Here's what I need to do: 1. Get Hobby, 2. Floss. Blogging just gets in the way.
Usually, I live in a happy place. I daydream about Him, feed the ducks, drink wine, and sometimes, I find $20 in my pocket.
It's not that I don't have worries. I worry that my hair will be flat. I worry about what I will blog about tomorrow. I worry that my thong will stick out of the back of my jeans and worse, that no one will notice. Also, I worry about the U. S. dependence on foreign oil and stuff.
I went shopping yesterday. Shoe shopping usually makes me forget all about the weight of the world. The beauty of shoe shopping is that I am built for it. The display shoe is always a size six or 6.5. I whip off my shoe and slip my foot into the display shoe and all is right in the Universe again.
But, it didn't work out that way.
I tried on every shoe. Nothing looked right. I couldn't even hear them calling my name. Silence. Not a single shoe spoke up. I reached for my phone, "Mom," I said, choking back my tears. "I can't find any shoes that I like."
There was a gasp and then a slow, calculated breath. "Oh Honey, you're depressed."
I started to cry right there in the store. The saleslady handed me a stocking and a bronze ballet slipper. I waved her away and blew my nose in the stocking.
Mom told me to get myself to the nearest discount shoe warehouse. She always knows how to comfort me. On the way, I drove past a store called Pumps & More. The sign was like a beacon. I pulled into the parking lot wondering how it's possible that I live six miles from Pumps & More and had never noticed it.
I touched up my mascara and got ready to shop.
I never like to look like I don't know what's going on. In an effort to prove that I was In The Know, I made a hasty purchase. I now own a breast pump. I had the option to rent one, but I recoiled from the mere thought of curdled human cheese curds in the chamber.
It's really uncomfortable, but it makes my calves look great.
It's been a long time, but I think that I am ready for a relationship again. A real relationship. Like the kind I have with my shoes. Loving and exciting and expensive. A relationship that makes me feel good and look even better.
Well, maybe not quite yet, but I think that I will be ready sometime in the future. Maybe in the next few years. I think 2008 sounds like a good year. I like even numbers, but 2010 is too perfect and 2012 is too far away. So, in 2008, I will embark on a new relationship.
It's hard to meet a man and tell him, "although, I am very interested in you, I still need a few more months of being a complete wreck. I would appreciate it if you would wait until an even numbered year for us to begin dating in earnest. In the meantime, if you touch another girl, I will scratch her f*cking eyes out." Very few men understand this.
It's not that I'm not dating. I am dating a man whose profile that I read on a sperm donor website. He is a doctor and has hazel eyes. We share many similar interests, but there's just no chemistry. I've got him in my freezer in case I ever feel like sharing the rest of my life with him, but I've taken him out to thaw so many times, that I'm just not sure what's in store for us if we ever decide to get serious.
I want a spring romance. Spring seems like a perfect time to start anew. We will enjoy sunset strolls and copious amounts of alcohol followed by passionate/acrobatic sex. I think April or May would be perfect. So, I've started searching the release dates of inmates in my local correctional facilities.
The internet is a wonderful thing. I can search the inmate population by release date. My current options include a man who enjoys drawing and holding hands and who just happens to have stabbed his wife 78 times with an ordinary kitchen utensil. There is also the gentleman who likes curly hair and writes poetry and is awfully crafty with a crowbar.
I am torn.
When Sue calls me for advice, I wonder what she is thinking. Then, I remember that she is my friend because she is stunning, not because of her cranial capacity.
Last weekend, we were in constant communication. I had the opportunity to dispense my valuable advice and vast knowledge on an array of subjects, like what to do when the police are behind you and you think your taillights might be out. "Hang up the phone and don't call me collect later," I told her.
On Saturday, she called me from the pet store; she was shopping for Butterz, her puppy.
Sue: "Is it wrong to get Butterz a toy that looks like a dick?"
Mist: "Kind of. You've gotta think, do you want people to come over and see it on your living room floor? Does it squeak?"
Sue: "Yeah, but it's not too annoying. I could probably take the squeaky thing out."
Mist: "How big is it?"
Sue: "It's like Brain."
Then, I remembered Brain. Everyone I know has dated Brain at some point. He dresses well and always smells good. He's charming and he can sing. His biggest weakness is his dyslexia.
I wonder how Brian is doing.
PS: For more of my valuable advice on relationships, check out Road Chick today. I was part of a specially selected (read: I agreed to it) panel. Also, Cardiac Fantasies has a male panel today.
As Seen on TV
Yesterday, I took an inventory of the cabinets under my bathroom sink. This is the place where I store body products that I wish I had never purchased; things like ear candles with lavender and glittery body lotion.
I found a bottle of Growbust and it's corresponding topical breast enhancing lotion. This discovery explained so much. No wonder my breasts haven't grown at all. I haven't been taking my bust enhancer.
Pleased with myself, I smoothed the lotion on my chest. It was a Silence of the Lambs moment. I giggled a little bit. Then I rubbed some more on.
I took the bottle of pills downstairs and opened a beer. The recommended dosage is three capsules two times a day. I took six. Then, I noticed that the expiration date was May 2005. I took six more just to be sure. I sat on the couch and continued to read the bottle. "Do not take with carbonated beverages." Damn. I am out of wine.
As I read on, the label warned me that I may experience breast tenderness and lactation. I may also be highly emotional for the next six weeks. After reading that, I did feel a little emotional.
I think it's time for more enhancing lotion.
The Fire Fighter's Balls
After my date with the Fire Department, I am certain that I will be rescued in a timely fashion should I ever need it. What I am not certain about is how my left butt cheek got bruised.
I love auctions; this was my first experience with bidding on people. I was prepared to objectify as many firemen as I could. First, I would need some cash. I know that fire fighters are city employees and are thus, highly compensated, so I took $20 with me.
It hardly had a vodka tonic in me before the midget fireman humped my leg. I shook him off and chastised him in my best dominatrix tone. I brushed off my leg with my cocktail napkin and made a mental note to take an extra birth control pill when I got home. A girl can never be too careful.
I claimed a bar stool with a group of eager women. We sized up the men and each other. Between eying the guys, we traded fake complements on shoes, hair, nails and weight. The cattiness was getting to me and I excused myself to the restroom. The bathroom was no better. It was packed with women discussing how to be the perfect fireman's wife. Feeling panicky at the word "wife," I touched up my lip gloss, lied to a woman about her hideous shoes, and slipped out the door.
When the bidding began, the old guys took the stage first. I got out my crisp $20 bill. My palms were slightly moist. They talked about them for a bit and flashed some pictures of them in their gear. No one was bidding. I believe it was at this point when I screamed, "take it off!" and maybe something like, "woo hoo." I waved my $20 around in the air frantically. The woman next to me said, "Honey, it's a retirement party."
I smiled sweetly at her and said, "Perfect."
The wives of all those old firemen couldn't catch me. Even in their sensible shoes.
Still, I wish that I could explain the bruise on my a$$.
I know that I should update you on my date with 150 men, but I feel like throwing up, so you get this instead. Tomorrow, I will tell you all about my local fire department. Right now, I want to vomit.
I am not a lid licker.
There are two kinds of people in the world. People who believe that there are two kinds of people in the world and people who don't. There are also lid lickers and non-lickers. Maybe there are four kinds of people in the world. There are also people who smell hats and people who don't. I don't know where these populations intersect.
Mom is not a licker. Dad is a licker. They should have known that it would never work out.
When I peel the lid off a cup of applesauce or tapioca pudding, I throw it away. I do not lick it. I cringe when people lick lids. It always seems to me that the stuff that's inside the little plastic cup is better than the crud on the foil lid. The only edible portion is inside the plastic cup. Everything else should be tossed out.
I do not hate lickers. Some of my best friends are liquors. I am also not entirely anti-licking. Somethings are not okay to lick. It is not okay to lick stamps and envelopes. It is okay to lick salt off my hand with a shot of tequila (another liquor that I like, because it makes clothing optional).
I think I am more of a sucker than a licker. It seems that everything that can be licked is much better when sucked. At least, that's what I've been told.
I wonder how many calories are on a lid. Not licking lids is probably what keeps me thin.
I have a date with 150 men. I wish that I could say that I was doing this for a charitable cause, but I am not a charitable person. I am doing it so that I have something to blog about.
Naturally, I needed to prepare for my big night by spending a day in the spa.
I had my eyebrows groomed and my hair dyed a color that can be best described as redruM. Finally, I had a session with Courtney.
Courtney is an aspiring actor; in his spare time, he rubs naked ladies down with salt and oil. He wears little shorts in the vichy shower. I love little shorts. He is the only man that I get naked for and do not go through his pockets after we are finished. I even tip him. I gave Courtney the details of my upcoming evening. He told me that he has had that kind of night before and recommended some films to watch in preparation. He's such a pretty boy; I'm sure all the boys love him.
Courtney talked me into a new body treatment that is supposed to miraculously take care of all my problem areas. For the record, my biggest problem area is my kitchen sink, everything else is mostly under control. I am not sure how a rubbing my a$$ with currant extract is going to fix the sink, but I am willing to try anything. I signed the release forms and Courtney went to get the Crackling Body Mousse with Currant Extract. I don't worry about release forms at the spa because the first thing they do when I walk in the door is pour me a glass of champagne. After a few glasses, I do not trouble myself with the fine print.
Crackling Body Mousse is a strange thing. It foams up and sounds like a bowl of Rice Krispies upon contact with skin. Courtney smoothed it over my butt cheeks. The sensation was a bit like placing ice cold Pop Rocks in my a$$ crack. Not that I have ever done that...yet. I really like Pop Rocks.
My butt is perfectly soft and supple now, albeit a little numb. Courtney and I apparently have the same idea about dating 150 men.
Details of my date with 150 men (did I mention that they are firefighters?) to follow...
Right Hand Man
Last week, after the untimely death of my beloved Battery Operated Boyfriend, I agonized over which B.O.B. was perfect for me. I searched Consumer Reports for product reviews. Finding nothing, I called my girlfriends.
They told me their experiences in much too graphic detail. They answered my questions much too honestly. I settled on a model from the Hustler line. I ordered it online with the understanding that it would be delivered in discreet packaging.
In hindsight, I should have paid the extra money for overnight service. I underestimated just how cheap and attached to B.O.B. I really am. The past few days have been trying for me. I have had to resort to wine to put me to sleep at night. During the days, when I see my mail carrier, I run out to greet him. "Waiting for something special?" he asks. "Not really," I reply nonchalantly. I try to conceal the look on my face that would tell him that I am having impure thoughts.
Last night, in a moment of desperation, I decided to get out the super glue. I have several types of adhesive in my home. I am always gluing something to something else. I have wood glue, rubber cement, Elmer's glue, Gorilla glue, one-minute epoxy, five-minute epoxy, and super glue. I love adhesives. I cannot explain it.
The first tube was old and sealed shut. The pin provided did little to free up the adhesive inside. Undeterred, I pierced the top of a new tube. Carefully, I lined the broken edge of my B.O.B. with super glue. I thought about how happy he would be to be with me one last time. Or maybe, 16 last times. Lost in fantasy, super glue poured down my right hand and onto my shirt. My shirt instantly bonded with my stomach.
I did not panic. I also have a few bottles of nail polish remover around here. I put the tube on the desk and set my B.O.B. next to it so that I could attend to my shirt. Unfortunately, my right hand did not let go of B.O.B.
I should mention that I was on the phone at this time. With my dad. I know, I know. Who does B.O.B. repair while on the phone with their father? I made up a lame excuse about being glued to my favorite coffee mug (I don't own one) and laid the phone down carefully, not touching it with my sticky hands.
The good news is that B.O.B. vibrates again. The bad news is that I am typing this with one hand.
I would like to preface this by saying that I didn't have a single piece of candy for Halloween. Not even one. So, I feel justified with what I have just done.
Because I am pathetic yet thrifty, I waited until the 15th to buy myself chocolates for Valentine's Day. I was on a mission for chocolates at half price.
I went to every drugstore within a three mile radius of my home. I went to several others that weren't on the way home. At no point did I consider reaching out for help and calling my sponsor. In each store, I bought a box of chocolates. At first, I started with the Whitman's Samplers. But, it was not enough. I needed more. I confess to having consumed boxes of Russel Stover's candies. They are beneath me, but I am weak.
It's hard to buy chocolates the day after Valentine's Day without people thinking that you're a cheap loser. If you buy them on the 14th, they think that you're an a$$hole, but not a cheap loser. It became clear that I was going to have to get better at this. Pretty soon, I had concocted a story.
With every box of chocolates, I told the cashier that I was buying them for my boyfriend who lives in a different time zone. A time zone where Valentine's Day doesn't come until next week. Like Iraq or something. You can't argue with that. Sometimes, the chocolates were for my boyfriend who, due to a Valentine's Day miracle, had just come out of a coma. I even pulled the race card. You know how Kwanzaa is after Christmas and all? Well, Black/Bi-racial Valentine's Day is the same way.
The cashiers were all very understanding and asked only if it would be credit or debit. I can be pretty convincing.
With my pride intact, I was able to eat my weight in chocolates as I drove from one store to another. I have learned that I hate the ones with the pink stuff in the middle. What the f*ck kind of flavor is pink? It tastes like cancer.
My teeth hurt.
I own seven different kinds of eye cream. I wasn't an attractive kid and I am trying to maximize this newfound cuteness for as long as I can. I practice smiling in the mirror without using the upper portion of my face. If I can learn to isolate those muscles, I will save thousands on future Botox treatments.
Sue (my stunningly beautiful yet painfully dumb friend) and I were comparing our skin. Sue has noticed that she has a wrinkle under her left eye. When she tans, she takes the time to arrange the skin on her face so that she doesn't get an unsightly untanned line in the crease. So far, this system has worked really well for her.
I told her that we would only be able to hang onto our youth for a few more years and that she had better invest in a few good eye creams. I was going to tell her that 50 is the new 20 and 20 is the new in vitro, but I didn't want to confuse her with all the math. Instead, I told her that I was going to have to quit smoking if I wanted to preserve my elasticity. Sue agreed with me. She said, "that's why I'm getting that marijuana vaporizer."
The vaporizer is called the Vapir 1. That makes me like it even more. I want one. Mist 1's Vapir 1 sounds cool to me. I asked her how it works. "I don't know. I was f*cking high. That's how good it was. I think I even humped it before I left JonJon's."
When she buys it, I'm going to see if it will vaporize my Marlboro Ultra Lights. I will continue to use my eye cream.
(a.k.a. Vapir 1)
P.S. Matty, that link is for you.
My Own Devices
I own a battery powered flosser. I love it. It is the best advancement in oral hygiene technology. On the power of a single AA battery, it vibrates between my teeth, stimulating my gums. I keep it in my desk along with replacement floss.
Last night, I reached into my desk for my flosser and pulled out my vibrator instead. The fact that my vibrator was in my desk is irrelevant. I can totally explain the logic behind it's placement there. I am a disgusting individual.
What bothers me is that my vibrator was lying next to my flosser. This cannot be safe. If the Board of Health came to my home and and found this, they would probably issue a citation for improper storage of personal vibrating devices. I can only hope that I never confused the two. I inspected both for signs of misuse. Then, I got out my labeler and typed "MOUTH" and "CROTCH" and affixed each label to the corresponding device.
I tested the battery on the flosser. Still good. I took my battery operated boyfriend (B.O.B.) upstairs to test the battery. My bed sits about four feet off the ground because it makes me feel like a princess. I placed it on the edge of the bed and disrobed. When I climbed up into my bed, I accidentally knocked the vibrator onto the floor. The top part cracked and broke free from the rest of the vibrator.
Devastated, I tried to rig the vibrator so that I could enjoy it's humming goodness again. The top kept falling off unless I held it at a certain angle (which was not the Right Angle). I might have wept, but I won't admit to it.
So, I find myself without a vibrator for Valentine's Day. Later today, I plan on paying a visit to my local adult novelty store to purchase a replacement. I am going to have to pretend that it is for my Lesbian lover to avoid the looks of pity from the other people in the store.
Rest in peace, B.O.B.
Intellectual Chit Chat
When I was a kid, my parents implemented what they liked to call Intellectual Chit Chat. We practiced Intellectual Chit Chat over dinner. This severely limited dinnertime conversation. We usually ate in silence.
Saturday afternoon, I went to a horse show. I thought it was a donkey show, so I signed up. We competed in all kinds of uppity horsey events like dressage, stadium jumping, endurance, and Connect Four.
My knowledge of horses is limited to Do Not Stand Behind a Horse. Also, I know that horses cannot discriminate between sugar cubes and fingers holding sugar cubes. I tried to feed my horse Splenda as he really didn't need all those excess calories. He still bit my fingers. Dieting makes people, and horses grumpy.
After the ribbon ceremony (Vicki took third, I took a fifth of vodka), we returned to the inn to shower and get ready for dinner. We did not shower together, but we helped each other out of our riding boots. We dined at a lovely local restaurant with her stable hands. Stable hands is probably not the right word. The people who take care of Vicki's horses are former Olympians. They know what they are doing. They bend their knees when they shovel horse sh*t, not with their backs.
I ordered oysters and mussels and shrimp and grits and a salad. I tried my best not to order anything with four legs because I was sensitive to the people that I was dining with who loved four legged animals; people who ordered lamb and veal and gazelle and koala and other cute animals.
I was on my best behavior throughout dinner. I tried my best. Really. It is really, really difficult for me to keep the conversation clean when it keeps turning back to horse semen, especially when I am staring at a plate of oysters. You see, there are certain kinds of horses that are so well bred that you cannot simply send their semen via regular mail. They have to bred live and in person. I know all about it now.
I haven't started online dating yet, but when I do, I promise that I will be discriminating enough to only choose sires who's sperm is so golden that I actually have to be mounted. None of that mail order, dry ice semen for me.
I am a classy girl.
Black History Month
Ever since Vicki married the jet and the man who came with it, I rarely see her. So, when I get a call from her telling me to be at the little airport where all the private jets land, I show up. I never know what I am in for.
I love the little private airport. It's much better than the busiest airport in the world on the other side of town. I got their before Vicki landed and had time for a few drinks. After that, I needed a cigarette. I asked the woman at the desk if I could leave my suitcase with her while I stepped out to smoke. She agreed. As I was smoking, I realized that I had just left my luggage unattended with a stranger. I am pretty sure that the FAA would not approve.
When I finally boarded, I asked Vicki where we were going. I always hope that we will end up in Turks and Caicos. My suitcase was packed with dental floss and thongs (technically, I know that I could use one for both purposes), but usually, we end up someplace far less exciting. Still, I am always hopeful. This time, we landed in Aiken, South Carolina.
I demanded that our driver stop at a little stand on the side of the road so that I could have deep fried peanuts. I believe that I have now had peanuts in every form available. I would like my tombstone to read something along the lines of: "Here lies Mist 1; she enjoyed nuts and shoes," or "Never met a nut she didn't like," or "Sometimes, she felt like a hot nut." I haven't decided yet. I still have some time to consider it. The deep fried peanuts were crispy and salty and blistering hot. I am still shedding the skin from the roof of my mouth. Although, I have a fear of frying, I will eat almost anything fried. I have eaten fried pickles, a fried candy bar, and once, I think I ate a fried phone book on a stick at a county fair.
We stayed in a lovely Southern (read: antebellum) inn. The only other people with any melanin there were slaves. I looked around nervously and hoped that the staff would think that I just had a really, really good streak-free tan. I wondered if they were aware that slavery ended a long time ago.
We enjoyed cocktails around the fireplace in the lounge. I smiled apologetically when the other guests in the lounge asked the bartender to tap dance. He was a really good tap dancer. I even told him so. I said, "Boy, you are a really good tap dancer." Then, I had to stumble over my words and tell him that I wasn't calling him Boy, but rather I meant...well, never mind. He understood and even brought me a cocktail on the house. I think he called it a spit and tonic. It was pretty good. Frothy, but good.
In the morning, as my servant cinched my corset, I considered telling her about a little thing called the Emancipation Proclamation. I decided to keep my comments to myself because, 1.) I am growing up, and 2.) I needed help with the corset.
I like happy hour in hotel bars because I get the chance to make sh*t up to people who don't know any better. They're only drinking to pass the time hat they are wasting at a company sponsored convention. I am free to tell them all kinds of stuff up and they are so drunk that they love it. Also, I think that every bar should have bedrooms upstairs. That is just genius.
Sometimes, drunk people think that I'm a kindred spirit. Just because I'm drunk too doesn't mean that we will get along.
Last night, two women in matching dresses came to the bar. The man from Cleveland next to me said, "I wonder if they know that they're wearing the same dress." At first, I was impressed that he noticed that they were wearing different dresses. Just as I was going to explain the phenomenon of bridesmaids to him, their dates joined them. The red faced man had his shirt open to his navel, exposing his hairy breasts.
They ordered a few rounds of drinks. Within minutes, the women left the bar. That's when the breasted man decided to talk to me.
As much as I appreciated the conversation (asking me where I dance is always a good lead into a meaningful conversation with me) and his lewd offers, I grew tired of him quickly. I decided to give him valuable advice. I explained to him that his window of opportunity was rapidly closing. I thought that he should know that when you date a woman in a bridal party, you only have a narrow window of opportunity to f*ck her.
I explained to him in plain English that it would take her three minutes to wash off most of her make up and another six minutes to get out of her horrid dress. She would then need an additional 12 minutes to slip into something more comfortable. That would be the opportune moment for him to arrive in the room, preferably with champagne. Men, if you want to hit it, heed my advice; after that, she will return to the bitter bridesmaid that she was hours ago, albeit passed out and not in uncomfortable shoes and an ugly dress.
He listened attentively and then told me that he didn't mind if she was passed out. He would be more than happy to punch a hole in the wall and spend a few moments romancing it.
I promptly reserved the room next to theirs.
I confess that I am not a domestic goddess. I have a huge stock pot in which I have never cooked anything. I use it to soak my feet. They are deliciously soft. I have been known to email pictures of my toes to people upon request. I don't really clean either. I spray the cat with Lemon Pledge and chase him around the house. There is very little dust in here, but the cat fur is out of control.
I have let the guinea pig's cage get so revolting that it has grown mushrooms. Twice. So, it should be no surprise that I haven't checked the cat's litter box since I got home on Sunday.
A few days ago, I noticed a rank odor near my desk. I solved the problem by spending less time at my desk. At last, it became overwhelming. I changed the litter box with Hissy's help. He spread the litter out in a fine gritty layer over the floor. We played cat archaeologist together and found many ancient relics. We did not find the source of the smell.
My cat nanny always surprises me when I come home. Sometimes, I get a case of motor oil. Other times, I am missing a pair of panties. This time, I was gifted with two boxes, one jug, and one 30 gallon bucket of kitty litter sitting on the floor. I pushed the containers up against the wall. The bucket of litter had a note on top of it. It read:
"This litter was crappy before it was even crapped it. Do not throw it away, I am going to return it to PetSmart."
Not thinking, I lifted the lid of the drum of litter. It was beyond damp. The fumes rose from the litter like heat rises from a hot road in the summer. I gagged. Then, I gagged again. Hissy looked offended. I replaced the lid and called the cat sitter.
He explained to me his plans to bring the litter back to PetSmart for a full refund. I plan on being there to see the store manager turn green from the 120 pound bucket of sh*tty litter.
I may be persuaded to post my first video.
I always wonder what people are thinking when they ask me for advice. They must know that I don't have the sense that I was born with. I never did have the sense that I was born with.
My friend Rick is a great guy. He is smart and reasonably attractive (nothing that a little hair gel couldn't fix). He cannot find a woman to date. Rick came to me for help. I am always happy to dispense worthless advice and then cleverly turn the conversation into something about me or my shoes.
I told him that I think that men should stop hitting on women. I suggested that he go on strike for 30 days, just to see how it goes. Rick is the kind of man who hits on every woman in a room because it increases his odds of getting a little loving. He wasn't sure that he could go a full 30 days without hitting on a woman.
I like to hit on men. The way I see it, if I hit on a man, he can be certain that I am either a.) interested or b.) desperate. Either way, it's a sure shot. Sometimes, I am prepared to hit on a man and I have a pick up line all worked out. Other times, I am more subtle and I let my thong poke out of the back of my jeans do all the talking.
I am certain that if men just stopped hitting on women, we would lose our minds. We wouldn't know how to act. At first, there would be catfights; many shirts would be torn open. Then, those of us who are smart would decide to divide and conquer. We would divvy up the room into sections and claim our respective section. We would make our way through the room acquiring phone numbers and making tally marks on the backs of our hands. We would buy men drinks. We would tell them that they were different; not like the rest of them. We would become competitive. Men would get laid all the time with little or no effort.
I told Rick, that he could make a difference. He was special; not like the rest of them.
I turned my head so that when he tried to kiss me he got a mouth full of hair.
Men aren't ready for us yet. Sorry, Rick. Keep your head up. The wrong girl is bound to come around soon.
In an unprecedented display of vanity, I have spent the last 24 hours taking pictures of myself. After reviewing the pictures, I am starting to think that perhaps I am not as good looking as I had previously thought. Now I know why people stare at me in public, they are blinded by the glare coming from my forehead. Maybe they think that I am an angel and it is my halo. That makes me feel a little better. I also feel relieved at the discovery that my eyes are crossed. It explains why I am such a bad driver.
I have been asked to write a bio and submit a head shot for a publication. Writing the bio has proven to be too difficult. I am not good at writing about myself in third person. So far, I have:
Mist 1 was raised by wolves and now resides in the Dirty South with her cat and guinea pig. She enjoys flossing her teeth and has one of the largest shoe collections of the Southeast. Despite her many latent talents, she has not yet acquired a hobby. Mist prefers drinking red wine to water, but will also drink rubbing alcohol if the weather is too cold for her to leave her charming, yet messy town home.
No matter what I write, it sounds like I'm placing a personal ad. I have decided to set this aside for a bit thinking that I should focus my energy on the photo. I have taken photos with my hair down, pinned up, and worst yet, twisted up with a few curls left casually framing my face.
Because I don't know how to use the timer on my camera, I have to hold the camera very close to my face to avoid the MySpace-like picture of my outstretched arm.
Yesterday, I finished my bio and checked it for misspellings. Satisfied, I sent it off with a photo. I should have checked the photo before sending it. To my horror, I later realized that there was a lovely booger in my nose.
I hope they Photoshop me like a celebrity.
Bird's Eye View
I drove back to North Carolina this weekend to spend some time with Mom and Grandma.
I dropped my stuff off in my hotel room, stopped at the bar for a drink or four and made my way to Mom and Grandma's room. Grandma is too short to see through the peephole and refused to answer the door, so I waited in the hall uncomfortably shifting my weight for a few minutes. I took the time to consider why I refused to use the restroom in the lobby bar. It's not like the bathroom in a hotel room is any less public than the restroom in the bar.
Finally, Mom answered the door breathlessly. She hardly greeted me before she ran back to the window.
"Mom, are those binoculars?"
"I never stay in a hotel without them," she answered.
I've known Mom all my life. How did I not know that she travels with binoculars? Mom has a pair of Sharper Image binoculars and a convenient travel case in her luggage at all times. She likes to look out of her window into the buildings surrounding her hotel. I teased her for a bit, but suddenly, I needed to see what she was looking at. The curiosity overwhelmed me.
Mom reluctantly handed over the binoculars. "They're cleaning that office over there."
I watched a woman vacuum for a few minutes before scanning other offices for more activity. Finding nothing, I returned to the woman vacuuming. If this had been a horror movie, she would have noticed me watching her. She would have finished chopping up the body and fixed her gaze with mine. She would have made that I Will Cut Your Skinny Throat With This Box Cutter gesture. Creeped out, I backed away from the window.
That night, when I undressed I thought about closing the curtains. My mom can't be the only person who travels with binoculars. I got in bed, but I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard the distant sound of a vacuum.
I put on the waffle weave robe generously provided by the hotel and took the elevator down to Mom and Grandma's room. I waited for Mom to open the door and asked if I could stay with her for the night.
I slept uncomfortably in Mom's bed. Grandma's snoring sounded like a vacuum. I slept in on Saturday morning. Mom and Grandma went to brunch. I woke up to a knock on the door and a woman's voice saying, "housekeeping."
I almost wet the bed.
Stand By Me
When I visit other people's homes, I look in the fridge. I'm not really looking for anything to eat, I'm just making sure that the fridge is clean in the event that I do want a snack that isn't mostly vodka.
My mother stops cleaning her fridge months in advance when she knows that I am coming for a visit. I love to open up the containers of furry rice and brightly colored yogurt. I announce expiration dates on the items in the fridge and tell her what I was wearing the year that it died. For example, she had salad dressing from when I wore oversized Girbaud jeans and hoodies. She just sits on the couch and congratulates herself on her master plan to have her fridge cleaned. I throw out almost everything, except for the sour cream. I still can't understand why an expiration date is relevant on sour cream.
I do not hold my fridge to the same standards. I know I'm not going to eat anything out of there. The only thing that I really use my fridge for is to store old condiments and to keep my body lotion chilled for a refreshing, yet moisturizing summer experience.
Over the past few weeks, I have noticed that a murky brown liquid is seeping out from under my fridge. I ignored it because maybe it would fix itself. Last weekend, my pet sitter noticed the spillage and decided that the solution was to stuff a pink sponge under the right corner of the crisper. Noticing that the sponge had disappeared, I decided to investigate. This is a bit like the part in horror movies when the babysitter hears someone in the basement and decides to go down the stairs to find out where the noise is coming from. I knew that I shouldn't do it and I was afraid, but I couldn't resist.
I pulled out the crisper drawer. It wasn't that bad. It seems that it is possible to have a self-sustaining terrarium in a crisper. The potatoes were growing potatoes and there was new some kind of smog colored pudding on top of the corn that I purchased last July when it was 10 for $1. I examined the new crop and pulled the drawer entirely out.
In the murky brown liquid at the bottom of the fridge swam a colony of what looked either like spinach or leaches. I can't be sure.
I replaced the drawer. I am going to have to move.
Raising the Dead
In my efforts to be more seductive, I have been taking a belly dance class. I want to be able to swivel my hips in tiny figure eights and make little bells jingle when I move. I have been mesmerized by belly dancers since I went to a party at a local restaurant where the dancers smiled alluringly at the diners and graciously accepted tips without being called whores. Yes, I thought, this is the exercise program for me. Also, I find that little pooch belly that all belly dancers seem to have irresistible. I assume that belly dancing creates that pooch, but so far, I have not acquired one.
I take the class at my neighborhood adult novelty store. In addition to belly dance, they offer stripping and pole dancing classes. There is also a wide variety of flavored lubricants for those of us who prefer something tastier (albeit less economical) than spit as a lubricant.
There is only one woman in my class who does not hate me. I assume that the others hate me due to my magnificent coordination and cute jingly anklets and not due to my lack of a pooch. She used to want to be a nun, but now she wants to be a belly dancer. I like her because she bases her choice of profession on costuming. I respect that.
The woman has a monthly Goddess party at her home. Not knowing what a Goddess party was, I accepted her invitation. A Goddess party, it turns out, is like a grown up Ouija board get together. That's Ouija, not orgy.
All the attendees are creative and poetic and lovely. The food is divine and the wine is excellent. The problem is that every Goddess party begins with what I can only describe as a seance. Candles are lit and everyone holds hands. We close our eyes and a solemn oath of womanhood is offered. This is the part where I start to giggle. I cannot contain myself. I don't know why I find it funny, I just always feel like we should start playing Twister under the moon. I start imagining the Twister mat all greased up and then, I lose it.
I want to keep attending these events, but I want to skip the seance. This month, I tried showing up late, but she held off the ceremony until I arrived. Next month, it is imperative that I get out of the seance. All the guests are supposed to bring an offering for the Goddess; something that we want to raise.
I would bring that nice elderly gentleman that I met playing Bingo, but he already has Viagra.
"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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