.5 minutes. Kenneth Coles would earn a minute for one pair or three minutes for two. I like this formula even better than the ratio.
There would have to be Terms and Conditions, of course. Minutes are not redeemable for cash. No rolling over minutes for extended cuddle time. No frontal cuddling allowed. Minutes are not redeemable if I have a "headache." Minutes may be revoked for bad behavior or bad breath. Family members are not eligible. Rules are subject to change depending on my mood swings.
It's hard to approach someone with a cuddling formula. I have not perfected this yet. Last week, I was cuddled for seven minutes. In hindsight, I should have communicated my feelings about cuddling in advance. Instead, I sent an invoice for a pair of Bruno Magli pumps with Swarovski-crystal embellished heels.
It didn't go over well. I managed to turn it around and blame it on him. Still, no Brunos.
Saturday, I tried a different technique. I cued up a cd. "At the end of this song, you should go," I said.
That didn't go over well either. I guess he really liked that cd.
I grew up Catholic. I liked the part of the service when Father Szleszinski would say in his nasal voice, "Johnny, go get me a biscuit." And we would all reply, "And go get me one too." I never understood what that was all about, but it was fun to say. I always wanted to know who Johnny was.
I haven't been to church in a long time. It's been almost six years since my last Confession.
Almost daily, a random stranger will look at me quizzically and solemnly swear, "I'm gonna pray for you." So, I really don't see the need to go and pray for myself. Everyone else has it covered.
When I moved to the South, people always invited me to go to church with them. I would politely decline because I didn't want them to see me burst into flames when we walked through the doors. Also, I refuse to go to a church with a jumbo-tron larger than the one at the stadium.
Once, I was almost seduced by a sign outside a church that read, "Jesus doesn't care if you wear jeans." There's a church I could attend, I thought. Then I looked at my slutty jeans. I am uncomfortable around children in my indecent jeans; I don't want Jesus to see me in them.
Yesterday, I ran out of gas. At a church.
I have never run out of gas before. I have had every imaginable car trouble. I've had three flat tires in a week. A snake crawled under my hood and cooked to death. I've rolled a vehicle down the side of a mountain (with a recalled seat belt). But, this was the first time that I've run out of gas.
I am taking this as a sign.
I've got to get that gas light checked.
"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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