Here's what I need to do: 1. Get Hobby, 2. Floss. Blogging just gets in the way.
Letting Sh*t Go
I got a phone call from my past. I let the call go to voicemail and still have not listened to it. I dated The Professor briefly. I have tried to forget about him.
He was brilliant. Being with him made me look smarter, kind of like how glasses make me look smarter. His parties were incredible. The guests were all fabulously eccentric and interesting. We talked about art and music and my shoes and politics. I laughed when everyone else laughed, even when I didn't understand the joke.
One night, when the last guests had left, The Professor told me that he wanted to try something new. I thought he meant helping him clean up after the party. Before, I could pretend that my temporary paralysis was acting up again, he wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me to him. My temporary paralysis went back into remission.
He took me by the hand and led me to the bedroom. He led me through the bedroom and into the bathroom. I am all for joint showering. I imagined showering with him by candlelight. He was imagining something else.
"I want to see you take a sh*t."
It wasn't what I had in mind. Surely, he was kidding. I can't crap on demand, and even if I could, I'm not doing it in front of anyone. He didn't even have any good magazines in there.
He explained to me that he fantasized about seeing a pretty girl do something disgusting.
I picked my nose and left.
I believe in alternative medicine. As an alternative to medicine, I like wine. It seems to be working.
Yesterday, I went to see my chiropractor. She works in a hippie medical office park. She shares an office with an herbalist, a hypnotherapist, and a pair of witch doctors. The people in the waiting room are always interesting. We talk about our past lives and the many, many medicinal uses of marijuana. The people waiting to see the witch doctors always bring livestock (other acceptable forms of payment include cash, check, and American Express).
Sitting next to me was a man who claimed that a few months ago he needed a walker to get around. He told me that after his first treatment he left the walker in the herbalist's office and walked out without any pain.
The man had suffered from arthritis in his knees for years. He played basketball in college and had seen every doctor in the region to help him with his pain. He refused to have the surgery that the doctor's suggested. In a desperate last attempt, he called the herbalist and made an appointment.
The miracle cure is made from the comb of a rooster. It is blended up and purified and a secret combination of herbs and spices is added. Then, it is injected into his knees.
I told him that I have been receiving cock injections for years. My knees are in great shape.
My Big Head
Friday morning, I realized that I was supposed to be in Charlotte, NC. I had not packed and had under six hours to get there.
I threw the essentials into a suitcase. Shoes, dental floss, laptop, camera, iPod, and my vibrator. I am responsible, so I also packed all of the corresponding charging units and AA batteries. I called the pet sitter and reminded him that it is not necessary to add eight inches of kitty litter to the litter box as the cat's legs are only four inches long. I even got an oil change. I felt like a real grown up.
When I checked into the hotel, the reservation agent informed me that a convention of cardiologists was in the hotel for the weekend. Then, he gave me two key cards. This did not make me feel slutty at all. It was like he had known me forever. I requested a nonsmoking room because although I smoke, I do not like to sleep in the stagnant stench left behind by the previous smokers. I smoke in the designated areas, like the bathroom.
Saturday, I woke up early and went to the hotel bar. The bar was vacant, as apparently the trendy thing to do in the morning is eat breakfast. I asked what kind of wine would be good with cornflakes. The bartender gave me a pitying look, so I ordered vodka instead. He had no sense of humor. The cornflakes part was a joke. I don't eat cornflakes. They look like scabs.
Because I am magnetic, a man took a seat at the bar next to me. He was sitting on my good side; the side that doesn't get a pimple on my cheek every month. He was enthralled. He stared. I pretended to check my email. He stared. I became self-conscious. I began to develop a fabulous pick up line about a pacemaker.
Finally, he spoke. "Excuse me, I'm not trying to stare, but I can't see the highlights of the game around you."
And just like that, I was crushed.
Men need to know that this is not a good approach. He should have told me that he was trying to watch the highlights of the game, but could not overlook my long, fabulous eyelashes. I would have coyly ducked my head and he would have had a perfect view of ESPN. I told him my theory and he strained his neck to look around my big head. I like a man with determination.
I had forgotten my pacemaker line, so I lit a cigarette. He was one of those cardiologists that thinks that smoking is bad for you. He waved the smoke away to that he could see the TV better. I talked to him until he asked the bartender to turn up the volume on the television. He was so into me. I can read between the lines.
I left my key card on the bar and went back to my room to put on mascara and slip into something less comfortable, but much more alluring. I practiced my come hither look in the mirror. I casually sprawled across the bed and waited. For hours. Housekeeping came and left quickly after I insisted that I didn't need help with the handcuffs. He never showed up.
I wish I had remembered that pacemaker line.
I am not good at lasting relationships.
I want to take you home. I want you to stay for awhile. Then, I need you to go.
I thought that Netflix would be perfect for me. I could ask him to come over when I felt needy. He was there for me on those evenings when I didn't want to be alone. But, I could get rid of him whenever I wanted to (no postage necessary).
I was wrong. Netflix and I are moving to fast.
I don't need a daily update of what he's up to and what he thinks would be perfect for us. I appreciate knowing when he might arrive, but he's usually late. When he finally does cum, I feel satisfied, but I will probably fall asleep immediately after that. Sometimes, I fall asleep in the first few minutes, but I let him finish anyway.
Also, I feel really uncomfortable when he asks me to rate him after we're finished. I don't want to hurt his feelings, so I always give him four stars.
Mom is dating Netflix too. This just adds another awkward level to the relationship. She wants to share him, but I don't want her to know what we've got planned for the evening. I don't think that Mom and I like the same kind of porn. I prefer not to know.
I'm into him, don't get me wrong. But, I'm not used to paying for a movie and he never comes over with dinner.
I'm feeling a little overwhelme. I think I need some space.
PS: I was forced to convert to new Blogger. I don't know how to use it. Please, bear with me as I try to figure it all out.
Last night was supposed to be quiet. I wanted to sit at home and drink wine and write. I wanted to sift through my paints and organize the photos I've been taking of my toes.
I don't understand time in the conventional sense. Rather, I understand it by how deep into my bottle of wine I am. Two glasses in, my doorbell rang.
I wasn't expecting anyone. I was sitting on the couch in a tank top and my underwear. I should mention that I was wearing little boy's underwear. I thought it was sort of whimsical and cute, but judging from Jamie's reaction, it was more comical than whimsical. She laughed and slapped me on the a$$ on her way in the door. "Cute, Mist."
Jamie is always a vision of beauty. I wish more people would ring my doorbell with a bottle vodka in hand. Jamie is not a guest in my house. She knows where all my stuff is. Sometimes, I call her and ask her where my stuff is. She pushed past me and opened the fridge. "Why don't you ever have any mixers?" she complained from the kitchen. In my home, ice cubes are mixers.
While she poured vodka over ice, I scanned the living room for panties and signed out of chat. She sat on the couch and started to cry. I am not good in situations that involve tears. I moved over to hug her. "Don't touch me in those f*cking tighty whiteys!" she shrieked. I backed off. It's not the first time that my little boy's underwear has turned someone off. My UPS man just rings the doorbell and runs.
Jamie is newly married and the sex has already gone bad. I now refer to her husband as Missionary Paul. Missionary Paul is only interested in one kind of sex; the kind where his wife lies on her back and screams over his shoulder at the ceiling about how he is totally rocking her world and could he fix the dishwasher in the morning. This is the kind of sex that I should perfect because my sink is still backed up.
I don't understand. I am the type of girl that tells a man what I want in bed. "Honey, get the towel," is one of my favorite phrases. It seems that Jamie is unable to express her true desires in bed. I can't help her here. I have tried. I listened as much as I could, but I just don't know what to do.
I offered all the advice that I could. I told her that a little role play might spice things up a bit. She looked at me in my little boy's underwear and cried uncontrollably. Jamie cried until we passed out, in my bed. When I woke up, her big toe was snugly up my a$$. As I pried her toe out of my a$$, I told her that a bottle of vodka will get you everywhere. She made me breakfast with the leftover vodka and went home. It was a good breakfast. Who knew that I had orange juice in the freezer?
I am turning to you all (that's y'all for my Southern readers) for help with marital sex. It seems, that I am only knowledgable about extra or pre-marital sex.
I cannot leave the house until my latest injury heals.
I have a mirror outside of my bedroom door. I keep it there so that I can see myself in the morning on my way to the bathroom. I think it's important to start my day with laughter. As I look like the love child of Don King and Scary Spice in the morning, I am always starting my day with laughter. Or in terror.
It is a wonder that I have not yet killed myself with this mirror. It is six feet tall and very heavy. It was eight feet tall, but since I am short, I cut off two feet with a saw. The edge is sharp and unfinished. One day, it will probably fall over on me and cut me neatly in two.
I did not hurt myself on the mirror. I was admiring my shoes when I bent down to rub a smudge off the toe. My eye socket connected directly with the plunger sitting in the hall. The resulting black eye makes me look like I am in a really bad relationship.
I would like to explain why I have a plunger in the hall, sitting next to my mirror. You see, my step ladder is in my closet so that I can reach the shoes on the top shelf. When the light bulb in the hallway burned out, I had an option. Move the heavy ladder, or find another ingenious way to change the light bulb. Naturally, the plunger came to mind.
The plan was simple. I would use the plunger as an extension of my arm. It would effortlessly suction around the light bulb and I would easily replace it with a really expensive, yet energy efficient bulb that I bought at Home Depot. In theory, it was a good plan.
Of course, it didn't work. Of course, I didn't put the plunger away. Now I have this black eye.
If I do leave the house, I plan on telling people that I fell. They will tell me that there are places that I can go for help.
PS: If you haven't read my interview at Slick's place, please follow this link.
On one of the coldest nights of the year here in the Dirty South, I decided that I wanted a Dairy Queen. It was a moment where I wished that I was in love. I would have faked a sudden pregnancy and demanded that He venture out into the cold to bring me back a Key Lime Pie Blizzard.
Instead, I put on my yoga pants and headed out into the cold.
Dairy Queen closes for the winter in Minneapolis, where I grew up. From August to late June, there is no soft serve ice cream because the weather is too cold. Now that I live in the South, I can leave the house in my yoga pants for ice cream whenever I please.
I live within minutes from my local soft serve ice cream establishment. I bundled up and set out on my quest for ice cream. I was surprised to see that several other women were waiting in line when I got there. Apparently, I live in a community where women must get their own ice cream in the middle of the night.
I ordered my Key Lime Pie Blizzard and headed home to eat it in private. I don't like people to see me like that; no mascara and two pounds of ice cream.
I drive a manual transmission. Driving and using a spoon is difficult, but managable. I thought. A block from home, I was pulled over.
When I saw the blue lights flashing behind me, I checked my seatbelt and my lip gloss. I pulled over and scrambled through my purse for my ID. I pulled out anything questionable and waited for the tap on my window.
The officer let me know that I had been driving without my headlights on. I am one of those people who drives with my headlights on during the day. People flash their lights at me and shout, "your lights are on!" out of their windows in a friendly neighborly sort of way. Sometimes, they shout other things in a not so friendly neighborhood way, but I ignore them.
"How old are you?" the officer asked. I told him and I motioned to my ID for comfirmation. "I thought you were 16. Sometimes, inexperienced drivers forget to turn their lights on," he said. I assured him, licking my ice cream, that I was very, very experienced. Suddenly, I knew that there would be no ticket that night. I batted my eyelashes and told him that he was my new best friend. I coyly licked ice cream off my little red Dairy Queen spoon.
We chatted for a bit. I asked him to look at my headlights and tell me if they were both functioning correctly. I asked him to step around to the back and do the same. Sometimes, I explained, it is sooooo hard to see what is going on behind me and I can use a second opinion. He played along. I batted my eyelashes and waited to get my license back.
He let me go with a written warning. I took down his badge number and said something about since I wouldn't be seeing him in court, maybe I could him later.
I went home feeling victorious. I called a friend to brag about the powers of womanly charm and licking ice cream off a spoon. "Mist," he said, "everyone gets a written warning for that."
I can't believe that I got swindled out of my ice cream.
The local Police Department will be hearing from my lawyer.
I've made a lot of mistakes.
Purple mascara was a mistake. Dating the guy who lived with his mom and sold LSD was fun, but still, a mistake. The time that I tried to raise a flock of ducks in my home was a mistake. Dyeing my hair with black cherry Kool-Aid was a mistake.
It seems that I have learned nothing from my mistakes.
My latest mistake was when I told my sister, "you should blog." Like so many of my ideas, it seemed like a good one at the time. I imagined that we would become a blogging super power. We wouldn't wear capes or tights or anything, but we would be a force in the Blogosphere.
And now it's happened. I got an email from her with the link. I had to sign up for an entirely new service to leave comments on her blog. This should have been a warning. The gravity of the situation didn't hit me until I read her blog.
She knows more about me than most people. She knows my age. She has access to picures of me...pre-braces. She knows where my chest of teen momentos including my 10th grade jounal is stored. She might even know my real hair color.
I find myself wondering if she remembers how kind I was to her when she was a child. I was a doting, loving sister. I never encouraged her to stick her finger into an electrical socket. I never pushed her into a beehive. I never traded her bike to a neighborhood kid for all of his Garbage Pail Kids. Most importantly, I never framed her when Dad found weed on my dresser. I would never have done anything like that. Not even if she told our parents about the $50 that I borrowed from her to get a fake ID.
I would like to take the time to address my sister directly:
El, many people (i.e. Miss Britt) will approach you with offers of money, a lifetime supply of American Spirit cigarettes, a shopping spree at the Salvation Army of your choice, and numerous other irresistable items. They will be convincing. These people are using you. Please, remember that in the event of catastrophe, I am the sole beneficiary of Mom and Dad's tremendous estate (1 Honda Civic, 1 Toyota Camry, 2 cats, and several canned goods without labels). I am not trying to bribe you (am willing to throw in a Coldplay CD), I just want to warn you. I trust that you will make the right decision and never, ever post my seventh grade picture. For what it's worth, one time Mom and I got drunk and she told me that she has always liked you more than she likes me.
I can only hope that my sister will remain strong. Also, I hope that she remembers that I have a cocpy of the video of her African dance performance in which her outfit unraveled.
PS: There will be no link.
Update: Slick has graciously interviewed me on his new blog. There is so much about me that I feel like sharing today.
Once, I bought a skirt for a boyfriend.
He was reluctant to wear the skirt at first. He resisted the skirt. He asked, "what kind of f*g do you think I am?" I had never thought about what kind he might be. Considering that we were sleeping together, I told him that he must be the open minded kind.
Although he never admitted it, he warmed up to the skirt. He loved the freedom it provided. One of the best feelings on Earth is wearing a skirt with no panties under it. I'm not saying he wore panties (blue and white striped bikinis), I'm just saying, skirts are very freeing.
One of the beautiful things about being a girlfriend is that you can drop by without calling first. I am single because I don't like people to drop in on me without calling in advance. Also, I'm self-centered and whiney and have been known to burst into random uncontrollable fits. Okay, I snore and expect lots of gifts and I pick fights for fun. Other than that, I can't see why no one has snatched me up yet. The urge to flirt with men in public gets in the way too. But other than that, I am practically perfect.
When I walked in, he was wearing the skirt. He immediately began explaining that he didn't ordinarily wear the skirt. This was the first time. He was doing laundry. I smirked in satisfaction and sat back to enjoy the feeling of always being right.
We messed around on the couch for a bit. Any guy knows that messing around on the couch with a girl in a skirt is a good thing. A guy in a skirt is pretty damn good too. Skirts are just good, plain fun for everyone.
He got up to go into the kitchen for a drink. The way the light streamed in through the window, I realized that I should have bought a fully lined skirt for him. The skirt was see-thru and I could see everything. I imagined him taking out the trash in his man skirt. I thought of the neighbors. Specifically, I thought of that annoying, slutty neighbor who was always chatting him up.
When he returned to the couch, I "accidentally" burned a hole in his man skirt with my cigarette. We would probably still be together if I had not accidentally burned a hole in his leg too. I hope he is happy with his annoying, slutty neighbor.
I wear stripper panties.
When my sister saw them she was horrified. She is also horrified by the word "panties," but, stipper underwear just doesn't sound right.
I went to Whole Foods the other day in my stripper panties. They tie up at the sides and they are adorable. They are not practical. That's why I like them. Nothing in my life is practical. These panties are so complex that they should come with an information card.
The right side kept coming undone. Fearing that they would untie completely, I untied the left side and pulled them up out of my jeans.
It was the worst rope burn ever.
I screamed and grabbed my crotch. The guy who collects the grocery carts from the parking lot said, "right on."
I tucked the panties into my purse and limped in to Whole Foods, where I purchased 100% natural, soothing aloe.
It was organic.
Rev. Dr. MLKrunk, Jr.
I never get political here, but after MLK day, I can't help it.
Monday night, I wanted to celebrate my civil rights and do that butt shake move that I've almost mastered.
The local black and white radio stations decided to put All Differences Aside and hold a Unity Night at a club. We take MLK day pretty seriously in the South. The man was born here. We know how much he liked to dance and drink and talk to hot chicks. He believed that we should all have to pay the same cover charge, no matter the color of our skin. He didn't approve of the No Sneaker/No Athletic Wear dresscode. He never pimp-slapped anyone in the club because he believed in non-violence. It was only natural that his hometown honored him with drink specials.
Because I am all for unity, I decided to put on my I Had a Wet Dream jeans and celebrate the life of a great man. My jeans were the last thing that went right for the evening.
When I arrived, it felt more like a Malcolm X day celebration. People were trying to get in the door by any means necessary. The bouncer recognized my jeans and let me in. I went straight for the bar and ordered a bi-racial Russian. My designated driver ordered a Trent Latte (equal parts espresso and milk, served separately).
The problem was that the black radio station told their listeners to show up at 7pm. The white radio station told their listeners to show up at 9pm. By the time the white people started to show up, the club was full. The club management, in a display of equality decided to begin charging a cover when all the white people showed up. It didn't go over well.
People of color inside the club felt vindicated. Finally, justice had been served. They taunted the white people outside. After hundreds of years, the winds of oppression had been reversed. It was time for reparations.
Let free clubs ring.
I make excuses for myself. I'm not trying to fool myself; it's everyone else that I'd like to convince.
A water main in my area broke a few weeks ago. The residents in my community were instructed to boil all drinking water. I'm not a good cook, so I decided to drink wine instead. The problem was corrected after a few days, but I am still drinking wine just to be safe. I haven't showered in weeks and brushing my teeth with wine isn't proving as effective as I had hoped. Still, I have my safety to consider.
Recently, I had my first experience shopping for wine early in the morning. This is a bit like shopping for condoms for the first time. I would have preferred to wait outside in the car while someone else ran in to get the goods.
Feeling uncomfortable, I held my phone to my ear and had a loud discussion with myself about what was on the menu for the dinner party later that evening. Feeling like I had successfully thrown everyone off, I decided to buy two bottles. Because I am considerate of my "guests" who don't drink wine, I decided to buy some beer too.
A woman pushing a cart holding several loaves of bread and a toddler nodded approvingly at me. Success. I was no longer purchasing a bottle of wine that I was going to stare at until noon (acceptable drinking time), I was planning a dinner party. Then, my phone rang. In my hand. Still held to my ear.
I grabbed another bottle and moved on.
To disguise my affinity for Pinot in the afternoon, I also purchased lots and lots of frozen vegetables. I think it was pretty convincing.
I hope Rachael Ray knows a recipe for peas and wine.
People rely on me to be a valuable source of information. I get phone calls and emails from people with questions ranging from if they should cut their hair to if they should press charges.
Usually, I have an answer. Occasionally, I make something up. I am never without an answer. Until last night.
Sue called me with a dilemma. She is not bright, but she is beautiful. We get along smashingly. She calls me every week with a new question. I am always happy to assist. Last week, I was easily able to field a question about why fake crab doesn't taste like real crab. I was unprepared for this week's call.
Sue does not give head. She explained to me that she doesn't even "accidentally" give head. Sometimes, it is best not to ask her to explain what she means. I assume that accidentally giving head is when you fall, open-mouthed into a man's lap. As I am rather clumsy, I understand. It happens.
Her ban on what she likes to call "Smoking Man" is causing problems in her relationship. I told her that sometimes, in a relationship, you just have to suck things up. This went over her head.
Her aversion to oral sex is due to the "texture." I told her that it's just like having a raw oyster in your mouth. You don't hold it there for long. You just swallow it. Crackers are optional. Not that I have anything against crackers. Some of my favorite parents are crackers.
"No, it's not even that," she said. "I can't even have it near my mouth. I don't even like sushi because of the texture."
I had nothing helpful to say. I really, really like sushi.
I adopted my cat a few months ago. I can't imagine how I ever lived without him. I wake up in the morning and he is poised over me, ready to strike. I scream and he runs. It is a refreshing way to wake up.
Hissy (the cat), steals stuff that reminds him of me and stashes them under my bed. I'm not sure why the kitchen sponge reminds him of me, but it's under my bed with my fishnets and a bra and one of my shower gloves. Yes, I wear gloves in the shower. My skin is deliciously soft.
Originally, I wanted a dog. I had a dog purse, a name, and several outfits picked out for him. We were going to spend every moment together. I was even going to pick up his little turds. That's a love like I have never known. I found a breeder. She looked human, but she swore that she had the most adorable teacup Yorkies this side of the Mississippi. I didn't want her to probe into my sex life, so I didn't ask how she bred all those adorable puppies. I've done it that way and I've never had a litter.
I ended up adopting Hissy because, in the end, I decided that there is only enough room for one little b*tch in here.
I have given this a lot of thought and have developed a theory. I am almost a lap dog. Especially, when it comes to relationships.
Like a lap dog, I'm kind of annoying. I yap a lot. I might hump your leg. I've been known to puke on the rug. I want to go for a ride in the car. I'll gladly stick my nose in your crotch. It's best to keep me on a short leash. I need my nails trimmed. Sometimes, I have crud in the corners of my eyes. I want to eat at the table. That spot on my stomach drives me crazy. I can lick my own...nevermind.
I need to go outside. I have to go.
Over Due Booze
This is a recycled post from a long time ago on a blog far, far away...if you're old school, you'll remember it. I'm in the great state of TX visiting with my friend Fringes.
I am a wanted woman.
The County Library is looking for me. More accurately, I guess they're looking for Kurt Vonnegut's TimeQuake, but it feels like they are after me.
It started with automated calls. Eerie, monotone reminders that I have "one item" overdue. It makes me laugh to call a book an "item." I'm not sure why. I now have an itemshelf in my living room.
Next, a computer generated notice appeared in my mailbox. The notice encouraged me to Pay Up. The replacement fine charged by the library is three times the retail cost of the book. It would be so much simpler if I could just go to Borders and purchase a copy of the book for the library. Plus, then I could use my Border's gift card, keeping my out-of-pocket expenses at $0.
They can keep trying. The item is holding up the table that holds all of my paints. It was wobbly. Now it is perfect. If I remove the book, my paints will fall off the crooked table. I wish I could explain this to them, but the County Library People are not reasonable. They also take themselves too seriously.
They could call the National Association for the Return of Overdue and Exploited Library Items (NAROELI). "Have you seen this book?" postcards would flood mailboxes across the country. Photos of the book cover would appear on milk cartons next to age-enhanced (horrors!) images my my face, captioned: "Last seen with Mist 1."
So, I can never go to the library again. I am taking the item and I am going underground.
Lone Star State
Before I go to Texas for my date with Fringes, I have a few things to do.
I still have to pack. I learned how to pack from my dad who packed up my mom's stuff a long time ago. He is a master at utilizing valuable suitcase space. He packs stuff in his shoes. Like his toothbrush or something, not explosives.
He also insists on traveling with his oldest, rattiest underwear. He wears it once and throws it away at the end of a day. He is a genius. It's probably where I get it from.
I made a doctor's appointment to make sure that I am up to date on all my shots. I mean no offense to Fringes, but a girl can never be too careful.
I've been managing my hypochondria pretty well for the past few months, but still my doctor didn't seem pleased to see me. We went through the regular formalities; neither of us have any new tattooes. She asked how the new pill is working. I thought the answer was pretty obvious. Not pregnant=pill is working just fine. Finally, she asked me if I've been taking my vitamins.
I've been taking vitamins for over a year now. I can't say that I notice any difference, but they allow me to feel comfortable skipping breakfast. I mentioned that I am having trouble with my calcium supplement. It's huge. I'm uncomfortable for hours after I take it. I explained my reactions to it. She sat back and nodded.
"You know, it's not a suppository."
That explains so much. My bone density is fine. It's my other density that we're worried about.
I was cleaning out my desk when I came across an old key to my mother's house. I don't know if it is more shocking that I still have the key or that I can remember the year that I acquired it.
After I graduated from college, I went home to live with Mom. The unspoken arrangement was that I would move out when I got a job and found an apartment. I got a job. But, the comforts of living in a home where food was delivered every night were too great. I never found an apartment.
It was a fantastic situation. I got home from work and pillaged the fridge. I played a few video games in the basement and then I got dressed to Go Out (read: I put on my f*ck 'em jeans). I got home just in time to shower and go to work. Or sometimes, just go to work. Everything was working out perfectly.
Mom didn't agree. She tried to get me out of her house for six months. She tried logic and reason. She tried yelling. She tried bribery. She even tried an intervention.
Finally, she changed the locks. I think that she thought that changing the locks would be as effective as the year that she gave me luggage for my birthday.
It was a harsh lesson. For her.
Unphased, I slipped my skinny arm into the mail slot and unlocked the door. I let myself in and sat down to watch something on Lifetime about mothers who abandon their daughters.
Mom was not thrilled when she came home. I guess she had already seen the Lifetime movie.
Sometimes, I think that I should live a life of crime. Except for that whole incarceration part. I have all the things necessary for a good crime spree; black clothing and skinny arms.
P.S. Please note that I have a date with Fringes on Thursday. Depending on the wi-fi situation in the Lone Star State, my posts and comments may be irregular. I am still regular, in case you are wondering.
I needed to think on Friday afternon. I don't like to think alone. That's one of the warning signs that you are thinking too much.
I was in the mood for seafood, so a friend and I went to the Georgia Aquarium. They have the best seafood restaurant in town. The fish is always fresh. They get offended if you walk by the tanks and point out the fish that you want for dinner. They act like that's not the way it works.
I saw crabs that live to be hundred years old. I've had crabs tons of times, but never crabs of that size. I asked the volunteer docent all about crabs. She didn't seem to know much about them. She told me that these crabs can grow to be the size of a car. That worries me. I wear stretch denim, but I'm sure that I can't get a car into my jeans.
Gasper the beluga whale was euthanized last week. I signed the guest book and decided that I would have to try the whale fritter appetizer. I've heard whale is fatty, but I'm on that new diet where the food that I eat outside of my home has no caloric value.
I love fish. I have always been partial to the koi fish. I have one tattooed on my leg. As a kid, I refused to eat fish because I thought I had a spiritual connection with them. I think I have a new favorite fish; the Flasher Wrasses. Say it. Flasher Wrasses. It's funny every time.
Dear Orville Redenbacher
I don't snack. Unless, wine counts as a snack. Then, I even snack with my meals. It's not that I don't like snack foods. I love going through my friend's cupboards. I never have anything convenient to eat in my house. Everything requires calling for take-out.
Last night, I really wanted a snack. When I walked into the kitchen, I forgot what I was there for. I poured a glass of wine and returned to the couch. Half way through my wine, I remembered that I was hungry. I walked into the kitchen and forgot why I was there. I went outside to smoke. Then I returned to the couch. My stomach started to grumble. I turned up the volume on the tv to drown it out.
I got up a final time to make myself a snack. The contents of my cupboard were as follows:
In my defense, there are probably edible items on higher shelves that I can't see due to my short stature. I put the popcorn in the microwave and turned the dial. I returned to the couch, finished my wine, and passed out.
- One can of Spotted Dick (because it makes me laugh).
- One packet of Cock Flavored Soup (see reason above).
- One box of straws (in case I develop a drug problem).
- Something that looked like a raisin.
- One pack of microwave popcorn.
- Two types of dental floss.
I woke up from hunger pangs in the middle of the night. The kitchen didn't smell like popcorn. There was no popcorn in the microwave. I poured a glass of wine. I yelled at the cat. I checked the locks. No popcorn.
I finished the wine and put the glass in the dishwasher...where I found my soggy bag of popcorn.
I am planning to write to the company to complain that not a single kernel popped.
Thanks, Allan for the photo.
My Next Ex-Husband
I've accepted marriage proposals from my blog before. Unfortunately, it didn't work out. My groom-to-be ran off and has not returned. I am not bitter. I wish him no immediate bodily harm and I still link to his blog.
Recently, The Assimilated Negro proposed to me. In fairness, I didn't read the post, but it was about public proposals and since everything is about me, I assumed that this was his proposal. I have accepted.
Upon my acceptance, TAN sent me an email in which he referred to me as his betrothed. That's how I know this is serious. I have forwarded this email to my mother, my grandmother, my neighbor, my Ex, the guy I've been sleeping with, my mail carrier and anyone else to needs to know that I am Off The Market.
I know that it will be hard for TAN to leave his beloved New York and join me here in the Dirty South. I hope that he cooks. I also hope that he understands that I will spend all of his hard earned money on shoes. I appreciate his sacrifice for me and in return, I am willing to sit here and look pretty for a few more years.
This is all so sudden. There are so many decisions to be made. What are our colors? What will be our first dance? I've got to think about my Maid of Honor and sample a variety of cakes. Then, there's the honeymoon. I'm thinking Aruba.
All this stress is giving me cold feet. How can I marry him when we haven't even had premarital sex?
I've been practicing signing his last name after my name. I usually do this on a first date. I usually don't get a second date. I hope that TAN is not a conventional man. I don't want to offend him by keeping 1, my maiden name. But, I simply cannot go through life as Mist Negro. I think The Missed Negro is a book of poetry by Langston Hughes and is therefore probably trademarked and copyrighted.
TAN, I'm sorry. I have to consider my future.
Can I keep the ring?
To date, I have not had a high (or low) speed chase with the local police. I have never cut anyone into tiny, bite-sized pieces using a hand saw. It's not for the lack of opportunity.
I may never get to do these things before I die. I have decided that acting is the only way to satisfy my urges. I have auditioned for several local productions but have not yet landed a role in which I get to wear clothing.
I signed up for an acting class. The teacher is a Very Famous Actor. He is best known for a role on America's Most Wanted in which he played the buddy of a fugitive. He never received an award for Best Supporting Actor in a Reenactment, but I have seen the footage. He should have been nominated.
As he detailed his illustrious career as a Reenactor, I began to think that I was in the wrong place.
I have decided that I don't want to reenact heinous crimes and bank robberies gone wrong. I want to reenact the moments of personal glory in my life.
I want a cast of professional actors and extras to gather on the set to reenact the time that I was having a really great hair day and got out of a speeding ticket. Or, the staff meeting in which I screamed at my former boss, "dammit, I'm your assistant, not your cheerleader!"
I will probably leave out the part when I got fired.
The Perfect Match
I swore off imaginary men years ago.
I dated a one-eyed imaginary man for two years. We had something special. He understood my need to be alone. His name was Daniel. To protect his anonymity, I won't share his last name. He had two first names. Dad told me never to trust a man with two first names. I should have listened.
Things started to go wrong. I complained that I always had to initiate sex. We argued about everything. Finally, he said that he just couldn't see himself with me. I was devestated.
Recently, a friend of mine got married. Her husband has put me on the Bad Influence List. Now, my friend and I have to sneak around like we're having an affair. We drive separately and rent cheap motel rooms by the hour so that we can catch up on all the gossip and show off our new shoes. She won't let me hug her because she doesn't want to go home smelling like my perfume.
When I call her, she excuses herself to the bedroom to talk to me. Her husband is starting to get suspicious. He thinks she's seeing someone else.
She called me last night and invited me over for dinner. "What about Paul?" I asked. "He's cool, don't worry about it," she reassured me. I asked her what had changed Paul's mind about me. "I told him that you're seeing someone."
I got off the phone and called my imaginary ex-boyfriend to ask him to take me back. He didn't answer. I called his voicemail three more times, just to hear his voice.
I'm sorry, I've got nothing today. Can't you see I'm hungover?
If you're going to comment, please try to do it as quietly as possible. My head hurts.
"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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