Here's what I need to do: 1. Get Hobby, 2. Floss. Blogging just gets in the way.
Pots & Pads
I don't smoke pot. I gave it up a long time ago when I discovered that when I mix pot and alcohol, I puke. As I am deeply in love with alcohol and less than completely enamored with vomiting, I had to say farewell to pot.
I don't really miss it. When I smoke pot all of my limited social skills disappear. I never know what I said last or how long ago I said it or if I said it really, really loud. I wonder if it is time for me to say anything again. Then, I realize that I have no idea what we were talking about and so I have nothing to say. Also, the urges to clean out the drawers in my desk or dust the blinds or reorganize my bookshelf becomes overwhelming and I have to go find my rubber gloves or my happy place.
Naturally, finding my rubber gloves is a challenge and I end up unearthing a whole bunch of other crap and I can't remember what I was looking for in the first place, so I have to go back to the conversation that I had previously dropped out of. Thus, the cycle starts again. Wait, did I just say that?
I don't dislike pot. I don't dislike pot smokers. But, it's difficult to explain to pot smokers that I can't smoke for fear of vomiting in public. It's even harder to explain that I really want to find some rubber gloves to clean something but I just can't remember what that something is.
My lovely, but nearly retarded friend Sue knows that I don't smoke. When she travels with me, she understands that she is responsible for stuffing her bra with her own pot as I will be unable to help her acquire any. It's always exciting to see what she will pull out of her bra. I call them party boobs.
I can't even get a bottle of hand sanitizer through security at the airport, but she can manage to smuggle her weight in pot across various borders. Apparently, cleavage is very distracting. I have suggested that she use her cleavage to smuggle illegal immigrants across the border, but she can't figure out how she will get them into her bra when it is stuffed full of pot.
The last time that we traveled together, she decided to try a different approach. She stuffed a giant sized nighttime pad with wings full of pot. Her biggest mistake was taking the pot out of its original plastic bag before slicing the pad with a razor and inserting the pot into the pad.
When she went to pull the pot out of the pad, it was coated in soft, downy cotton and that mysterious blue gel that is intended to wick moisture away from the body.
The other thing that I don't do besides smoking pot is go down on girls. When Sue offered me a joint of pot with an absorbent core, all I could tell her was that I don't mix pot and crotch.
"More for me," she shrugged.
She blazed, and the smell of burning cotton and hair filled the room.
P.S. Writing the words pot and pad so many times has made me think of Pol Pot and that makes me feel more intelligent in that Khmer Rouge sort of way. I guess I didn't smoke too much pot during those five years it took me to get that liberal arts degree.
I love group therapy.
I hadn't been to group in a long time. Too long. I was starting to miss it.
Every session, I would imagine that I was a guest on a talk show. Group therapy is much like a talk show. There is a host and corporate pharmaceutical sponsorship that makes it all possible. Really, the biggest difference is that there is never a musical guest.
Sometimes, I was the person in need of tough love. Other times, I felt like an expert panelist. Mostly, I wanted to be the host. Without the credentials, of course.
I like the check-in part where you get to list off all your sins since the last meeting. I liked knowing that other people had done worse things than I had done. It was refreshing to hear the guilt of others over seemingly mundane stuff like obsessively plucking out a patch of hair.
Group therapy is a setting in which it is entirely acceptable to be on and talk about drugs. Half the group will be nodding out from a new prescription. The other half will be twitching like crickets on crack. We compare notes and talk about our personal preferences. Does it make you suicidal? Did you gain weight? How's the sex? Can you drink on it? How long does it take to wear off? It's really the only place outside of college where you can talk about drugs and sex so openly with the advantage of being able to say things about strange habits like flossing several times a day.
Recently, I went back to group. I felt like a past celebrity guest who came back for an update. I told them about life on the other side of group. I confessed that I still have thoughts and behaviors that make me uncomfortable, but that I am learning to set boundaries and I don't see those little bugs at all anymore. I asked them to hold their questions until the Q & A period generously provided at the end of the meeting. I also informed them that I would be available for autographs later. I plugged my blog and told them about what it's like to work with my therapist. She is brilliant, really. She has such a command over her craft. Seriously, she is never out of character throughout our entire session. I feel so honored to have had the opportunity (read: insurance) work with her.
I can't wait to go back. I've got this really convincing way of scratching a hole in the skin on my left arm.
Meeting bloggers is a little awkward for me at first. Especially when I knock on the hotel room door and it is answered by a woman with her dress up over her head. This is how I met Fairmaiden.
If she had emailed me pictures of her boobs, I would have recognized her instantly. Instead, she had sent me pictures of her face. I had been thoughtful enough to send her a picture of the shoes that I would be wearing when we met, so she would know who I was instantly.
Averting my eyes wasn't an option. The half naked man in the room behind her waved hesitantly at me. In his eyes, I could tell that he hated me for box-blocking. I smiled and pushed my way in. "Hi, I'm Mist. This room smells like you were about to have sex." I am very good at introductions because I went to charm school.
The best way to get over awkward half naked introductions is to drink. In preparation, I had made sure that my diet was filling and nourishing. It consisted of four grapes, a half a piece of toast with a buttery-like topping, lettuce, a calcium supplement, soup, and two pieces of whitening gum. I also had swallowed my saliva for the past several hours to make sure that I wouldn't be dehydrated. This paid off for me in the long run.
The rest of the day and evening were filled with beer, vodka, various shots, red wine and champagne. The side effects of a rich diet and heavy drinking are waking up drunk the next morning and moderate kidney pain. The benefits include enhanced dancing abilities and the belief that everything that I have to say is entirely fascinating.
Maiden wanted to play pool. I don't play pool because I don't have cleavage. She explained that bending over was an integral part of playing a good game of pool. Because I wear jeans that are not appropriate for children, I agreed to play a few games of pool. Instead, I found myself at the internet juke box (for a minimal fee, you can also check your email). As we selected songs (Blondie, Alkoholiks, Pixies), the co-owner of the bar decided to hump the Maiden. She clearly was born without a sense of smell because his breath made my the hairs in my nose recoil in fear. I looked around for someone to punch him. As there was no one available, I decided that I'd rather score drinks on his tab. I ordered the most expensive bottle of champagne on the menu ($8) and hoped that he would hump her again 64 more times so that I could write off the rest of the tab.
I hope that I impressed her with the dance routine that I performed to Ice Ice Baby. No really, it's very good.
PS: Since I'm coming out of my shell, I've been thinking about another blogger meet up. A few other bloggers are in. Who else is interested?
I'm not much fun on a road trip. I can talk for hours, pausing only long enough to apply mascara. I cannot talk and apply mascara. My mouth gapes open in complete concentration and I am silent for a full minute.
When I'm in the car for an extended period of time, I start to think. I think about road kill. I cannot look away from it. When I spot a lump on the side of the road ahead, I start guessing what kind of animal it is. Usually, I guess that it is a marmot. I don't even know what a marmot is. I think every animal becomes a marmot once it is bloated and on the side of the highway. To make the game more exciting, I throw in exotic animals like badgers and wolverines. I don't know what a wolverine is either.
Thinking about all this stuff leaves me with lots of questions. Anyone unfortunate enough to be stuck in the car with me on long trips will be subjected to millions of random questions. I wish my car had voice activated Google on board. Then, I could find out the answers to my most pressing questions.
When I tire of this, I think about poetry. I compose and recite haikus. If I ever give this blogging thing up, I will probably write a book of poetry. Here is a sample of one of my gems:
Your dad creeps me out.
When we went through his garage
I saw kiddie porn.
Yesterday, as I drove home from Savannah, I discovered that it takes four hours of incessant talking to completely lose my voice.
I sound like a prepubescent boy. Someone will be receiving a disturbing phone sex call from me soon.
I have been putting off watching Hotel Rwanda for a long time. I wanted to wait until a period in my life where I felt like I could deal with the atrocities documented in the film. The beauty of not being displaced by war or living in a place where I rarely have to fear rebel forces or step over bodies on the way to my mailbox is that I can decide when I am ready deal with genocide. Until Sunday, I didn't feel ready.
Movies like this should be prefaced not by the reminder that pirating DVDs is criminal, but rather with warnings about the legalities of committing war crimes. I knew it wasn't a comedy or created by the people who brought me any of my animated favorites and I didn't expect any steamy love scenes or anything, but still, not wearing mascara was not enough preparation for this movie.
I don't want to spoil what happened in Rwanda for anyone who doesn't remember 1994, but sometime around when women and children start getting chopped up by people with machetes, I started to feel a little suicidal. I was deeply ashamed of myself for my failure to join the Peace Corps or adopt any Rwandan orphans.
Rather than compose my suicide note apologizing for my complacency, I decided to call Dad. I got his answering machine. I left a cryptic message asking just where in the hell was G*d in 1994.
Then, I climbed up on the roof. I looked down and wished that I had chosen better shoes for jumping off the roof. Something with an ankle strap would have been a better option to make sure that it didn't come of my foot mid-fall and come down on top of my head. I decided to call Mom. She can always talk me down off the roof.
Mom said, "You think you're upset? Just imagine if you had been there. You think the Tutsi's got to think about the shoes they were going to die in? Well, they didn't and it's not too late to join the Peace Corps." I thought she'd add something about what a wonderful mother I'd be to a displaced child if only they hadn't all been adopted by celebrities, but she didn't.
Instead, she lowered her voice and said, "I have to keep it down. I'm in the library. There's this new program where you can sign up to read a book to a service dog. People are trying to get my spot in line."
I asked her what she was going to read to the dog. She hadn't decided yet. She wanted to know if there were any parameters. No one had told her if there was any prohibited subject matter. She had selected a few books as she wasn't sure of the dog's reading level and she didn't want to choose anything that another library patron had already read to the dog. "He looks pretty bored," she said.
"If he wasn't off-duty, I'd put the dog on the phone with you. He'd talk you off that roof; that's what these kind of dogs do, you know. They are miracle workers." This is where I stopped listening. I think I'd like to have a service dog. I have lots of uses for a highly trained dog. It could find the remote in the couch cushions, uncork a bottle of wine, drive me places, and most importantly prevent me from watching depressing, although deeply important movies.
I would just like to mention here that while I have been using those handy address labels that Amnesty International sends me a few times a year, this year, I am going to pay for them. I swear.
Usually, artificial sweeteners taste like powdered cat urine and bubble bath to me. I've never been able to stomach the contents of those little blue and pink packets of sweetener. That was until I was introduced to Splenda in the little yellow packet.
I am having to rethink everything I know about artificial sweeteners. I cannot tell the difference between Splenda and sugar. On TV the other night, I saw a commercial that explained that it tastes like sugar because it is made of sugar. That is the kind of scientific logic that I can understand. I don't need a diagram of the complex molecule explaining why it tastes sweet, I just need to hear the word sugar and I am convinced.
Whenever I discover a product, I have to let those closest to me know. Like the pimple cream that made the zit on my forehead dry up and fall off in under eight hours. That was a miracle that I wanted to share. I feel the same way about Splenda. I called my sister and told her all about Splenda. She didn't share my enthusiasm. "Splenda has been around for a long time. It's not new, Mist. I don't like it." I wish my sister had been around when Columbus discovered the New World. I can imagine the phone call, "Yeah Chris, we know all about that place. When are you going to bring the Nina, the Pinta, and the Pina Colada back?" She could have rewritten history. (Side note: I wish I knew how to make that little ~ thing.)
I was undaunted by my sister's lack of support for my love of Splenda. I hung up the phone and rushed immediately to the grocery store for an entire box of Splenda all my own. When I got home, I wished that I had purchased the box of small, single serving packets and not the bulk box. I poured out the box on my kitchen counter and began dividing it into several smaller quantities. I was packaging it all neatly in plastic baggies when Jamie decided to burst in the door.
It was a difficult situation to explain. I didn't even try. Instead, I pulled a box of drinking straws out of the cupboard and cut a three inch piece for her with my handy kitchen scissors. When she asked me if I was going to join her, I told her that I never get high from my own supply. I have to admit, it felt pretty cool to finally use that line.
The last time I checked, she is still in there snorting lines Splenda. She's done about six grams.
I'm not going to tell her.
I am good at securing first dates. I never really want the second date to come. First dates are awkward, but wonderful. Second dates are obligatory.
I have lots of techniques of ruining the chances of a second date. I find that carrying a wedding dress in the trunk of my car usually works. I have the poor bastard walk me out to the car. After I stick my tongue down his throat and thank him for a wonderful evening, I tell him that I have something to show him. Usually, that works.
Sometimes, men need a little more persuasion. I have found that faking terminal illness is ineffectual. People will want to spend your last few weeks on this planet with you. Claiming an STD is no good either because you have to know his medical history. Telling a man with genital herpes that you are also afflicted is like saying, "We are perfect for one another. I accept you, oozing pustules and all. Let's spend the rest of our lives together, except during particularly painful outbreaks." Announcing that you have three sets of triplets at home is not a turn off either. It simply states that you are not opposed to sex.
First dating is hard. It has to be exciting and perfect and then end abruptly, shortly after the bar tab is paid. I am running out of excuses.
I take pity on my next first date. After witty conversation and drinks, I will take him home to watch The Crying Game. I will make a comment about how I simply must get to bed because I have my last pre-op appointment with the doctor who is finally going to give me the chance to get out of the body that I have been trapped in since birth. I should never admit this, but I have the same hair as the tranny in the movie. If I sit at just the right angle, this should really freak him out.
I don't cook very often. It's not that I don't like cooking, it's just that by the time I uncork the wine, I have usually lost the notion. But, when Lisa called me and said that she was craving my salmon, I couldn't say no. She has pretty good wine.
I went to the International Farmer's Market to buy fruit that I didn't recognize. You see, if you cook fish with exotic citrus fruit found only in south east Asia, people think that you're a genius. No two employees at the Farmer's Market speak the same language. Solomon has worked in the produce department for at least five years and he's learned a considerable amount of English in that time. He can say, "How are you?" and "I work and work," and "You look like cousin of me." He has a new phrase that I love. I told him that I was cooking dinner for a friend and he said, "I will put my fingers cross for you." He gets nervous when he talks to me and his voice gets higher with every phrase. He might know a few other sentences, but they are in a range that my ears can't detect.
I don't like to cook in my own kitchen because it is three feet by two feet. While this makes it very convenient to clean the floor, it makes it very difficult to open the dishwasher and the fridge at the same time. Lisa's kitchen is much larger than mine, so I decided to cook/drink at her house.
I got to her place before she did due to an unfortunate traffic stop. When she arrived, she commented on how a blow job doesn't take nearly as much as time as writing a ticket. Then, she went into the bathroom to gargle and touch up her lipstick.
Dinner was divine. The wine was excellent. We drank and talked and sang karaoke and danced and talked about men and hair and men.
Eventually, I got hungry again. Earlier, I had spotted Girl Scout cookies on top of the fridge. I am partial to the Thin Mint and am heart broken that the Lemon Cooler has been discontinued. Because I can exercise restraint, I only bought two boxes of cookies this year and have not eaten a single one. It is like a game that I play with myself.
Lisa has every kind of Girl Scout cookie. She has three cases of cookies in her dining room and a freezer full of Thin Mints. As long as I don't touch the caramel and coconut cookies, she doesn't care what I eat. I reached up on top of the fridge and grabbed the blue box of cookies. Carefully and deliberately, I only took one. I know all about portion control (except for when it comes to wine). Lisa yelled from the other room to get one for her too. I took two more from the box because I want to make sure that she is fatter than I am in a swimsuit. I am a decent and caring friend.
I bit into my cookie. It was dry and bland. "F*ck," I said, "they really need to put the trans fats back into these." I handed Lisa her cookies.
"Mist, these are dog biscuits."
Who the hell keeps dog biscuits next to Girl Scout cookies?
I took the picture to demonstrate how misleading her display of cookies is. In my defense, I am short and cannot see on top of the fridge.
The dog and I do not get along.
I know two women that live in a little two bedroom, 1.5 bathroom apartment. They have three big dogs, a cat, a rat, a beta fish, fruit flies, and several house plants.
This is too many living things in a cozy apartment. I suppose it's a good thing that they have so many plants. Otherwise, there probably wouldn't be enough oxygen to support all of those life forms. I hate going to their home. The conversation goes something like this; "So, LEAVE THE FISH ALONE how's your lust affair GET DOWN DAMMIT with that NOT ON THE F*CKING RUG internet boy?" I want to explain that he is a man and not a boy, but when I see people (or animals) puking, I can't help it, I puke too. "NO MIST NO! NOT ON THE F*CKING RUG!" Shamed, I go home.
I have noticed that every time I go to visit them, there is a little plastic bag of dog crap at the front door. They're front door appears normal in every other way. They have wind chimes, and a little monkey figurine, and a cute welcome mat that reads: Caution: Dog Can't Hold its Licker. I like that. I want a mat that reads: Caution: B*tch Can Hold Her Liquor.
I called Mom this morning to talk about shoes and her neighbor's fat cat. Naturally, talking about her neighbor's cat segued into talking about the little bags of dog poo at my friend's front door. "How long do they leave it there?" It's hard for me to believe that this was what Mom wanted to know. There were a number of other responses that I expected from her.
Now I am curious. I have been thinking of how I can find out without sending a sample to an independent lab for testing. Then, I thought about a time when I was parked in a lot indicating that I could only park there for an hour. When I returned to my car, there was a little yellow chalk mark on my tire.
I am going to have to buy some chalk. And maybe some rubber gloves and a face mask.
On the weekends, I fall asleep on my couch. I get home, kick off my shoes, and turn on a movie. I fall asleep in my clothing and mascara. In the middle of the night, I usually wake up long enough to squirm out of my bra and panties and throw them onto the floor next to the couch. I also drink a glass of water and take two Excedrin Extra Strength to prevent a nasty hangover. I keep a sleep mask in a box on the table next to my couch. I try to pull it on before the sun starts coming up so that I can enjoy a few extra hours of darkness.
Yesterday, I woke up from my phone ringing. I pushed my eye mask up on top of my head and answered the phone. It was a call from the Marine buddies of my friend's little brother. Apparently, they lost him in Savannah during all the St. Patty's Day festivities. The caller was wondering if I had talked to him. I didn't ask the obvious question of how I would of talked to him if they had his phone. Instead, I told them to call the local jails and hospitals. I used to be shacked up with a man that had a habit of not coming home at night and so I know the drill. I told him that if hadn't shown up in any of those places, that he was fine and that they only thing to do then was to pack up his stuff and throw it in the front yard and cut themselves out of all the pictures of them together. Then, I laughed to show that I'm not still bitter.
I got up and activated the phone tree to see if anyone could find him. After a few hours, I got a call. He was fine and at his mother's house. Satisfied that my reaction time makes me a perfect candidate for the director of FEMA, I put down the phone and went back to the couch to finish the movie that I slept through the night before.
I leaned over to pick up my bra and panties from the floor. My panties were lying there, right where I remember kicking them off. My bra was missing. I reached under the couch and pulled out my eye mask.
Slowly, I reached up and touched the top of my head. I grabbed the elastic strap and pulled my bra off of my head.
I guess it could have been worse. I could have slept with my panties over my eyes. Still, I am a little bothered that no sunlight streamed in through my bra cups. Apparently, my eyeballs and boobs are the same size.
I didn't give anything up for Lent this year. I decided that G*d wants me to do more with my life, not less. There are plenty of things that I could have given up. I could have quit smoking or drinking or bathing, but really, I'm a much more agreeable person when I am doing all of those things.
I was talking to a friend of mine yesterday and she brought up Lent. She's given up caffeine. She could hardly stay awake throughout the conversation. She asked me what I gave up. I told her that I hadn't given up anything. I am all too familiar with the look that she gave me when I said that. It's the look that says You Are Such a Heathen and May You Rot for All Eternity. Rather than explain that I wasn't observing Lent, I clarified, "I mean, I'm not giving up anything besides chocolate." It seemed best to make her think that in years past, I had given up a number of things because I am so devout.
I wasn't sure why I said chocolate. It just came to me. "Mist, you just ate a bag of chocolate covered almonds." Crap. I guess that's why chocolate came to mind.
"Those are heart healthy chocolates and I don't mean that kind of chocolate," I said. She looked puzzled. I explained that I had given up black men. Really, it's pretty logical. No Sexual Brown Chocolate until Memorial Day or whenever Lent is over. I think it makes quite a statement to give up seeing black men until the day when I can start wearing my white shoes.
She looked at me to see if I was telling the truth. Feeling pressured, I continued, "I'm not messing with anything brown at all. Not even UPS. I am strictly FedEx for awhile."
"DHL is pretty good too," she said.
Facts of Life
I have a soft, sentimental side. Usually, I try not to show it. I have a good back and a bad reputation to think of.
Almost a year ago, I adopted ducklings. I'm not sure why I did it, it just seemed that everywhere I looked, there were no ducks.
There is a man in Idaho who sells ducklings. You have to buy them in groups of ten. It seems like ducks should be sold in dozens, like eggs. If I was more frugal, I would have just bought the eggs.
It's exceedingly difficult to raise ducks in a town home. They didn't follow me around in a straight line like I expected them to. The duck crap on the floor made the feathers stick to my feet. Tarring and feathering is so Antebellum. It became clear, that the ducks had to find another place to live. Also, it is apparently against several local ordinances to raise livestock within the city limits.
Now, the ducks live in a lovely pond. I visit them every day. They climb all over me. I emailed pictures of my ducks and me to Mom. She replied, "You are going to get the bird flu. You don't have the sense you were born with. You never did have the sense you were born with." She is a gentle and loving woman.
Last week, I noticed that one of my ducks had laid two eggs. I should have had The Talk with the ducks a long time ago. I just thought that they would know all about the birds and the bees, on account of them being birds and all. At first, I thought that they couldn't be real eggs. I inspected them more closely.
I reached out and scientifically poked one of them with my index finger. It was definitely an egg.
It only took a second to realize what I had done. I hate eggs and I had just touched one. An egg that had just come out of a duck's vagina. Not even a store bought egg that had been carefully selected and cleansed, but a fresh egg. I didn't even know which duck it had come from. I retched. To me, this is like probing the contents of the sanitary napkin bin conveniently provided in women's restrooms.
I wiped my finger off in the grass and retched a few more times.
I gathered the ducks around me and told them that our bodies go through beautiful and miraculous changes. I warned the girls about the drakes and told them all not to do drugs without me.
I've started slipping birth control pills in their food. If they think I'm going to spend the rest of my hot years raising their damn kids, they are sadly mistaken.
I used to have the perfect couch. It was a pale sage green and the fabric was soft and stayed cool when I napped. It even absorbed drool without leaving a mark.
Everyone who came to my home fell asleep on my couch. I didn't mind; I liked that my couch had that effect on people. I also liked the change, lighters, and other assorted surprises that were left behind in the cushions.
One day, I noticed that the couch was sagging in the middle. I am not going to blame this on my 400 pound cat nanny, I am just going to say that it is awfully coincidental that my couch started sagging at the time that I started leaving the 400 pound cat nanny in charge when I was away from home for the weekend. Soon, it was impossible to sit on it without leaning toward the center. Then, there was the time that I fell asleep with a pen in my hand and continued to write even in my sleep, in blue ink on one of the cushions. The fact that I kept writing in my sleep is not surprising. I sleep-write a lot. It's amusing. I bring it with me to my therapy appointments. So far, it has not merited medication, but one day, I know it will pay off.
It took me months to buy my new couch. I sat on every couch in every showroom in the metro area. The sales associates would not let me remove my pants to really test the comfort level of the couches. I don't wear pants at home and so this made the decision considerably more difficult.
What I really wanted was my old couch to be new again. I settled for another green couch and a chair and a half. It seemed like a good f*cking chair; a little to big for one person, but just perfect for two people who wanted to get to know each other a little more intimately. As of yet, the chair and a half is a virgin. I've been living with my new couch for months now and it is still not right. There are too many pillows. It's too plump, too firm, and I cannot get comfortable.
Jamie came over last night for wine and conversation and wine. She took off her shoes and put her feet on my couch. Her feet smelled a bit like roadkill. I retched and reached for the Febreze. She looked offended. "Mist, you put your a$$ on this couch," she said. For the record, my a$$ does not smell like roadkill and hence, her argument was pointless.
I want to do a commercial for Febreze. I want to hold the bottle up to my face and inhale it's laundry fresh scent. I will turn to the camera with a smile and say, "Febreze; because I put my a$$ on the couch."
Update: It turns out that I'm also over at Britt's place today.
Miles to Go Before I...
Last year, I bought a pedometer. I have some obsessive compulsive behaviors, so technically, I probably should have consulted my shrink before I made the purchase.
I programmed all the settings. I counted and measured my steps. I even input my weight honestly. This was a new relationship and I wanted to start it right. I wanted it to trust me. I didn't want to flip open the top to see how many steps I had taken and for it to tell me that I had taken 10,000 aerobic steps just to make me feel good about myself.
I found that the best place for my pedometer was tucked neatly into the waist of my panties and not to the waist band of my pants as suggested on the informational insert. The vibrating pedometer is another one of my fabulous inventions that I haven't gotten around to making.
From my home, there are 16 bars within walking distance. It turns out that it is about a three mile walk to go to each of these bars and home again. My love for fitness returned with this discovery.
It wasn't long before I had decided to see just how many steps I could take in a day. Somewhere around 22,000, I decided to see if I could walk so far that I reset the counter. I walked until my feet blistered. The sun went down and I got thirsty. I had made several laps around my neighborhood bars. It was time to close out my tabs. Total steps: 67,481.
As I sat at the bar, I continued to fidget. Surely, my pedometer would track my fidgeting. Unfortunately, pedometers don't work that way. They know when you are cheating the system, and when you are cheating the system, you are only cheating yourself.
After that day, I put the pedometer away. I had abused it's power. It sat, tucked away in a little box on my dresser for nearly a year.
Last night, I rediscovered it. I feel like I appreciate it now. I have matured. I will not put it on a pedestal or on a treadmill.
Still, I wonder, if I wear it while having sex, will it tell me how many calories I am burning? And, what will I clip it to?
All Your Beets Are Belong to Us
I like food in jars, except for animal body parts and eggs in brine. I have a strange fascination with that stuff. I like beets and pickles and mushrooms and smelly kimchi and even those little creepy looking albino asparagus stalks in jars.
Jarred food is the perfect quick meal. I stand in front of the fridge in my underwear with a pair of chopsticks and eat, it's like a jarred food buffet.
Despite all the hand jobs that I have given to strengthen my delicate fingers, I still struggle when opening new jars. I grunt and curse and pound the jar on the counter top. I run it under warm water and cool water and strain myself trying to get into the jar. Finally, I will resign and put on my pants so that I can ask my neighbor if he will open the jar for me. One day, I will learn to make this into a sexier encounter. I think that I could say, "Excuse me, but could you get into my purple pickled cabbage?" in a voice that would reek of seduction. He's nice enough to not say anything about how sweaty I am and always says something like, "Much obliged, Ma'am. Enjoy your baby corn."
My new vibrator came in the mail the other day. It arrived in a clear plastic case, which isn't the level of privacy that I had hoped for. I waited to use it until the mood was right. I took a glass of wine to bed with me and turned my phone off so that we wouldn't be disturbed. I knocked over the glass in the dark while fumbling to locate my self-warming "massage" oil. I cursed and wished that I owned a bedside lube dispenser. I turned on the lamp and jotted down that idea on an index card complete with a sketch of the prototype so that I wouldn't forget it later. Then, I turned off the light and whispered sweet nothings to my new B.O.B. in his case. He shuddered with anticipation.
Here is what I've learned: never lube before attempting to open the plastic case.
I got out of bed and put on my robe. I pondered knocking on my neighbor's door with my head hung in shame. I imagined handing him the slippery case without making eye contact. I thought about bringing over a jar of olives for him to open as a way to break the ice.
Then, I realized that I had forgotten to buy batteries.
Defeated, I washed my greasy hands, turned my phone to vibrate and waited for someone to call me.
I am deeply in lust.
He is witty and funny and artistic. The fact that he doesn't know that I'm alive is a mere hindrance. To be fair, he has left a few comments here and we are reciprocally linked, but I have noticed that his link to me doesn't say anything like, "The Lust of My Life" or "The Woman That I Plan on Having Wild, Unbridled (or bridled, if she's into that sort of thing) Sex With." He would be a fool to let me slip though his links.
The object of my affections lives far, far away. He's in a different time zone. This has proved to be an inconvenience in my relationship with him. It turns out, that I am very good at addition. When it is noon his time, it is three my time. It also turns out, that I am very bad at subtraction. When it is nine in the morning here, I have no idea what time it is where he lives. When I am logged into Google (nearly always), I look for his status. When it is red, I know that he is chatting with another girl. When it is green, I wonder why he is not chatting with me. I change my status to read stuff like "lubing myself" or "ready/willing," or "I will scratch that other broad's eyes out, I swear to G*d, don't make me do it," but still, he does not bite. It only makes my devotion stronger.
The thing about time zones that confuses me (besides the math) is that I can't understand why the time change is in hour increments. It seems like it should be in fractions. Why can't the system be standardized? A mile per minute would make sense to me. That way, I would know that he is 2,609 miles behind me. According to Google Maps (not that I've checked), that is like a difference of one day and 15 hours.
I would know not to tell him what happened on The Office or I could give him winning sports stats in advance so that he could place bets and make us rich so that we could live happily, although distantly, ever after.
Better yet, why can't everything just operate on my time schedule? It would be so much easier for me if I knew that while I am thinking about lunch, he is doing the same thing. Only, his lunch would be called breakfast.
Wait, I'm confused again.
The International Date Line is ruining my love life.
My friend Kathy has been pregnant since 1997. I don't even remember what she looks like when she's not pregnant. I have no idea how many children she has because I think she has them in litters. Every time I see her, there are at least three new ones. She can't squeeze them all into her Toyota when she needs to go to the grocery store. She leaves some of them at home with her husband or they take two cars. I don't think that I have ever seen her with all of her children.
I can't tell them apart. All children look the same to me. Children's faces should be on the tops of their heads so that you can tell them apart without having to stoop down to get a look at them. I can't tell how old they are and the younger they are, the less likely it is that I can determine their gender.
I went over to her house for the first time in years yesterday. One of the kids (female, not in diapers) let me in. She told me that her mom was in the kitchen and then went back to playing with matches. I picked my way over the bodies of children playing on the floor. I felt like a Marine, only with a good haircut. I kept saying, "dead bodies everywhere, dead bodies everywhere," over and over again in my head.
Kathy was sitting in a chair in the kitchen with several kids strapped into highchairs and booster seats. There was a pile of uncooked rice on the floor. I was going to offer to clean it up, but then I figured that the United Nations had probably just dropped it from a helicopter.
Everywhere I looked, there were children. They just ran around in circles, bumping into each other, falling over, crying, and blowing snot bubbles. I remembered a conversation that I had with Kathy years ago about birth control. Kathy didn't want to be on artificial hormones, but apparently really, really enjoys sex. She told me at the time that she was using wild yam to prevent pregnancy. I'm thinking that maybe she used it wrong. She was probably supposed to masturbate with a wild yam, not take some gelatin free capsule of dehydrated herbs and have sex with an actual man. I kept this thought to myself.
We had a conversation in 30 second spurts interrupted by Kathy banging her head into the kitchen table every time one of the kids threw up, punched another kid, or got head stuck in the washing machine.
When it was time to leave, the door was blocked by children milling about in clockwise circles. "Excuse me," I said politely. There was no response. I looked at Kathy for help. Kathy was wiping crap off of her sleeve and yelled, "y'all get away from that damn door and let Ms. Mist out!" Some of the kids stood there staring out of the door, the rest changed direction and wandered in counter clockwise circles. I looked back at Kathy who was now on the phone and encouraging one of the kids to stop, drop and roll.
I pushed through the kids and opened the door. It reminded me of when people come to my house and as they open the door I scream at them not to let the cat out. I was not quick enough. The second I opened the door, two of the kids escaped. They were stunned for a second and then filled with the elation of being outside.
"Kathy, some of the kids got out," I called to her. She waved me off.
I think she must have one of those invisible fences to shock them if they leave the yard. She should really should install a doggy door.
There are somethings that I miss about living in the Tundra. I miss the lakes and the greatest mall in all of North America. I miss Prince, we hardly talk anymore. I miss the funny way that people talk, although where I live now people talk pretty funny too, y'all. I don't miss the weather. Not even a little bit.
One of my favorite things to do is to watch the weather channel to see how cold it is back home. When the weather map is tangerine where I am and lavender where my family is, I call them (I also call them when the terror alert level is periwinkle). I pretend to be concerned. Really, I am just calling to tell them that I am wearing shorts and flip flops and good Lord, I think I just might break a sweat. My family knows me well enough to know that I am lying. They know that 1.) I don't sweat; and 2.) I prefer not to wear shorts or pants or really anything at all. It's part of the reason that I had to leave home in the first place.
The other night, I called Dad to talk about the weather. Dad always likes to talk about snow. He grew up in the Tundra and before that, his relatives moved here from Old Tundra where it snows all the time. I bought him a snow blower a few years ago. He uses it to take up space in his garage. He's the kind of guy who will go outside to shovel several times during a blizzard so that it won't be so hard later on. This kind of logic doesn't make sense to me. I don't rake leaves in the fall because more are just going to fall. In truth, I don't rake leaves at all.
"I heard it's the worst blizzard since 1891," I said.
"It's not that bad," he said. People in cold climates are always trying to tell those of us with sense enough to move to warmer locales are always saying stuff like that. They are full of sh*t. "You have to remember that people were a lot shorter back then." He makes a strong argument. I would like to see a chart graphing the height differentials of meteorologists over time.
Now, I'm questioning that whole global warming thing. Maybe people are just getting taller, that's all.
PS: Fringes is on vacation and has generously allowed me to hold her blog hostage today. As usual, I have lots of important stuff to say. Read it here.
My Bear Crotch
After writing about Brazilian waxes the other day, I received several suggestions via email as to how I should groom my crotch. First, I would like to thank everyone for the thoughtful suggestions. It's nice to know that my snatch is in the mind's of at least four people. Second, I only email pictures of my toes upon request. Sorry, you will not be receiving any Mist 1 Crotch Shots. Although, for the right price, I may reconsider.
A few months ago, I asked Lacy (my esthetician who is excellent at eyebrows, but not so talented with other bodily hair) if she could wax a design into my delicate lady parts. She carefully cut a piece of paper into a stencil of my initials (yes, I'm that vane). M1 seemed easy enough. She prepped me and went to work. I ended up with what looked more like a lopsided lightening bolt. We both agreed that it was a mess and she promptly removed all of my hair.
The completely bald thing is not a good look for me. Bald, I look strikingly like a 12-year-old. I decided that rather than date pedophiles who like the pre-pubescent look, that I should grow my hair back and start again. The next time, I asked Lacy to leave a bit more hair. The Hitler look left a little to be desired. As I examined my crotch in the hand held mirror that she so graciously provided, I was shocked at how much my crotch resembles an eyeball turned on it's side. I thought about how lucky my crotch is; very few people get to stare into my panties all day.
This time, I was prepared. I collected the suggestions and design templates that were conveniently emailed to me and laid them out for her to study. Immediately, Lacy ruled out the bear. I protested. How ironic is it to have a nearly bare bear snatch? But, Lacy insisted that it was too complex. We jointly ruled out anyone's name. I can't live with anyone's name down there unless we are deeply committed. By deeply committed, I mean paying for my shoe habit. The Confederate flag option was also vetoed. It just doesn't have the same impact without a good dye job. We decided to go for the flames.
Lacy traced the outline onto a piece of paper and laid it across me. She applied the wax and began ripping out the hair. Does anyone else scream during this process? The end result looks a little like I use a Pubic Flowbee or a paper shredder to groom myself.
For the next several weeks, I'll be hitting on men who work at my local office supply store.
I am teaching one of my girlfriends how to date. Kerri is perpetually in a relationship and has never learned the art of being single. Because, I am a dutiful friend, I have agreed to help. I am the best wingperson ever. Also, I enjoy getting all prettied up to drink in bars while wearing adorable shoes and batting my long eyelashes.
We started her lessons with the basics. I taught her about proper bar seat selection. We practiced looking demurely at each other from across the room. We crossing and uncrossing our legs seductively. We discussed the finer points of long term vs. short term dating. We even settled on an appropriate waiting period for sex.
We moved on to pick up lines. I prefer, "Can I interest you in some sexual positions without emotional investment?" Kerri felt that this was a little to forward for her taste. She is more of an, "Excuse me, but have we met before?" kind of girl. I can live with that. A girl needs to have her own dating style. "Find your voice," I encouraged her.
When I felt that Kerri had mastered the essentials of seduction and dating, we went live. We went to a lovely little venue and secured corner real estate at the bar. We examined the room for men with potential. We locked our gaze on a group of men without wedding rings and as we were planning our approach, we were intercepted by two men drinking domestic light beer. At first, I was disappointed, but then I thought that maybe this would be good practice for Kerri.
I confess that I don't remember either of their names. It has less to do with vodka tonics and more to do with the fact that I was bored to tears. The man that was trying to impress Kerri talked about his ex-girlfriend and how after they broke up he had to learn how to patch up sheet rock. Sheet rock is not actually the most stimulating conversation topic, especially when it has to do with patching up holes punched in anger. It seems like it might be, I know, but really, it's just a big red flag. After hearing all about the ex-girlfriend, I turned to him and slurred, "You know, I like you, I really do. You're very cute, you have great hair and you really are special. I'm just not sure that you're right for this competition."
They walked away, looking confused. Kerri sat there for a second, crossed and uncrossed her legs and said, "You sound just like Paula Abdul."
I'm just happy that she could understand my slurred speech.
I went to the zoo yesterday. I bought a pair of shoes last weekend that say, "I'm feminine, yet I still enjoy a good safari," so a trip to the zoo seemed like the perfect excuse to wear them.
I have this thing about throwing up in amusement parks, water parks, and zoos. To date, I have puked on Mickey Mouse, the deck of a wave pool, and in a trash can in the reptile house.
I remember the last time I went to the zoo because it was a swanky evening event. I had cocktails and little sausages while rubbing elbows with important people and watching the zookeepers feed the animals. I think that hors d'oeuvres at the zoo should be vegetarian, but that's not what made me puke. What made me puke was when I leaned in to kiss my date in the romantic darkness surrounded by snakes and lizards and accidentally kissed a local politician's Chief of Staff. I had spotted him earlier in the evening filling his pockets with little sausages wrapped up in paper napkins. I wanted to say something clever like, "is that a little sausage in your pocket..." but the combination of humiliation and chardonnay turned my stomach and instead I ralphed into a trash can. I like to think of that as a political statement. Needless to say, my date didn't offer to hold my hair out of my face as I vomited.
I was a little reluctant to go back to the zoo, but I really wanted to see the baby panda bear. I was also hoping that the monitors in the panda house would be streaming the panda porn that they showed the parents to encourage copulation.
For almost $20, I stood in the rain and looked at the animals who were smart enough to seek shelter. Every species of animal was standing facing away from the people who were dumb enough to brave the rain to see them. I spent most of the time indoors looking at monkey butts and people. I watched people take pictures through the glass and wondered why they don't keep people in the zoo. It was almost worth the $20 just to watch the people get excited when the monkeys crapped.
As I looked at the monkey's shiny bald behinds, I knew that it was time to go. It reminded me that it was Brazilian Day at a local college. The radio ads said that it was free. That's a great price for a Brazilian wax.
I don't know who was more surprised when I dropped my pants, the Brazilian Student Alliance or me.
I took a comparative religion class in college. I feel that those three credit hours make me qualified to come up with all kinds of answers to religious questions when asked.
Last night, Sue (my deliciously beautiful, yet nearly retarded friend) called me. "What does Allah look like?" she asked.
I had to think for a bit. I told her that I know lots of people, but no one named Allah. "No, you know, like Allah Allah. The Allah." Sometimes, when you say a name twice, it will jog my memory. "Oh, that Allah," I said.
I told her that I didn't think that I had ever seen a picture of Allah. He's not like Jesus or anything. I have a magnetic dress up Jesus on my fridge. Sometimes, I make him wear a French maid outfit. It's really pretty cute on him. I want to get the biker outfit for him next. Or maybe the Urban Jesus outfit. The one where he's wearing the white t-shirt that looks like a nightgown and jeans. Sue calls that the t-skirt. Jesus would look good in that. And some New Balance sneakers. Yeah, that's how I want the Jesus on my fridge to look.
We talked about whether Urban Jesus would wear New Balance or not for awhile. Then, Sue got serious. "Look, I'm in the bathroom. I'm out with a guy that I think has Allah tattooed on his neck." I reached back into the part of my brain that remembers stuff from college. It's occupies a tiny space in my head. I remember that my apartment was #420. I'm also pretty sure that it's not okay to create a picture of Allah. "That would be idol worship," I said. We talked about American Idol for a little while and then she had to leave the restroom to rejoin her date and his tattoo at the dinner table.
Later in the evening, I got a text message from Sue. "It's Mohammad Ali," it said. Before she could ask, I told her that he was like a prophet or something.
I like to make her think that I'm the idiot.
"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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