Here's what I need to do: 1. Get Hobby, 2. Floss. Blogging just gets in the way.
Change of Pace
Lately, I just haven't been into this blog. I think we're growing apart. Maybe we need to try something new. Tell me, is there something you'd like to see here? A burning question? Is there a post that you'd like a follow up to?
This blog is temporarily in your hands.
Pants and Entertaining
I'm sleepy from entertaining into the early morning hours. After all that entertaining, I was exhausted and a little sticky. When I woke up this morning, I thought about writing a post but, I could not resist the ease and convenience of morning entertainment. Good entertainment, day or night, makes me retarded and unable to write.
Removing my pants always helps me think.
I prefer not to wear pants when I am home alone. I stand in front of the fridge without my pants and eat pickles. I talk on the phone without my pants on. Sometimes, I just sit there and do nothing without my pants on. Everything that I do with pants, is better without pants.
I like to entertain without being burdened by pants. However, the etiquette for not wearing pants while home alone is very different from not wearing pants at home while entertaining.
During the entertainment, I would rather not stand in front of the fridge, eating pickles with no pants on. If I am eating pickles, it's a pretty good clue that I am not being entertained enough.
I will not answer my phone if it rings while I am being entertained. It's rude to talk on the phone without pants when engaging in entertainment. Anyone foolish enough to answer the phone while I am entertaining, will find that all entertainment will abruptly cease. When the phone call has ended, I may not feel like entertaining any more. Occasionally, I can be persuaded.
For a change of pace, I like to lie on my back without my pants and do nothing but enjoy the entertainment and the view. Sometimes, I'll even take a moment to entertain myself.
Sometimes, I stay up late and watch infomercials. They make me see how much easier my life could be and just how backwards I am. The plastic containers in my cupboards are an unsightly mess. I cannot reach items on my highest shelves without endangering life and limb on my ordinary step stool. I don't own a single thing that folds and stores flat under my bed.
I especially like the infomercials for stain removing products. I sit on the couch eagerly anticipating how the infomercial hosts will test the limits of the product next. I cheer along with the studio audience as mustard and grape juice and cow's blood and coffee are poured onto a carpet swatch. There is no way that any product can possibly handle a stain like that, I think to myself. It will take a time elapsed video of the stain being lifted from the carpet fibers to make me a believer.
The infomercial hosts will double the offer and throw in a travel size bottle. They will try to seduce me by throwing in a set of kitchen knives that can cut a penny in half and a certificate of authenticity, suitable for framing. I am not swayed by these offers. It's the testimonials of the people who now live stain-free that sway me. I want to be one of them. I think that I could tell a damn convincing testimonial.
My knowledge of common household stains is based on what I've learned from watching infomercials. I have found that the best way to handle clothing splattered with blood is incineration. Ink stains on my couch cushions virtually disappear when the cushion is flipped over. DNA stains in the bedroom all but vanish when the lights are off.
However, I have created a stubborn stain that I can't get out. In my arsenal of stain fighting agents, there doesn't seem to be a single product designed to remove red wine from white dog fur.
I've heard that white wine is supposed to remove red wine stains, so I opened a bottle of Chardonnay. After using the entire bottle, I can confidently say that white wine does not remove red wine stains.
I can also confidently say that dogs do not like Chardonnay. He's going to have one Hell of a hangover when he wakes up.
I'm not here today. I'm here.
I am weak now. Please, let me rest.
Inner Ear/Alien Spawn
Double ear infection + Vertigo = No post today.
My ears are tired of not being recognized on my face. For years, they have been in the shadows of my wide almond eyes and delicate nose and my pouty lips. My ears have issued a statement warning me that middle ear infections will rage in both ears accompanied by fever and chills until I listen to their demands. They have threatened to rain down a pain worse than any swimmer's ear I have ever had in my life. I refuse to negotiate with my ears. They have control over my equilibrium and have threatened to upset it. They have breeched the canals. I have Amoxicillin for ten days and I have wine for the next several hours. I will stay the course.
Where did I go wrong with my ears? I did the best I could with them, but there were two of them and I was young and foolish. I spoiled them and sheltered them those tiny little bones. My ears always loved the drums and I encouraged them. Maybe, I loved them too much. I was proud of my earlobes, my family has always had fine ears. At night, I vainly stroked them with Q-Tips, which I never, ever stuck into the ear canal.
I think the problems started when I had them pierced. The man used a piercing gun. I saw a show on TV about how the gun is too violent and can scar young ears. I should have found a place that used a needle. I can feel the tiny bit of scar tissue near the hole. My ears will never forgive me. Now, I'm too sensitive to wear earrings. When I do, it is only for a few hours and, even then, the holes itch and burn in ways that only other holes in the body can relate to. I made them go through the trauma of the gun for nothing. Earrings are really all an ear has to look forward to. No one notices ears unless you are wearing earrings. People never comment on the fullness of an earlobe or the delicate swirling of cartilage.
My ears have started making noises like Rice Krispies cereal. They are demanding hoop earrings. I have five holes between my two ears. Every time I refuse a hoop, my ears threaten to pierce a part of my body. The nose and nipples sympathize with my ears and have formed an alliance. The situation in my ears is volatile, pulling out now would be disastrous. I will keep fighting the good fight with antibiotics and wine.
You Can Do It, Chris
My fifth grade teacher taught me that the mind is a source of energy. If I learned how to harness this energy through visualization exercises, I would be able to pass the fifth grade on the first try. I could do anything if I took the time to visualize myself doing it first.
She instructed us to picture ourselves as calm, confident, and mature boys and girls who were ready for success. With my eyes closed, I saw myself recording answers on a bubble sheet, clearly and completely, without leaving stray marks. Children who do not receive this kind of instruction, never learn the correct way to fill in the bubbles. They mark them with an X and sometimes, a check mark. It's a safe assumption that children like this don't pass the fifth grade on their first try. Without knowledge of visualization techniques, they grow up to believe that they can't do anything.
Chris, the bartender at the pub I went to last night, never learned about the power of self-imagery. He didn't take the time to picture himself pouring a perfect Paulaner with a slice of orange or a tall Crown and Coke. Lisa and I visualized our drinks arriving but, there is only so much the mind can do without telekinesis.
Lisa channeled her energy into searching her purse for nothing in particular. She pulled out a book about the human aura and read the back cover. She stared just past my head with her head tilted to one side and her eyes slightly crossed. I sat perfectly still. She said that my aura looked like it wanted a beer. She is a seer. Chris slipped off into the kitchen. I took a picture of my shoes. Lisa clicked her nails.
I began to visualize myself someplace else; someplace without Chris. I could think of plenty of places without Chris. Lisa had the same thought. She excused herself to the restroom, conveniently available without Chris.
I walked a few steps away from the table and was visualizing myself finding my keys in my purse when I felt someone standing over me. Chris threw his hands up and said that our drinks were poured and at the end of the bar. I explained to Chris that it is customary to place a beverage in front of the person who ordered it.
Chris raised his voice, "I can't pour a beer back into a keg and I can't pour the Crown and Coke back either."
"Sure you can, Chris. You can do anything if you put your mind to it. I believe in you."
Is it Monday?
It's been an impossibly long weekend and I can't keep my eyes open long enough to write a post. So, I'm sleeping in today. I'll write something when I wake up. Please, dim the lights and feed the cat on your way out.
Back In My Skin...Mostly
I have a rash and I smell like fish. It was a great vacation. The last time that I had a rash and smelled like fish, it wasn't such a good time. This, was totally different. Totally.
It turns out that I am very, very good at vacationing. I would venture to say that I am almost like a professional vacationer. I don't take it seriously enough to be a professional, but that's what makes me so good at it. On a scale of one to five with one being Sucks at Vacationing and five being Remarkably Comfortable With Housekeeping Finding Me in Compromising Positions, I would have to give myself a five.
I find the ocean to be incredibly therapeutic. The rising and falling tide romance me. The warm water soothes me. The crashing waves remind me to be humble, I am a mite here on Earth and much, much larger things surround me. Mostly, I find the ocean to be a really good place to be completely drunk and mostly naked. This is in stark contrast to the rest of my life in which I am mostly drunk and completely naked.
For the last week, each morning, I strolled the beach of Sanibel, Florida. By the rosy sunrise, I scoured the sandy beach for my bikini top and my room key. From the position of the sun, I calculated the number of hours before the poolside bar opened. I showered, rinsing sand from parts of me that looked remarkably like the seafood that I had consumed the night before and dragged myself to my bed. I slept. It was bliss.
By late morning, I found myself at the pool. I nestled my towel and sunglasses and magazines and beverages with umbrellas between the drinkers and the tanorexics. It is a thin line between the two groups. Drinkers who pass out in the sun, rapidly find themselves the envy of the tanorexics. We formed a strong bond. The drinkers admired my ability to drink and the tanorexics admired my tan. I miss them sorely already.
The American Cancer Society stood watch, poolside. Their awareness personnel are a bit like the United Nations peace keeping forces. Their presence did not go unnoticed and we appreciated their vast knowledge on what was a melanoma and what was most likely a laceration or bruise or hickey. They handed out samples of sunscreen to those who requested one but, they were ordered to stand down and watch us slowly bake ourselves into our own preconceived notions of the perfect shade of gold.
By the second day, the skin on my forehead had a new texture and I began to think that maybe I should invest in a floppy hat. But, on the third day, when my forehead peeled and revealed new skin, baby soft and in a brand new shade, I decided that I my skin is an incredible, mysterious organ, best left to it's own devices. Plus, my hair doesn't always look it's best in a floppy hat. As I type this, I am sitting in a flaky mound of my own shoulder and back and bridge of my nose dander. I cannot stop peeling myself. It is disgusting and gratifying all at the same time. I cannot stop picking at my shoulders. I think that peeling negates all of the daiquiri and fried crab cake calories that I consumed over the last six days. Surely, I have shed five pounds of skin and surely, I consumed five pounds of fried calamari. The ocean has a way of taking and giving.
Next week, if I can remember, I will write about how I was attacked by an inflatable whale or how I narrowly escaped death by angry mobs of cheap airline travelers but, for now, I am content to be back to blogging.
I Mist y'all. It's good to be back.
a.) In rehab.
b.) On vacation.
See you in:
a.) 28 days.
b.) A week.
c.) 25 to life.
Everyone has a relative who passes out naked in the yard or falls into the pool. In my family, I am that relative.
Jamie's embarrassing relative is her cousin Trish. Last night, Trish had an Independence Day party. Not only was it the 4th of July, but this week the State Board of Pardons and Paroles decided that her ex-boyfriend should serve the duration of his sentence behind bars. Trish thought that the two should be celebrated as the ultimate expression of her Independence as a single American woman.
We stopped at a convenience store to buy Trish a gift. I found a card that I felt summed up my sentiments nicely. The front read, "Congratulations on your break up..." and the inside message was, "I still think we should have drowned him in the river like we did them puppies when we was kids." Jamie bought her carton of cigarettes. We didn't mean to smoke a pack of her cigarettes but, it was a long drive. Jamie cleverly filled the space in the carton with wadded up receipts and crap that she found in the backseat of her car. She neatly resealed the carton with gum. Jamie should have been a surgeon.
We followed the trail of shotgun shells to Trish's house. The front lawn was tastefully landscaped with dirt. Trish threw open the door and we all screamed and hugged. Jamie handed Trish the carton of cigarettes. Trish smiled for a second and then said, "it feels light." She hollered, "Lil' Man, git the Hell up off that floor and git these girls a beer." Moments later, Lil' Man, her six year old son delivered two ice cold beers. I asked him if he'd light my cigarette. Jamie frowned at me, so I told him to light one for his momma too and hurry the Hell up. I told Trish that I thought it was really creative how she had used sheets as curtains. I wondered if she had curtains or vertical blinds on her bed.
Trish went into the kitchen and returned with her special drunken watermelon. I don't like watermelon, but Trish adds so much liquor that I couldn't detect even a hint of fruit. We decided to finish the watermelon while floating in the pool. With the watermelon bobbing in the water, we drifted on our rafts in the pool. Lil' Man did a cannonball and pool water splashed over us and the melon. Trish, showing tremendous restraint, threatened to hold Lil' Man under the water 'til he turned blue again and then calmly told us not to worry about the water splashing on the fruit. She hadn't used chlorine in the pool, so we didn't have to worry about all those chemicals. I decided that this was not the appropriate time to ask for a show of hands who had peed in the pool.
Trish rested her head on her piece of the watermelon and dozed peacefully in the dirt. Lil' Man lovingly brushed the ants from her face. Trish is peaceful when she is sleeping but, she is an entirely different person when abruptly awakened by the sound of fireworks. It must have triggered some kind of Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome response. The way she woke up reminded me of the time that I tried to give my cat a bath. Her her was matted from watermelon juice and liquor, her claws sliced at the air, and she hissed menacingly. Quickly, Lil' Man handed Trish her shotgun. Where Trish lives, everyone is a gun owner. Jamie and I hadn't even had the good sense to bring a switchblade or brass knuckles.
We decided that this was a good time to leave.
Last night, I told Lisa to get Tuck fixed. "I am tired of looking at his dangly pink balls all the time," I said. They are too big and too dangly and too pink. It seems more like she has a pair of pet balls with a dog attached than a pet dog with his balls still attached.
Tuck sat up and looked at me. He tilted his head to the side. I thought that look meant, "Lemme smell your butt again," but in hindsight, I know that it meant, "My doggie balls are as meaningful to me as your precious flip flops. Maybe next time you'll think twice before you talk about deez nutz."
This is no way to celebrate the 4th of July. You all go on. Enjoy yourselves. I'll just sit here with what's left of my flip flops.
Good thing I bought them in yellow too.
Yesterday morning, I woke up with a disturbing thought. I never buried my guinea pig after she died a few weeks ago. I couldn't even remember what I did with her little albino corpse.
I checked all of the standard places that one might keep a dead guinea pig. I found a harness of sorts under my bed, but there was no guinea pig. I did not find a guinea pig between the cushions of my couch but, I did find $0.76.
I took a different approach in my search. Detectives on TV always find bodies folded up and wrapped in rugs in the trunks of cars. I Although I know that only victims of heinous crimes end up in trunks, I still checked my car. I did not find Wiggy.
I was wasting my time. I needed to think like me to find my dead pet. I went back inside collected all my handbags. I poured their contents on the floor. I decided to sort the contents into categories; animal, mineral, cosmetic, flammable, and sexual. I sifted through the pile. I found lip gloss (cosmetic), packets of Splenda (flammable), old chewing gum (mineral), and dental floss (cosmetic/sexual). There was nothing in the animal pile.
The kitchen was the next logical place to look. I peered into the garbage disposal. When I was a kid, Mom told me that rats crawl up garbage disposals. As a precaution, I ran the disposal for a few seconds. No rats. No guinea pig. In the freezer, the ice maker was full and, I found my spare mailbox key. I couldn't resist the urge to see if it would stick to my tongue. It did. I opened the fridge and observed that the light still worked and that I was running low on pickles. I opened a vegetable drawer and in horror, I found Wiggy's body, wrapped in plastic. She was cold and stiff and much browner than I had remembered.
I retched over the sink and unceremoniously put Wiggy in the freezer. I called the cat nanny and told him what I had found. We decided that we would bury her in the park immediately. I changed into a short red dress because I have always wanted to wear a slutty red dress to a funeral. I wore black shoes out of respect. When the cat nanny arrived, I made him get the body out of the freezer. He pulled out the plastic bag and inspected Wiggy's decaying frame. "Why do you have a potato in the freezer?" he asked.
We searched for hours. We did not find Wiggy.
I can only conclude that Wiggy was the albino guinea pig Messiah. I live on the sacred site of a rodent resurrection. She has risen.
Sometimes, I watch porn. I like the dialog and the intricacies of the plot and the shoes that the girls wear in interesting positions.
Until recently, I was ignorant to the bestiality genre of pornography. Fortunately, Avitable has opened my eyes to a whole new world; a freakishly horrific, and probably illegal new world.
When Av shared his porn collection with me, I expected an artsy film, something that juxtaposed the allure of midgets with the complex anatomy of horses. Instead, he surprised me with a nauseating flick involving a man wearing animal print and a snake. After watching it once (and once again in slow motion), I knew that I would never be the same. I thought I could handle seeing a snake make tender, passionate love to a man. Unfortunately, I was not prepared to see the man make tender, passionate love (in several disturbing , passionate ways) to the snake. I had lived my entire life without ever considering that snakes have vaginas.
My therapist recommends that I limit my contact with Av, but did not say anything about contact with snakes.
PS: Melodyann told me not to write about fat people on her blog today. Have you ever noticed how hard it is not to write about fat people when someone tells you not to write about fat people? Me too.
PPS: At Av's suggestion, here's the link. If you are at work and want to keep your job, maybe you should wait until you get home to click this link. If you don't like your job, what are you waiting for?
"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.
Subscribe in a reader
Subscribe to comments