Here's what I need to do: 1. Get Hobby, 2. Floss. Blogging just gets in the way.
Over Draft Beer Protection
I went to the bank yesterday. I had to actually get out of my car and physically walk into the facility and wait in line with old people and non-account holders. As I waited for the one employee who knew how to handle my transaction, I had plenty of time to think.
I like the bank. I don't know why I don't go there more often. They have a water cooler that has both hot and cold water with corresponding red and blue spouts. They actually have lollipops inside the bank. I thought that was a myth, like how doctor's are supposed to have lollipops. My doctor doesn't have lollipops, but I don't complain because he is pretty loose with the drug samples. I had four lollipops while I sat and waited for my name to be called. I liked the green and yellow flavored ones best. The purple tasted like kid's cold medicine and the flavor of the red lollipops reminded me of huffing gold paint. Not that I've tried gold. Bronze is pretty good though.
My bank has a lot in common with a bar. I get carded at the counter. I get VIP status which includes free hot or cold water. They know me by name. Sometimes, I lose interest at the bar and likewise, at the bank. At the end of my visit, I get an itemized statement. Most similarly, when I walk out, I either feel really good or like I'm going to puke.
I wish that my favorite bar would merge with my bank. That would make my experience even better. Tellers would dance seductively on the counter while helping me refinance my bar tab. I would steal the lighters dangling from the counter by a chain as the banktender accessed my account and served me a cocktail.
I would be admitted to the VIP section based on my previous tip history. A good tip rating would secure preferential treatment. No more of my precious time would be wasted standing in front of staff members performing other duties as signs reading, "Next Barteller Please" would be clearly posted.
Occasionally, there would even be clerical errors in my favor and I would get an extra shot.
Of course, the business hours need to be addressed.
On the Clock
Last night, the girls and I went speed dating. I thought that I would be a natural at speed dating. On average, my relationships last around 28 minutes.
The first 12 minutes are excellent. I bat my eyelashes, coquettishly make sure that my g-string is showing ever so slightly, talk about myself, have a drink, play with a stray curl, suck the pimento out an olive seductively, talk about myself some more, and excuse myself to the restroom to reapply my lip gloss and practice the look that I do that says, "I am incredibly interested in everything you have to say and I swear I am not thinking about what I am going to wear with the turquoise canvas platforms with the cork heel that I just bought, which was the reason that I was late in the first place. Plus, they were on sale."
The remaining 16 minutes of my relationships are divided between sticking my tongue down his throat and trying to remember his name. If things go well, I might talk about myself a little bit more and give him that look that I do that says, "I am incredibly interested in everything you have to say, however we will not be going home together tonight. I'm sorry, what kind of car did you say you drive?"
Speed dating only allows five minutes to get to know someone. That's just enough time for introductions and to squeeze out a courteous, "it's not you, it's me" or "we can still be friends." At the end of the evening, we compared notes. We learned a lot about how to date in five minutes.
Courtney: Learned that it is hard to fake a career in real estate when face to face with a Realtor, but that faking an accent helps smooth things over.
Joelle: Learned that even if dressed conservatively, she can still leave the bar with a really, really attractive soccer player. She is about to learn that even if I promise not to leave her car in the parking lot over night, I am lying.
Karon: Learned that when she sees her ex-boyfriend's truck in the parking lot, it's a pretty good clue that he's close by.
I learned that telling men that I came for the speed and not so much for the dating, while picking imaginary bugs off my skin, isn't a good opening line.
I thought it was pretty good.
I am not perfect. I used to spend a lot of time thinking about perfection. I have always liked the number 100. I had theories on numerology and physics and astrology and nutrition that would lead to 100 and therefore perfection. I drank 100-proof vodka, I hovered around 100 pounds (in my clothes), and I checked the locks on my doors 100 times a day. Once, I shared those thoughts with my therapist, who responded, "I think it's time we thought about commitment." I thought we were moving too fast. I was not ready to be committed anywhere. Instead, she gave me a book on mindfulness and perfection.
The book informed me that perfection was perfectly impossible. Confused, I pondered this thought. At first, I took it to mean that I was already impossibly perfect and it's damn hard to improve on that. Then, I thought that perhaps it meant that it wasn't possible to polish a turd. Now, I just spend a lot of time working of self-improvement.
I work so hard on self-improvement that it looks effortless. That is part of the beauty of it all. I am constantly working and yet, I make it appear as though I am effortlessly wasting away my time here on Earth drinking and shoe shopping. That would be a false assumption. Clearly, I am a much deeper being. Take yesterday for example.
Yesterday, I learned how to make coffee. I own a single serving French press and I make coffee in it once a month because coffee is like crack to me and Lord knows that I don't need anything that makes me any more hyper. I made my first pot of coffee yesterday. I used a filter. I estimated the amount of coffee. I filled the reservoir past the fill line and had to mop up the water that spilled out of the overflow spout in the rear of the machine. Still, I pursued. Ten minutes later, I had coffee. It was hot and it was strong and it was good. I drank four cups because I like hazelnut CoffeeMate and it is 25 calories a serving and 100 calories is perfect.
Satisfied with my achievement, I volunteered to walk Jamie's chihuahua, Ozzie. I walked Ozzie 89 nearly perfect steps before he took a sh*t. Prepared with a plastic bag, I picked up the tiny perfect dog crap. We walked an additional 11 steps before I picked Oz up, so as not to disturb the perfection of the entire situation. Carrying Oz and a plastic bag stolen from the produce section, I was the picture of a perfectly responsible dog walker.
At the end of my day, I reviewed all that I had accomplished. I made coffee. I picked up crap. It was a perfect day.
I called Mom to tell her about my success. Mom is always happy to about my strides toward self-improvement. I told her about the coffee and about how responsible I was in dealing with the crap.
Mom sighed, "it sounds like you're ready for marriage," she said.
I know Dad likes coffee, but I never knew that he had a bowel problem.
My Left Eye
I keep four things of value in my car. There is a bottle of perfume in the glove box so that I don't smell like a bar when I get to the bar. I think it covers up the smell nicely, if only for a minute. I keep flossers in easy reach because I abhor stuff in between my teeth. I have a tweezer in the car for those pesky stray brows that pop up in between threading appointments and for that one hair on my chin that will not die (I blame the pill because, clearly, I am much too adorable to be growing a chin hair without the influence of hormones). Most importantly, I keep a lighter in my car. I use my lighter to sterilize the tweezers to prevent any hideous eye infection which could render me blind or horribly disfigured.
I have learned a valuable lesson. Apparently, over the weekend, it was very, very hot here in the Dirty South. I left my car parked in full sun while I escaped to the lake. Yesterday, when I got in the car, I noticed my tweezers were on the driver's seat. Fragments of green plastic were scattered throughout the vehicle. Because I completed a correspondence course in forensics and also, sometimes I watch crime shows on A & E, I was able to put the clues together. My lighter exploded in the heat, sending my tweezers sailing out of their place in the pocket in the driver's side door. I am fortunate that no one was hurt.
I was in the right place at the right time. I'm not sure where I was or what time it was when I got there, but I narrowly avoided tragedy. I could have died. Even worse, I could have been maimed.
From the trajectory path of the tweezers, I was able to determine that I would have possibly lost my left eye. I am predominantly left eyed and this would have been disastrous for me. I rely on my left eye when I am drunk and I see two of everything. I simply close the offending right eye and all of a sudden, the world is back to normal. My left eye is the eye of reason.
Still, I think I would be sexy in an eye patch. I will not remove the matches from my car. There may or may not be bottle rockets in the trunk.
Stages of Grief
I deal with grief in my own way. I know that I'm supposed to deal with denial and anger and bargaining before I even begin to encroach on acceptance. I am not one to deal with things according to a predetermined grief schedule. Rather, I prefer to deal with my grief about
Wiggy's passing in my own way.
Denial. I poked Wiggy's stiffened corpse several times. Surely, she wasn't dead. I looked at the cat. He was fine. I had not neglected to feed either one of them. Still, I couldn't help but poke her body a few more times to make sure that she was dead and not merely experiencing a bout of temporary rigor mortis. When I had assured myself that Wiggy was completely dead and not just doing that rodent dead routine, I moved on to my next stage of grief.
Disgust. I retched at the thought of having to pick up Wiggy's dead rodent body and bag it. I paced the floor as I decided whether I would keep the pig in my freezer or the fridge. I keep my vodka in the freezer and I would hate to sully it's delectable goodness with a dead rodent. However, I keep my pickles in the fridge and I would hate to sully their salty goodness with a dead rodent.
Bargaining. I promised that I would give Wiggy more organic vegetables if she would just live for another few months. I would never forget her vitamins. I would be a better rodent owner if only the rodent G*d would grant me a little more time.
Vodka. The vodka phase of my grieving process lasted quite a long time. The first day of vodka was a sad day. I cried and mourned the loss of my pet. The second day, I removed my clothing. By the third day of the vodka stage, I had forgotten not only the name of my former pet, but my own as well.
Nudity. The nudity stage and the vodka stage of grieving went hand in hand. I found it quite easy to remove all clothing while deep in my vodka phase. It is hard to be naked and to grieve at the same time as being naked on the lake is generally a joyous occasion.
Hangover. This stage of grief is the briefest stage for me. I am still awaiting this phase to fully hit. This phase necessitates the end of the vodka phase, which is still in full pour for me.
Apparently, all those months of therapy have helped. Judging from my bedroom floor, I have succinctly passed through the bikini, lubricant, red wine, and candle phases. I have to pass out now. Thanks for all your kind words about Wiggy. I think I'll pull through this nicely.
PS: A grief more real than my own...please show a little love. Visit Avitable to show a little more love.
Empty Cage Syndrome
I used to live with a geriatric albino guinea pig.
Now, I live with an empty cage.
Maybe later, I'll think of something funny to write about this. Not tonight. I'm going to the lake so that I don't have to see the cage for a few days. I'll be back Monday.
R.I.P. Wiggy. You were some pig.
I have the utmost respect for a good mustache. One day, I will probably grow one of my own. I hope that day is far, far away. Today, I'm going to do something new to demonstrate my reverence of the 'stache.
Rather than write about myself here, as I do five days a week, I have decided to write about myself somewhere else for a day. Change is good.
Click here to ride Burt Reynold's Mustache with me.
PS: I am enamored with Mr. Dali, but I'm afraid that I would have to decline an invitation to ride his 'stache. It looks dangerous.
I met Jamie for cocktails yesterday. I owed her a round of drinks for telling her neighbor stop calling my number. She told him that I had died a horrible death and his calls were only adding to the tremendous grief of my next of kin who were keeping my phone in the event that I want to contact them from The Beyond.
Before arriving at the bar, I stopped at the grocery store to pick up a salad. I had to have something to eat, because I am really, really b*tchy when I haven't eaten and it takes Jamie forever to order a cocktail. I didn't want to have to kill her and drink her blood from her skull while demanding Ketel One and extra olives from the petrified bar staff.
I chose the spinach salad with little grape tomatoes. I love those tiny tomatoes so much that I was able to overlook the hardboiled egg that was in the plastic container. I do not eat ova, because, it's just not natural. I selected a little packet of balsamic vinaigrette to go with my salad. The store even provided a handy packet of salt, pepper, a paper napkin and a plastic fork. The cashier rang up my salad and then scanned the packet of salad dressing. It was $0.32. At the time, that seemed like a ridiculous expense to me. When you buy a salad to go, it seems to me that the dressing ought to be free. I smiled as warmly as I could at the cashier and said, "Honey, you must be new." I told her about the free dressing with a to go salad store policy (that I had just invented).
The cashier coolly asked, "Ma'am, when you buy a head of lettuce, do you expect a free bottle of your favorite dressing? Do you expect a cheese plate when you buy a case of wine?"
Damn, my affinity for wine. Clearly, she wasn't new.
Who Shot John, GA
I live in the city. I like my urban lifestyle. I lock my doors even when I am home. I think about leaving them unlocked when I take a shower because I saw a really hot porn about a woman who had a naughty encounter with 34 sexy men when she left her door unlocked while showering. Still, I err on the side of caution. The chances are too great that all 34 of the men that would burst through my door wouldn't be hot.
Every once in awhile, I have reason to travel outside of the metro area. Last weekend, I was invited to a pool party requiring me to drive for an hour on unpaved roads to Who Shot John, GA, a sleepy country town. I stepped out of the car and breathed the fresh country air. I lit a cigarette and changed out of my heels into flip flops.
The picture above is what I almost stepped when I got out of the car. In my neighborhood, if you have something like this in your yard, the neighbors call the police. In Who Shot John, GA, an animal carcass in the yard is customary. In fact, it is expected. When you live in Who Shot John, you had better have a half decomposed animal carcass complete with flies or your neighbors will think that you think that you are better than them. No one wants to look like a city slicker when you live in the sticks.
I have no idea what kind of animal I photographed. I compared the teeth to the photos of my host's children and although I never saw the children, they appeared to have very different bite patterns. I wondered if it was the hostess because she was no where to be found. Her husband kept mentioning that she was passed out in bed, but still, I was suspicious. Clearly, it had been there for awhile and I decided not to ask too many questions, lest I be the next in line to rot on his property.
I also had no idea what kind of animal the skeletal foot I found near the pool belonged to. I saw the dog pick it up in her mouth. She trotted around with the bony metatarsals hanging from her chops. Every once in awhile on the evening news, there will be a story about a body that was discovered because a dog came trotting home with a femur in it's mouth. I like stories like this. The reporter always interviews the dog owner, who inevitably only has a smattering of teeth. Looking directly into the camera, the dog owner will be asked to speak about his reactions upon discovering a human femur in his dog's mouth. The man will say something like, "well, you just never expect something like this."
I thought about calling 911 when I saw the dog with the foot bones in her mouth. I wanted the local news to come out and interview me. I would relish the opportunity to stand in front of the camera and say, "well, when you live out here in Who Shot John, you sorta expect to find dead bodies and stuff." Then, I would probably plug my blog and give a shot out to all my peeps.
Gawd, I want to be on the evening news.
Yesterday, I wrote about my affinity for eating animals. I wasn't always like this.
Once, I was much more in touch with the Universe. I was dating an herbalist (of sorts). He believed in the awesome powers of botany and loved all of G*d's furry creatures. He wore hemp jewelry and abhorred people who wore fur and leather. He bought unbleached toilet paper. He had a magic stone that he rubbed under his arms in an attempt to neutralize his natural pungent body odor, which was reminiscent of cat urine.
He began to encourage me to adopt some of his natural ways. I grew accustomed to drinking my water at room temperature. I cut refined sugars out of my diet. I bought cruelty free hair and body products. I even started taking the pill because I don't want to have the weight of contributing unnecessary latex to landfills.
Together, we gave up red meat. Then, we cut out poultry and later, fish. Dairy products were the next to be eliminated from our diets. We stopped eating honey, not wanting to exploit the labor of bees. We even stopped doing it doggy style so as not to offend canine beings.
All this was strangely okay with me. I recognized that his refusal to blow his nose so as not to disrupt a colony of bacteria in his sinuses was a bit odd, but I was blinded by malnutrition and high on his special herbal concoctions. We might still be together if he had not found a pair of snakeskin heels in my closet.
He was disgusted with me and the carcasses of animals that I wore on my feet. I argued that animals are natural and protective not to mention fashionable. He gave me an ultimatum; I had a choice, synthetic man-made shoes or he walked out in his Birkenstocks.
I chose shoes. He called me a murderer.
I reminded him that arsenic is natural.
We broke up. I went shoe shopping.
Baby, I Like it Raw
People don't like to dine with me. I have food quirks that make it difficult to order a meal in a restaurant. I like food that is red or purple, I abhor overcooked vegetables, and I like my steaks really, really rare.
For years, I have tried to hide my preference for raw meat. I frequent dimly lit restaurants, so that I can eat my bloody meat in peace. Over dinner, I make jokes about the movie, Rosemary's Baby, insinuating that I have been impregnated with Satan's spawn. I use humor to deflect attention from my affinity for raw meat, but deep down inside, I am considering devouring my dining companions with a side of gorgonzola if my entree doesn't show up soon.
When I order a steak, I give explicit directions. I like it bloody, but not moving. I say things like, "shoot it before you serve it," or "I'd like it with it's nose freshly wiped with a side of roasted asparagus," or "no, really, the lightbulb in here should be enough to cook it thoroughly". Sometimes (rarely), my steak is prepared correctly and I watch it take it's last breath on my plate.
I have been craving red meat for weeks. I caught myself absentmindedly singing the Outback Steakhouse jingle the other day. Driving home, I slowed down to admire roadkill in an unhealthy way. The thing is, I like raw meat. Not rare. Raw. When I have cravings, I like to indulge them.
For three nights, I have eaten at bars. I go to bars to drink vodka, but my friends appear to have an appreciation for bar food. They know where to get the best wings and mozzarella cheese sticks. I try to avoid the sensation of gnashing my teeth on bone and I have a fear of frying and so generally, I avoid bar menus. This week, each night, I have carefully ordered raw red meat accompanied by some kind of vegetable. Each night, I have been disappointed.
Monday night, my steak was nicely peppered, but fatty. Tuesday, my steak was overcooked and much like sawdust smothered in some kind of mushroomy sauce. Last night, the steak tips on my salad were tough and sinewy.
Each night, I have requested a to go box. As I transfer the improperly cooked contents from my plate to the styrofoam box, I tell myself that tomorrow night will be different.
I have had it with these muthaf*ckin steaks in a muthaf*ckin bar.
I have a good relationship with my hp 3 in 1. I click print and he prints. I click scan and he scans. I click fax and he faxes. He even copies. It is beautiful. Really, we couldn't be happier unless he had a button for car detailing.
My 3 in 1 and I hit it off from the very beginning. I remember the day we met. I was in Office Depot. I was wearing blue suede platforms with tiny studs. He was on sale and I had a coupon. The sales associate was trying to set me up with a laser printer, but the 3 in 1 had already stolen my heart. He had all these little ports for my cables and chips. I don't know. I can't explain it. I had to have him.
We decided to move in together immediately. I never move this fast. Usually, I am more of a stick my tongue down your throat in the parking lot kind of girl, but I knew from the beginning, that this was no ordinary relationship.
I set him up and we networked. Installation was so simple. It was like he got me, you know? I still have the first test sheet that he ever printed. I bought him a few extra ink cartridges (name brand) so that he would be comfortable and put all his stuff in his own drawer. He suggested that I register him online and let everyone know that we were official. I agreed, without hesitation. When he recommended that I complete and return his warranty card, I balked. We didn't need a warranty to sully our relationship. That seemed like gambling against what we had. I told him that I believed in Us and threw away the card. It was a statement. Actions speak louder than words.
But now, we are having problems. I admit, there were signs. I had to reinstall his software once. But, everyone makes mistakes. We talked about it and he printed another test sheet for me and I forgave him. I told my girlfriends that if it ever happened again, he would be on eBay. Yesterday, I caught him in a lie. He told me that he was scanning to Word, but the document never popped up. I clicked and clicked and clicked. Each time, he looked me in the eyes and lied. Finally, I caught him in my email. He was all flustered and garbled and I couldn't understand him. If he wanted to read my email, all he needed to do was ask. I have nothing to hide.
I stopped talking to him and shut him down for a few minutes. He needed to align his cartridges and think it over. Finally, when I was ready, I asked him to print some directions for me. He thought about it. He placed them in queue, but he refused to print. He demanded that I check his connections or insert the CD that he came with.
I did what every girlfriend would do. I clicked print again and again thinking that he couldn't ignore me for long. I yelled. I withheld pdfs. Finally, I cried.
He has agreed to couples therapy. My therapist thinks that I am repressing my feelings and once I learn to appropriately express myself, he will print again. He just sits there silently.
I have given him an ultimatum. If he doesn't print, I will never put my a$$ on the platen glass for him to copy again.
I confess that I went Office Depot yesterday evening. We are not married, I can still look. I only hope that he didn't smell another printer's toner on me.
Setting Civil Rights Back
My mother isn't much fun when it comes to board games, unless she is winning. When I win, she gets angry and calls me her sister's name. When I keep winning, she calls me by Dad's name and then it starts to get really uncomfortable.
I say stuff like, "Mom, when you called me Dad's name and said that I was a cheater, what did you mean?" Then, the game stops and we start drinking in earnest. I call Dad when she's in the bathroom and tell him that he still has a shot. He acts confused, but I know that it means a lot to him.
Last weekend, we played competitive Scrabble. It wasn't full contact Scrabble, but still many people came away with mild injuries. You do not mess with Mom and me. We have big vocabularies. Super big vocabularies. I can't think of a word better than super, but trust me, we are totally good with words.
We challenged a family staying in the bed and breakfast to a Scrabble match. They went home crying. Super hard. Like, totally super hard from our incredible vocabularies.
The couple was from Coon Rapids, Minnesota. Being from Minnesota, we were thrilled to be challenging fellow Minnesotans. Also, we really enjoyed calling them The Coons. We had breakfast with The Coons. We played Scrabble with The Coons. We even stole The Coons' parking space.
Now, maybe in the North it's not as funny to talk about The Coons, but here in the South, the word Coons carries some heavy implications. Mom and I enjoyed nothing more than telling the other guests of the b & b that they would have to move because The Coons were going to need those seats. We felt Rosa Parks smile down on us as we told people, "I'm sorry, those seats are reserved for The Coons."
The Coons were really bad Scrabble players. They were the kind of people who believed that everyone is a winner. They opened up triples and tried to use unique words to score points. We defeated The Coons. We even exploited The Coons. The Coons sucked at Scrabble even before we started drinking. Then, The Coons really sucked.
I like The Coons. They are decent folks. They just have limited vocabularies. Still, I can't hold that against them. I would totally hang out with The Coons again.
After last weekend, I feel that I can safely say that some of my best friends are The Coons.
I Like Aquafresh
Mom and I did more than publicly demonstrate our inability to hold our tiramisu martinis while she was in town. We also demonstrated our ability to eat a meal every 90 minutes. I don't eat like this when she's not here, so I'm making her leave town today because I'm going to the beach next month and I will not be able to get into my bikini if we continue to eat like this. I love my mother, but I love my a$$ in my bikini even more.
Every few years, Mom and I retreat from the chaos of our lives. We leave the city behind and relax someplace where we can see the stars and buy stuff from local artisans. We've learned a lot about ourselves from these trips. We've learned that the word "rustic" when describing our accommodations means that we will be checking out two days early and so there had better be a hotel with a recognizable name close by. We've learned that we are very competitive when we play Scrabble and sometimes, people get hurt. The same is true for jigsaw puzzles.
We found an adorable b & b with limited internet access, while still offering adequate shopping and dining and HBO so that I could see who would get whacked on the Sopranos. I swore that I would not bring the computer or a man. Mom swore that she would not utter the phrases "Child, those shoes are going to give you bunions," or "is that a shirt or a dress?" for the entire weekend. Satisfied with the conditions, we reserved the weekend and opened a bottle of wine to celebrate.
When we arrived at the b & b, it seems that the entire home had been rented for a party. Naturally, we had not checked for an email confirmation before we left. The lovely proprietress offered us the cottage for the weekend. She noted that Bjorn, the man who had been staying there for several months was away for the weekend, but that he was away and she was absolutely sure that he wouldn't mind a bit.
We could not have been more thrilled. Staying in Bjorn's cabin made the trip so much more than a weekend getaway, it was now a mystery to solve. We charged ourselves with figuring out everything about Bjorn. We wondered why he had so much money in his checking account (I never would have looked at his bank statement had it not been in plain view in the dresser under his socks), but lived in a cottage. We scrutinized the contents of the pantry and promised that we would not drink his wine unless we left cash. We sniffed the tubes of spreadable fish in the refrigerator. I was especially fascinated with the toothpaste like tubes of fish paste. I can't think of any spreadable animals that come in tubes. We examined his toiletries and noted that he did not seem to own any dental floss. We even considered calling a friend of mine who is married to a man named Lars to see if he would translate Bjorn's Nordic notes.
Within thirty minutes, we had tired of Bjorn. We got dressed for dinner and found that the car had been parked in by guests attending the party in the main house. So, we crashed the party. We congratulated graduates and told people that I had grown up with the bride as we pushed our way to the bar. Over the fruit plate, I told Mom that I couldn't believe that she agreed to crash the party. Mom looked at me with narrowed her eyes, "I've been sneaking into movies, too." I love her. Also, now I understand how she sees so many movies. As the guests began making toasts, we talked the bartender out of a bottle of wine and slipped back to the cabin.
We watched a Lifetime movie entitled, "You Know This Kid is Going to Die, It's Only a Matter of Time." The ending was unpredictable and Mom and I cried. I dozed off on the couch while Mom got ready for bed. I was awakened by the string of profanities coming from the bathroom.
I kept my eyes closed and pretended to sleep. I even made soft snoring noises when Mom came into the room. She leaned over and kissed my cheek with fishy breath.
I left Bjorn $5 for the tube of fish paste. It was worth it.
PS: Mom presented me with the darling purse pictured above. It is a Dr. Seuss original. Mom told me that only someone as cute as I am can carry a purse like that. I'm posting a picture of it in all it's horrifying splendor, because if you subscribe to Mom's logic about cuteness, you can tell how adorable I must be.
Sleeping it off...
Mom and I tried to write a martini inspired post last night...
We cannot write collaboratively after martinis.
We are sleeping it off.
Mist 1 (& Mom)
PS: We apologize for the drunken nonsense posted here last night. It all made sense at the time.
I have been trying to use the word "dabble" more frequently. I started tossing it around freely the other day when I overheard a woman in the park tell her friend that don't get her wrong, she loves her job, but she's been dabbling in real estate. I can't explain why that entertained me so deeply. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love blogging, but lately, I have been dabbling in taxidermy, or neurosurgery, or midwifery.
My parents encouraged me dabble in all kinds of things when I was growing up. In my home, encouragement meant that we all went to our respective favorite places as far away from one another as we could be so that we could dabble with our stuff in private. Mom dabbled in extracting ear wax with hair pins and doodling, Dad dabbled with the powers of telekinesis and do-it-yourself home repair (it took 20 years, but the kitchen floor miraculously developed new tiles). My sister, Elle, dabbled in soap tasting and shaving her hairy toddler legs. I dabbled in knotting my sheets into a ladder to escape the confines of my bedroom where I also dabbled in Tarot. We were and, continue to be a family that dabbles in dabbling.
Mom sent me a letter a few weeks ago. I shook the envelope for a check and, upon finding nothing, promptly set it aside so that it could be properly lost in a pile of magazines and throw pillows. I lose all kinds of things in my magazines and throw pillows. I am not certain, but I think the dark haired, blue eyed guy from the bar may be in there.
Last night, Mom called me. "Are you going to pick me up from the airport tomorrow?" she asked. I never pick Mom up from the airport. She takes MARTA because it makes her feel all grown up. She lives in the Tundra where they only recently got a light rail train. The recorded voice can say, "caution, doors are closing" in 42 languages. It also reminds you to check your seat for personal belongings. I know when my personal belongings in my seat and don't require a reminder. The new light rail is a miraculous development for the metro Tundra region. It is wired to travel exactly 0.7 miles. The convenience of traveling from the largest mall in North America to the Airport has been warmly received by tax payers in the Tundra. Mom likes to take the rail system here because she can travel for miles and miles in four major directions. She gives detailed reports on the stench of urine and who she believed the source of the odor to be..
Mom informed me that she would be arriving in the afternoon and not to worry about her, she would find plenty of stuff to dabble while utilizing public transit. I would have offered to pick her up, but I have absolutely too much to do before she arrives. Most importantly, I have set the chair in the living room upright, hide the ring that I "borrowed" from her jewelry box, take down the picture of my fake family and hang the photo of my real family, and drink two large bottles of cheap wine. The large bottles do not speak of class and refinement. Rather, they scream, "I dabble in cirrhosis."
I hung up the phone and calmly headed to the kitchen for a glass of wine. I vacuumed up all the change and my lip balm from under the cushions on the couch. I dabbled in fluffing the pillows, but was distracted by a glass of wine. I declined a drunken marriage proposal via text message and paged through the phone book to find a 24-hour cleaning service. Unable to find one, I had a glass of wine and wondered if I could use wine to moisturize my dry lips or if I should dabble in the vacuum cleaner bag to find my beeswax lip balm.
Elbow deep in a bag of dust and cat fur and pennies, I began to wonder how long Mom's visit would last. I wiped off my arm, drank a glass of wine and called her. She was at dinner and I could tell that she had been dabbling in martinis because it took her three guesses to figure out which of her two daughters she was speaking with. I asked Mom if she wanted to sleep in my bed or in the guinea pig room and that's when she let me know that she will be staying at the lovely bed and breakfast near my home. When Mom hung up, I breathed a sigh of relief. I had dabbled in enough cleaning.
I have been admiring the absence of crap under my couch cushions for hours now. The fabric is cool against my cheek. It sort of makes me want to dabble by myself before I go to bed.
She's Not His Type
I was disinvited to a social gathering last night. It's not that I didn't want to spend last night at home with a glass of wine, it's just that I wish that I hadn't put on makeup and an amazing skirt first.
The woman hosting the party is a friend of a friend. We have the kind of relationship where we run into one another while drinking in our zip code. We drink and talk and she calls me "girlfriend," then I talk to someone else. I don't talk to people who say "girlfriend" or "don't go there" unless they are doing my hair. Still, in my book, we're pretty close. I mean, I haven't puked at her house or anything, but I've felt pretty nauseated.
I'm used to not being invited to events. I have no problem with people who don't want me present from the beginning. Lots of people hate me. I attribute it mostly to being fascinating and my stunning eyelashes. It may also have to do with my intimidating shoe collection, but that is an issue that other people can resolve by shopping. I feel no guilt.
Being disinvited is a new experience for me. In order to feel better about myself, I am temped to list all of her flaws here, but that would just be ugly. She can't help it if she can't tell a story without forgetting it halfway through. Nor do I hold it against her that she has to wax her entire face and probably her neck. I wouldn't do that. I like her. Really, I do.
It seems that she is trying to gain the affections of a new man. This man likes "ethnic" looking women. I cannot help it that due to my parent's multi-cultural interests, I just happen to be ethnic looking. I also cannot help it that she is not. I am sure that plenty of men just adore her look. Why, they must be lining up to admire her in all her don't-go-there-girl mystique.
I think I have a pretty good discrimination case here. Until my day in court, you will find me peacefully protesting outside her home.
We shall overcome.
When my friends and I talk, we talk about serious, pressing issues facing the world today. We are deeply concerned with current events and frequently find ourselves talking about items taken directly from the news.
We are passionate about environmental issues and conservation. Last night, Moronda and I debated an environmental issue. Moronda has strong environmental convictions. She believes in recycling men that she has already slept with. I support the environment by dating men with previous emotional baggage. I like to consider them post-consumer waste men. I don't damage new men. That would be environmentally irresponsible. Also, I only flush my toilet when people ring my doorbell. I wish my toilet was wired to my doorbell. It would ease my mind.
Moronda had a pressing question last night. Something that had made her lose several minutes of sleep the previous night. She wanted to know if it is appropriate for her to tell a man with a little penis that it is entirely unnecessary for him to wear a Magnum condom. She feels that he's delusional and doesn't want to give him a complex. Moronda says that the sex would be good if not for the excess latex in the way. It gets in the way of the satisfaction of all parties. Not being a fan of the condom, I asked her how bad it could be. I repeated her reply to myself over and over in my head, so that I could quote her properly here. She said:
"I mean, it looks like a ten gallon garbage bag hanging off his sh*t. He can't bust and neither can I. He keeps trying to come up with all these complex scenarios as to why. I'm like, 'hello, maybe it's the Hefty you have on that little wee wee of yours'."
Lord, I wish he was psycho enough to bug her phone. He needed to hear that.
Please, if you are banging my friend Moronda and you are reading this, scale it down a size.
Thanks in advance.
This weekend, I did two things that I had never done before. I went to Alabama and I used a Port-a-Potty. Neither was as bad as I had expected, but I have no future plans to to either again soon.
I didn't have a reason to go to Alabama. I woke up in the morning and scratched my a$$ just like I do every morning. Then, I had an idea. Whenever I have a good idea, I like to call someone and tell them about it, I don't care what time it is. Also, when I have a good idea, I like to preface it with the phrase, "I know what let's do". Everything sounds like a good idea when you say that first. Jamie could not refuse.
We checked into the Motel O'Aces just in time for cocktail hour. Jamie and I were parched. The woman at the front desk hadn't taken the time to inform us that cocktail hour at the Motel O'Aces means you bring your own liquor down to the lobby or try to pick up a trucker who has good pills. We decided to go out for margaritas instead.
We found a Mexican restaurant and were shown to the smoking section. Where I live, smoking indoors is a crime punishable by fines, jail time, and lung cancer. Jamie and I decided that we were going to smoke as much as we could since it was perfectly acceptable here. It turns out that eating dinner in a smoke filled room isn't all that appetizing. Margaritas are still pretty damn good. This was the kind of restaurant where you have to get up to pay. It took a long time for us to figure that out. We occupied our time with margaritas at the bar. The sexy Mexican bartender looked through his dark hair and said in a thick accent, "You don't sound like you're from here." I did that eyelash thing that I do and I said, "neither do you, Baby, neither do you." I swear, in my head, it was very, very sexy. Jamie pulled me out of the place by my arm before I embarrassed myself any further.
We spent the rest of the evening with the locals discussing the best way to get rid of wild hogs and how not to get caught should you ever need to kill an endangered species. It turns out that herons, while endangered, are awful good eating.
The next morning, we went down to the lobby for the continental breakfast. The woman at the front desk hadn't taken the time to inform us that the continental breakfast at the Motel O'Aces means you bring your own coffee down to the lobby or try to pick up a trucker who has good pills. We decided to go out for bloody Mary's instead.
We spent the afternoon in the pool. When we returned to our room, we found that our room hadn't been cleaned yet. Apparently, the woman at the front desk hadn't taken the time to inform us that room service at the Motel O'Aces means you go down to the lobby for clean towels or skip the towels and try to pick up a trucker who has good pills. We decided to go out for beer instead.
Yesterday, when we checked out of the lovely Motel O'Aces, we discovered a miscellaneous $250 charge to the bill. It seems that the staff noted a funny smell coming from our room the night before. A smell, that was mysteriously reminiscent of marijuana. I glared at Jamie who I distinctly remember telling to smoke that sh*t outside. Jamie, who had insisted that it would be okay, was now insisting that the smell must have been from her cigarettes. She explained to the woman behind the front desk that she rolls her own. The woman politely explained that we could pay the charge or tell the story to the police.
I pulled Jamie aside. We both agreed that as much as we had enjoyed our time in Alabama, the Motel O'Aces was probably considerably more comfortable than the county jail.
Using the Port-a-Potty was a slightly better experience. Slightly.
Sorry, Dale Chihuly
I expect people to grieve with me when my luggage gets lost. I want them to understand the gravity of the situation. I give them great detail about the sandals with the rainbow leather heel that are packed snugly away and how I have only worn them one time and I expect them to feel the pain that I feel. I tell them that I have a phobia about my shampoo and conditioner spilling on the inside of my bag and how while this may not be recognized as a mental illness, it is very, very real.
If that fails to gain a suitable emotional reaction, I tell them that my medication is packed in my bag and that it is an extended release prescription and my last dose is due to wear off any moment now. Then, I usually get the look of concern the situation demands.
But, when other people lose their luggage, I expect them to lighten up. "C'mon," I urge them, "let's have a few cocktails. Your bags will turn up. Who's ever heard of luggage disappearing anyway?" I took this approach with Joelle when I picked her up from the airport last. I think she was comforted by my cool, calm demeanor. I pointed out that there was plenty of shopping to be had in the area and that she looked so good in what she was wearing that she could totally wear it again.
We decided to wait in the piano bar in the atrium of the airport until her bags arrived or until last call. I love the piano bar. Drinking at the airport virtually guarantees that I will hold a conversation with someone interesting, or at least strange. We took a seat near a young hippie couple.
Joelle eyed their army drab duffel bags. Mournfully, she said, "they have their luggage." I helpfully suggested that she should travel with hideous luggage and maybe she wouldn't have this problem. Everyone knows that luggage only disappears or gets damaged when it is new or extremely cute. Joelle slumped lower in her seat and glared at the hippies.
The hippies saw Joelle's hostility as an invitation to join us. They had traveled from Eugene, Oregon for an art show. He was a glass blower. She was his girlfriend. Ignoring her, I made slightly sexual comments about blowing glass and other stuff that can be blown. I tried to impress him with my vast knowledge of glass art. The girlfriend turned to me and said, "not vases and sh*t. He makes dildos and butt plugs and bongs and stuff like that."
They invited us to hang out with them that evening. As much as I wanted to check out his dildo creations, I didn't imagine that they shared my preference in hotels. I prefer hotels with running water and they didn't look like they appreciated bathing. I politely declined, telling them that we'd love to but that Joelle had lost her luggage and would have nothing to wear.
The girlfriend turned to Joelle and said, "perfect."
"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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