Holler has an analytical mind. She’s brilliant, really, always looking at something with a different spin, always problem solving. Me, I’m smart enough—I didn’t aim high, just wanted to be smarter than any of my siblings, which honestly didn’t take much. Now as an English major, being analytical would come with the territory because our pretentious, pompous breed will pick apart literature till the cows come home. It’s crazy. It’s why I stopped schooling as soon as I got my BA because I was pretty intolerable on the pretentious level when I crossed the stage in 1997. If I had gotten the other degrees, I would have been shot by now, I’m sure. If you meet an English major, you should probably run before you fall into a coma just talking to them.
So once I stopped schooling, I allowed my mind to rot. Mind you, I was letting it rot to begin with. I've never made a good English major. I mean, I got the grades and all; and I can bullshit like no one’s business, but I hate reading literary crap. And I certainly don’t want to spend two weeks arguing about what the author was meaning when he wrote something. It’s Charles Dickens. He was writing for a paycheck—he was thinking: “If I write, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way— in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only,” I’ll get paid more than if I write: “It was the same bullshit, but a different year.” Charles Dickens was a capitalist, not a writer.
Which gets me to one of my many pretentious points: It’s an opinion. We’re entitled to opinions. It’s crazy to grade someone on their opinion because it doesn’t match what your opinion on Charles Dickens is. If I make a valid argument about why his works are mind-numbingly dull and I write it well, I should get the same A as the kiss-ass that regurgitated the professor’s opinions on the matter. At least mine was an original thought.
I also tend to let my mind rot because I figure I spend enough of my day thinking anyway, so I should be allowed all the brain candy I want to read. Hence my romance novels. Yes, they are as predictable as a Dick and Jane book for the most part, but there is something comforting about it. The world is a madhouse run by the rabbit in a top hat. You should retreat when you can and make no apologies for it. Plus the sex is usually really good.
My friend Sin has been raving about a guy named Ranger since practically I met her. Actually before I met her. Her DH, upon finding out I was an avid reader, said, “Do you read the Plum novels? Sin is crazy for that Ranger guy.” I was totally clueless. And when DH found out I wrote, he was “You must meet Sin. You’re from the same hometown, you write, you read” and really it was almost like meeting someone you’ve known since birth, since writers are a strange breed anyway. We all have similar crap childhoods—it’s why we write. Creating worlds is the only way to survive in the one you’re living in most of the time. Plus there is always the lunatic hope you’ll publish enough to escape the hometown. I think all writers want to escape their hometowns. Mark Twain was a great writer. Born in Missouri, and lived anywhere but here as soon as he was able. Obviously a smart man.
So after months of avoiding Sin’s stack of books on Ranger, (Okay, they’re the Plum books…but really, it’s Ranger we’re here for) I finally got wound up into #9 (skipping directly to 9, mind you), and so it began. I wasn’t a third into the novel before I raved in lunatic-fanatic fashion about the many merits of Ranger, though my acquaintance with him at best was minimal. “He’s so awesome! No wonder the Babes” (Babes would be lingo for a Ranger fan in the Plum world) “love him! He totally leaves Morelli in the dust.”
Monday I was about two-thirds done with the book, raving once again, and I said, “He rescued her. She was stuck on a fire escape—you won’t believe the shit she gets into—and he unlocked the apartment, opened the window, didn’t question her about it, and just saved the day! He’s so cool! He’s so hot!”
Holler attempted to be analytical and scoffed (really she would have made a brilliant English major, she has the perfect scoff and hates predictable romantic comedies): “You wouldn’t think that if Ranger were a woman.”
Me: *confused* “Well, why would Ranger be a woman?”
Holler: “You know what I mean. If a woman were Ranger and she were as ‘competent’ as Ranger, you’d hate her guts.”
Me: *really confused* “But I don’t understand. Why would I even be reading these books if Ranger were a woman?”
And thus the conclusion of why I made a poor English major. If someone wasn’t getting something-something somewhere in the book, I wasn’t interested in reading it. And it better be good sex, because I’m already having enough bad sex that I don’t need to read anymore about it.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Monday, February 26, 2007
Snowflakes and Testicles
Apparently Holler was in a mood.
Holler moonlights as a bartender on some Saturdays, and last Saturday, while I was at home with my Amish bonnet and prayers (okay, my POTC video and dirty, dirty fantasies), Holler was making a fast buck. She apparently arrived to said work night “in a mood” (I believe those were her words.)
Around 11:30, she says, she started slamming some beers and Kamikaze shots, fast enough to feel the call of the “Hell, yeah.” The Call of “Hell Yeah” is that brain blip which suddenly bright-lights ideas you normally wouldn’t think was a good idea, and makes you say, when asked if you want to do that: “Hell, yeah!” (It by no means implies that it’s now actually a good idea.)
Holler is blushing as she recounts the evening, but grinning all the same. “I was flashing everyone! I never flash anyone!”
Indeed she doesn’t. She was so much better than me at the Mardi Gras party, where I was flashing everyone. Twice. I laugh. “Did you get anything?”
“Twenty bucks.”
“Twenty bucks?” I yelped. Suddenly I feel like the Native American who sold half of Florida for some beads and blankets, only being the classic non-negotiator I am, I just got beads. (To be fair, I got a lot of beads. Just no where near twenty dollars worth. Twenty dollars would buy a lot more rum.)
“From a band member. He was from Colorado.”
That does explain quite a bit. I can’t imagine a local tipping so big. I’m not dissing Holler. Her boobs are fine. I’ve seen them often enough in the locker room. But even if Holler were stacked like Pam Anderson—she’d still not get twenty bucks from the average crowd member around here. She also said her “Spaghetti Guy” was totally living it up. (This would be the individual who is always asking her to teach him out to cook spaghetti. Right. He needs help learning to boil water. He’s so not obvious. *LOL*) He was groping left and right to his little heart’s content.
When Holler commented her boobs weren’t as fascinating (a.k.a. remarkably tits-worthy huge) as some of her co-workers, a bright young man hastened to reassure her that “Boobs are like snowflakes. They are all unique and beautiful.”
A man definitely interested in keeping the show going.
Holler then dared the young guy bartender, who she affectionately refers to as “Fetus”, that if she was flashing parts, he should flash parts. Her eyes are wide as she tells me this. “I didn’t think he would.”
I’m Amish, and even I know better than this. I cocked an eyebrow at her. “You dared a young man to show you his parts and you didn’t think he would?”
Co-worker#1 gasped, covering her mouth. “Are you saying he did?”
I laughed. “Oh, he did. I have no doubt in my mind.”
Holler grins. “Yes, he did. Whipped out his testicles without a by-you-leave. Shaved too. He said he’d shaved and polished them up for us.”
Apparently his tenacity had paid off for the day that a woman would ask him to “whip it out for a viewing.”
Holler is in stitches by now, as am I, imagining this scene. “I told him they looked very nice.” I howl. Not at the parts, personally, but the hilarity of the situation at hand.
I think I was then told this boob flashing was all my fault. I expect Thank You cards from Fetus and Spaghetti Guy.
I’m not sure this blog has a point, but again, I’m not sure any of my blogs have points. But I suppose I could ask: have you ever started a trend that you should get thank you cards for? Or do you have any “snowflake” philosophies like Boob Guy? If so, please share.
Holler moonlights as a bartender on some Saturdays, and last Saturday, while I was at home with my Amish bonnet and prayers (okay, my POTC video and dirty, dirty fantasies), Holler was making a fast buck. She apparently arrived to said work night “in a mood” (I believe those were her words.)
Around 11:30, she says, she started slamming some beers and Kamikaze shots, fast enough to feel the call of the “Hell, yeah.” The Call of “Hell Yeah” is that brain blip which suddenly bright-lights ideas you normally wouldn’t think was a good idea, and makes you say, when asked if you want to do that: “Hell, yeah!” (It by no means implies that it’s now actually a good idea.)
Holler is blushing as she recounts the evening, but grinning all the same. “I was flashing everyone! I never flash anyone!”
Indeed she doesn’t. She was so much better than me at the Mardi Gras party, where I was flashing everyone. Twice. I laugh. “Did you get anything?”
“Twenty bucks.”
“Twenty bucks?” I yelped. Suddenly I feel like the Native American who sold half of Florida for some beads and blankets, only being the classic non-negotiator I am, I just got beads. (To be fair, I got a lot of beads. Just no where near twenty dollars worth. Twenty dollars would buy a lot more rum.)
“From a band member. He was from Colorado.”
That does explain quite a bit. I can’t imagine a local tipping so big. I’m not dissing Holler. Her boobs are fine. I’ve seen them often enough in the locker room. But even if Holler were stacked like Pam Anderson—she’d still not get twenty bucks from the average crowd member around here. She also said her “Spaghetti Guy” was totally living it up. (This would be the individual who is always asking her to teach him out to cook spaghetti. Right. He needs help learning to boil water. He’s so not obvious. *LOL*) He was groping left and right to his little heart’s content.
When Holler commented her boobs weren’t as fascinating (a.k.a. remarkably tits-worthy huge) as some of her co-workers, a bright young man hastened to reassure her that “Boobs are like snowflakes. They are all unique and beautiful.”
A man definitely interested in keeping the show going.
Holler then dared the young guy bartender, who she affectionately refers to as “Fetus”, that if she was flashing parts, he should flash parts. Her eyes are wide as she tells me this. “I didn’t think he would.”
I’m Amish, and even I know better than this. I cocked an eyebrow at her. “You dared a young man to show you his parts and you didn’t think he would?”
Co-worker#1 gasped, covering her mouth. “Are you saying he did?”
I laughed. “Oh, he did. I have no doubt in my mind.”
Holler grins. “Yes, he did. Whipped out his testicles without a by-you-leave. Shaved too. He said he’d shaved and polished them up for us.”
Apparently his tenacity had paid off for the day that a woman would ask him to “whip it out for a viewing.”
Holler is in stitches by now, as am I, imagining this scene. “I told him they looked very nice.” I howl. Not at the parts, personally, but the hilarity of the situation at hand.
I think I was then told this boob flashing was all my fault. I expect Thank You cards from Fetus and Spaghetti Guy.
I’m not sure this blog has a point, but again, I’m not sure any of my blogs have points. But I suppose I could ask: have you ever started a trend that you should get thank you cards for? Or do you have any “snowflake” philosophies like Boob Guy? If so, please share.
Hellion’s Birthday Song
Fifteen men on Hellion’s buxom chest,
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum
Drink and be merry on this day of rest
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum
Jack was fixed by her naked boobies,
The boobies fixed by the cold night air—
He said, “I’m so glad they’re round and not cubies.
They’re so pretty with your Titian hair.”
“Oh, Jack, your compliments are divine,”
Hellion said with another jigger of rum
“But enough of boobies, I know they’re fine,
I want some compliments now of my bum.”
Fifteen men on Hellion’s buxom chest,
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum
Drink and be merry on this day of rest
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum
“Tis your birthday, I’ll humor my Hellion,”
He said with a slap to her very round rear
“Your bum, like a bed, is nice to fall on—
I’d toast it, I swear, if I had a beer!”
“Your rhyming needs work, I admit,”
Hellion said, not sure if she liked her butt to a bed
“But you are a pirate, so you’re full of shit—
And you seduce where others fear to tread.”
Fifteen men on Hellion’s buxom chest,
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum
Drink and be merry on this day of rest
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum
Drink and be merry on this day of rest
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum
Jack was fixed by her naked boobies,
The boobies fixed by the cold night air—
He said, “I’m so glad they’re round and not cubies.
They’re so pretty with your Titian hair.”
“Oh, Jack, your compliments are divine,”
Hellion said with another jigger of rum
“But enough of boobies, I know they’re fine,
I want some compliments now of my bum.”
Fifteen men on Hellion’s buxom chest,
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum
Drink and be merry on this day of rest
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum
“Tis your birthday, I’ll humor my Hellion,”
He said with a slap to her very round rear
“Your bum, like a bed, is nice to fall on—
I’d toast it, I swear, if I had a beer!”
“Your rhyming needs work, I admit,”
Hellion said, not sure if she liked her butt to a bed
“But you are a pirate, so you’re full of shit—
And you seduce where others fear to tread.”
Fifteen men on Hellion’s buxom chest,
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum
Drink and be merry on this day of rest
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum
Mouse Trap
“And, after all, what is a lie? ‘Tis but the truth in masquerade.” --Lord Byron
‘Tis an intriguing platonic affair we’ve indulged--
Never have you known such a woman as I.
I’ve many secrets, yet my mystery’s divulged.
‘Tis amazing how much Truth can fit in a lie.
My green eyes are wicked, feminine and bold;
My smile’s the oldest tale ever told.
I’m like every woman you’ve charmed with your line
And yet there is something you can’t seem to grasp…
It drives you insane, but you say that you’re fine.
You swear this next flirtation will be our last.
Eve never gave trouble like I’ve given you
And you’re hoping I’ll surrender sinfully too.
Oh yea of little faith, when my Virtue’s too strong,
I’ve been known to convert at the drop of a hat.
When you’re tired of cat-and-mouse, you’ll see that you’re wrong--
That it’s all about the Mouse who ate up the Cat.
Nothing is ever quite what it seems.
You’re not devoted and I’m not made of dreams.
Ah, it’s an odd little affair we’ve created I’ll say
Not likely to last much longer you bet
For what use is taunting you all of the Day
If I don’t make your Night something ne’er to forget?
Ah, this Mouse is ready to set her bait.
All the Cat must do is lie and wait.
‘Tis an intriguing platonic affair we’ve indulged--
Never have you known such a woman as I.
I’ve many secrets, yet my mystery’s divulged.
‘Tis amazing how much Truth can fit in a lie.
My green eyes are wicked, feminine and bold;
My smile’s the oldest tale ever told.
I’m like every woman you’ve charmed with your line
And yet there is something you can’t seem to grasp…
It drives you insane, but you say that you’re fine.
You swear this next flirtation will be our last.
Eve never gave trouble like I’ve given you
And you’re hoping I’ll surrender sinfully too.
Oh yea of little faith, when my Virtue’s too strong,
I’ve been known to convert at the drop of a hat.
When you’re tired of cat-and-mouse, you’ll see that you’re wrong--
That it’s all about the Mouse who ate up the Cat.
Nothing is ever quite what it seems.
You’re not devoted and I’m not made of dreams.
Ah, it’s an odd little affair we’ve created I’ll say
Not likely to last much longer you bet
For what use is taunting you all of the Day
If I don’t make your Night something ne’er to forget?
Ah, this Mouse is ready to set her bait.
All the Cat must do is lie and wait.
Friday, February 23, 2007
PMS Deconstructed
I sent a friend a joke that immediately made me think of him. (It was probably the Wisconsin part.) He immediately wrote back how much it made him laugh. It goes like this.
A young guy from Wisconsin moves to Florida and goes to a big "everything under one roof" department store looking for a job.
The Manager says, "Do you have any sales experience?"
The kid says "Yeah, I was a salesman back in Wisconsin."
Well, the boss liked the kid and gave him the job. "You start tomorrow I'll come down after we close and see how you did."
His first day on the job was rough, but he got through it after the store was locked up, the boss came down.
"How many customers bought something from you today?"
The kid says, "One.”
"Just one? Our sales people average 20 to 30 customers a day, how much was the sale for ?"
"$101,237.65."
The boss gapes at this. "$101,237.65? What the heck did you sell?"
The kid says, "First, I sold him a small fish hook then I sold him a medium fishhook then I sold him a larger fishhook then I sold him a new fishing rod. Then I asked him where he was going fishing and he said down the coast, so I told him he was going to need a boat, so we went down to the boat department and I sold him a twin engine Chris Craft then he said he didn't think his Honda Civic would pull it, so I took him down to the automotive department and sold him that 4x4Expedition."
The boss said "A guy came in here to buy a fish hook and you sold him a BOAT and a TRUCK ?"
The kid said "No, the guy came in here to buy tampons for his wife, and I said 'Dude, your weekend's shot, you should go fishing.'
Come to think of it, it made me laugh—until today, when I find myself in the throes of a PMS fit. Not necessarily mean or anything, but borderline weeper. “Hellion, I think you might have a typo in this memo.” And I start blubbering that I never had any talent for writing, and it was just mean and cruel of them to point out how much I suck. Then I take a slice of the Chocolate Truffle Cake I brought and hide in my office.
“Hellion, you’re such a cynic. Your characters are nothing but cynics. Your book needs to show your characters becoming less cynical.” *full blown wail* Am I really that awful? Why is anyone my friend? Who would be friends with a cynic? OMG, I have nothing but pity friends. I’m their charitable cause! *wallowing in her bed, sobbing in her pillow* This is why no one will ever marry me. I’m just not likeable. *sobbing* And because I’m too fat. *eats another piece of cake*
“Hellion, you’re being dramatic. You know we like you.” *Hellion glaring at them and hording the crab rangoon she bought* Yeah, whatever, I know you’re faking, you big fakers. And no, I will not share the crab rangoon. They’re mine!
Tapping Captain Jack’s braids and making him bobble head doesn’t even make me smile. I’m really in the throes of something. Yesterday, Holler told me she couldn’t go to a movie with me tonight—which I had planned for my “birthday”. “I thought the Camelot thing and dinner was your birthday? And we’re having beer and wings Tuesday. For your birthday, you said.” Don’t try to be reasonable. I want something tonight too, damnit. Why don’t you want to hang out with me for my birthday? I got trumped by feral cats and picking up bricks? You don’t like me. You’d rather hang out with feral cats. Fine, if no one wants to hang out with me, I will go to my room and wallow in my blankets and pretend I don’t exist. It’s fine. I’m used to not existing. My parents didn’t want me either. They said I was an accident. It’s fine.
A young guy from Wisconsin moves to Florida and goes to a big "everything under one roof" department store looking for a job.
The Manager says, "Do you have any sales experience?"
The kid says "Yeah, I was a salesman back in Wisconsin."
Well, the boss liked the kid and gave him the job. "You start tomorrow I'll come down after we close and see how you did."
His first day on the job was rough, but he got through it after the store was locked up, the boss came down.
"How many customers bought something from you today?"
The kid says, "One.”
"Just one? Our sales people average 20 to 30 customers a day, how much was the sale for ?"
"$101,237.65."
The boss gapes at this. "$101,237.65? What the heck did you sell?"
The kid says, "First, I sold him a small fish hook then I sold him a medium fishhook then I sold him a larger fishhook then I sold him a new fishing rod. Then I asked him where he was going fishing and he said down the coast, so I told him he was going to need a boat, so we went down to the boat department and I sold him a twin engine Chris Craft then he said he didn't think his Honda Civic would pull it, so I took him down to the automotive department and sold him that 4x4Expedition."
The boss said "A guy came in here to buy a fish hook and you sold him a BOAT and a TRUCK ?"
The kid said "No, the guy came in here to buy tampons for his wife, and I said 'Dude, your weekend's shot, you should go fishing.'
Come to think of it, it made me laugh—until today, when I find myself in the throes of a PMS fit. Not necessarily mean or anything, but borderline weeper. “Hellion, I think you might have a typo in this memo.” And I start blubbering that I never had any talent for writing, and it was just mean and cruel of them to point out how much I suck. Then I take a slice of the Chocolate Truffle Cake I brought and hide in my office.
“Hellion, you’re such a cynic. Your characters are nothing but cynics. Your book needs to show your characters becoming less cynical.” *full blown wail* Am I really that awful? Why is anyone my friend? Who would be friends with a cynic? OMG, I have nothing but pity friends. I’m their charitable cause! *wallowing in her bed, sobbing in her pillow* This is why no one will ever marry me. I’m just not likeable. *sobbing* And because I’m too fat. *eats another piece of cake*
“Hellion, you’re being dramatic. You know we like you.” *Hellion glaring at them and hording the crab rangoon she bought* Yeah, whatever, I know you’re faking, you big fakers. And no, I will not share the crab rangoon. They’re mine!
Tapping Captain Jack’s braids and making him bobble head doesn’t even make me smile. I’m really in the throes of something. Yesterday, Holler told me she couldn’t go to a movie with me tonight—which I had planned for my “birthday”. “I thought the Camelot thing and dinner was your birthday? And we’re having beer and wings Tuesday. For your birthday, you said.” Don’t try to be reasonable. I want something tonight too, damnit. Why don’t you want to hang out with me for my birthday? I got trumped by feral cats and picking up bricks? You don’t like me. You’d rather hang out with feral cats. Fine, if no one wants to hang out with me, I will go to my room and wallow in my blankets and pretend I don’t exist. It’s fine. I’m used to not existing. My parents didn’t want me either. They said I was an accident. It’s fine.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Things I Hate: Raspberries
There are a lot of things I hate, but I thought I would focus on the helpless raspberry today. (I mean, you weren’t expecting raspberries, right? You would have thought I’d pick something worthwhile like bigots or people who wear their perfume about ten layers too deep.) Not a harmless ‘tasty’ raspberry.
It’s not that they have seeds in them. Fresh raspberries are okay—not my favorite berry, but not bad. However it’s the artificial scent of raspberries that makes me want to hurl. Always has. Probably something to do with yogurt with the nasty fruity mush at the bottom of the container, usually raspberry being the most popular. *full body shudder* And the most popular scent in Bath & Body Works is Sun-Ripened Raspberry, which when I frequent the store, I grab my standby coconut-lime and race back out the door before the raspberry scent can stink up my clothes. I have co-workers who swear by the crap. “Ooh, smell this, Hellion” and they’ll stick their lotion-slathered hands beneath my nose—and my nose wrinkles up like they stuck a sweaty old man beneath for me to sniff.
Frequently in life, whatever we hate, the gods try to find a way to get us to fall right in the middle of it. Or marry it. And in 2004, the gods were plotting. It was a summer day, and 2004 was my skinny year. WW was working good, and here I was dressed in a short fluttery skirt (that would blow up at the hint of a breeze), cute sunflower patterned underwear (that I thought were cute and would show you even if the skirt wasn’t fluttering: “See my underwear?”), and a pair of white kitten strappy heels. (I had on a shirt obviously. This wasn’t Topless Tuesday or anything, but for the purposes of this tale, those are the three items of clothing that matter.)
I had my sass on, one might say.
Also, as usual, I was running behind. I was supposed to meet Holly at Gold’s, and I needed to run by Gerbes first to pick up a container of sugar-free Nesquik. God forbid I be without my chocolate milk. I was already a bit peeved the other Gerbes didn’t have it when I’d gone shopping the day before. I breezed into the store, catwalking my stride and really putting a pop in my hips. (Seriously, sass all the way.)
I’m halfway to the Nesquik aisle, and I’m suddenly distracted by this Bartle and James’ display. Pina Colada flavored drink, and I distinctly remember thinking, Cool, I have to try….
And that’s exactly where that thought cut off because abruptly my legs flew out from under me—and I hear two guys yelling, “Ma’am! No! Stop!” But there is no stopping. I landed flat on my back. My skirt flew up to my waist, and there are my very cute sunflower panties on display. The two guys, 17 if they were a day, ran up to me. “Ma’am, are you okay?” “Oh, my God, I saw you walking directly for it and we couldn’t get…” “You’re not going to sue us, are you?”
Meanwhile I’m still just laying there, staring dazedly at the ceiling, wondering, What the fuck just happened? And why the hell does it smell like fucking raspberries?
I suddenly realize I’m sitting in the middle of a cold wet spot. The boys help me to my feet, and I’m trying to keep it together—but being I just flashed juvenile delinquents, it’s difficult. I right my skirt and realize I’m dripping with raspberry yogurt. I look at the guys, as I’m assuring them I’m fine and I’m not going to sue them. “We were just coming to clean it up and mark it off so,” the chatty one gives me an apologetic look, “no one would step in it.” Yeah, I stepped in it all right.
“Wait right here, ma’am,” they said, “we’ll go get paper towels.” I now have raspberry yogurt on my hand, and it’s running down my thigh. They leave me as a block in front of the yogurt spill. People who are shopping, pushing carts, see the mess and distinctively walk around the spill. Not one of them notices the Pina Colada Bartle and James. They all do seem to notice I’m dripping raspberries though.
“Oh, careful, Bill, there’s a spill there. Don’t fall…” Woman catches sight of me, eyes widen, then sympathetic smug look: “Gosh, did you fall? Are you okay? It’s right there.” Well, yes, I can see that it’s right there now. Thank you, Captain Obvious.
After a freaking eternity, the boys return with paper towels and I clean myself off. Then I hobble off to get my Nesquik—and so help me if this store didn’t have it, I was going to have some words. Some very colorful, four-letter kind. I look—and they don’t have it! Are you kidding me? I stomp back out of the store and to the gym, this time managing to avoid the yogurt, that the boys are finally cleaning up, and as I pass: “Did you find everything okay, ma’am? You’re not going to…” I glared at them as I passed.
I get to the gym and tell Holler and Brandi about the experience, earning hysterical laughs for the Revelation. So update your Hellion’s gift lists. No to the sun-ripened raspberry lotion. Yes, to sunflower panties.
So what’s your favorite piece of underwear? And has any grocery store clerks seen it yet?
It’s not that they have seeds in them. Fresh raspberries are okay—not my favorite berry, but not bad. However it’s the artificial scent of raspberries that makes me want to hurl. Always has. Probably something to do with yogurt with the nasty fruity mush at the bottom of the container, usually raspberry being the most popular. *full body shudder* And the most popular scent in Bath & Body Works is Sun-Ripened Raspberry, which when I frequent the store, I grab my standby coconut-lime and race back out the door before the raspberry scent can stink up my clothes. I have co-workers who swear by the crap. “Ooh, smell this, Hellion” and they’ll stick their lotion-slathered hands beneath my nose—and my nose wrinkles up like they stuck a sweaty old man beneath for me to sniff.
Frequently in life, whatever we hate, the gods try to find a way to get us to fall right in the middle of it. Or marry it. And in 2004, the gods were plotting. It was a summer day, and 2004 was my skinny year. WW was working good, and here I was dressed in a short fluttery skirt (that would blow up at the hint of a breeze), cute sunflower patterned underwear (that I thought were cute and would show you even if the skirt wasn’t fluttering: “See my underwear?”), and a pair of white kitten strappy heels. (I had on a shirt obviously. This wasn’t Topless Tuesday or anything, but for the purposes of this tale, those are the three items of clothing that matter.)
I had my sass on, one might say.
Also, as usual, I was running behind. I was supposed to meet Holly at Gold’s, and I needed to run by Gerbes first to pick up a container of sugar-free Nesquik. God forbid I be without my chocolate milk. I was already a bit peeved the other Gerbes didn’t have it when I’d gone shopping the day before. I breezed into the store, catwalking my stride and really putting a pop in my hips. (Seriously, sass all the way.)
I’m halfway to the Nesquik aisle, and I’m suddenly distracted by this Bartle and James’ display. Pina Colada flavored drink, and I distinctly remember thinking, Cool, I have to try….
And that’s exactly where that thought cut off because abruptly my legs flew out from under me—and I hear two guys yelling, “Ma’am! No! Stop!” But there is no stopping. I landed flat on my back. My skirt flew up to my waist, and there are my very cute sunflower panties on display. The two guys, 17 if they were a day, ran up to me. “Ma’am, are you okay?” “Oh, my God, I saw you walking directly for it and we couldn’t get…” “You’re not going to sue us, are you?”
Meanwhile I’m still just laying there, staring dazedly at the ceiling, wondering, What the fuck just happened? And why the hell does it smell like fucking raspberries?
I suddenly realize I’m sitting in the middle of a cold wet spot. The boys help me to my feet, and I’m trying to keep it together—but being I just flashed juvenile delinquents, it’s difficult. I right my skirt and realize I’m dripping with raspberry yogurt. I look at the guys, as I’m assuring them I’m fine and I’m not going to sue them. “We were just coming to clean it up and mark it off so,” the chatty one gives me an apologetic look, “no one would step in it.” Yeah, I stepped in it all right.
“Wait right here, ma’am,” they said, “we’ll go get paper towels.” I now have raspberry yogurt on my hand, and it’s running down my thigh. They leave me as a block in front of the yogurt spill. People who are shopping, pushing carts, see the mess and distinctively walk around the spill. Not one of them notices the Pina Colada Bartle and James. They all do seem to notice I’m dripping raspberries though.
“Oh, careful, Bill, there’s a spill there. Don’t fall…” Woman catches sight of me, eyes widen, then sympathetic smug look: “Gosh, did you fall? Are you okay? It’s right there.” Well, yes, I can see that it’s right there now. Thank you, Captain Obvious.
After a freaking eternity, the boys return with paper towels and I clean myself off. Then I hobble off to get my Nesquik—and so help me if this store didn’t have it, I was going to have some words. Some very colorful, four-letter kind. I look—and they don’t have it! Are you kidding me? I stomp back out of the store and to the gym, this time managing to avoid the yogurt, that the boys are finally cleaning up, and as I pass: “Did you find everything okay, ma’am? You’re not going to…” I glared at them as I passed.
I get to the gym and tell Holler and Brandi about the experience, earning hysterical laughs for the Revelation. So update your Hellion’s gift lists. No to the sun-ripened raspberry lotion. Yes, to sunflower panties.
So what’s your favorite piece of underwear? And has any grocery store clerks seen it yet?
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Evidence
There is a truth universally acknowledged that a person determined to tie one on by no means wants documented proof showing her getting blitzed off her ass and acting (acting? Who’s acting?) like an ass.
Because while I was quite chirpy and happy come Monday after the Mardi Gras display, Holler then showed me the pictures she took with her digital camera. (Now the video J. took was quite funny, even if I should be barred from acting EVER. Never mind.) Anyway, we scroll through the pictures, and Holler said, “Look at this one.” She immediately starts to giggle. That’s a good sign.
I recognize me, obviously: The Dolly Parton hair I’d done, my t-shirt, the jeans that refused to stay zipped (it wasn’t me, it was them), the fact I can’t stick to the WW’s program for more than two weeks at a time—all glaringly obvious, Hellion in full form. Only I’m hopping or something, one arm is in the air, and yet my head is tilted in a way that I can tell I was quite seriously intent on whatever I was doing. Whatever I was doing being the operative question.
Holler: “I think you’re dancing.”
Hellion: *horribly offended, but struck by the realization ‘I think she’s right’* “Are you sure?” Immediate thought: I can never dance again. Holy shit.
You know that cute little email that sometimes gets passed around that says “Dance like no one’s watching?”—yeah, pack of lies, because if you saw this photograph, you too would go: Hellion, why didn’t anyone shoot a tranquilizer dart at you? This is painful!
Yes, yes, it is.
Holler: *still giggling* “Yeah, I think so. What’s going on with your arm?”
Hellion: “I have no idea. Obviously I was in the midst of a seizure.”
Holler: “That’d be my next guess.”
So we’re at lunch when Holler drops this next little bomb.
Holler: “Dr. Cricket asked me to send that picture to him.”
Hellion: *going stock-still* “What?” I’ve obviously heard correctly. More giggling.
Holler: “Yeah, I sent it to him.”
Hellion: “Holler! Now I’m definitely not going to live this down! Remember the Personal Ad incident? I’m going to be seeing that damned picture everywhere! And my birthday is this week!”
Holler: *still giggling* “I know, but hey, no one can really tell it’s you. It’s not a face shot.”
Hellion: “No, it’s just a flailing limbed seizure dancing shot. That’s so much better.”
Holler: “I know, but it’s going to be really funny.”
So not only do I have circumstantial proof I was dancing like a complete moron, but I also have direct proof since Holler was wielding the camera at the time.
This will rate up there with the pictures of me on the mechanical bull, wearing my tiara and pink feather boa. Except the flailing in those pictures makes much more sense.
Humiliation factor on scale of 1-10, probably a 7. The one on my 18th birthday with me sitting on the toilet is a definite 10. The Laura Ingalls Wilder 5th grade school picture, probably an 8.
Any pictures you have you wish you could burn?
Because while I was quite chirpy and happy come Monday after the Mardi Gras display, Holler then showed me the pictures she took with her digital camera. (Now the video J. took was quite funny, even if I should be barred from acting EVER. Never mind.) Anyway, we scroll through the pictures, and Holler said, “Look at this one.” She immediately starts to giggle. That’s a good sign.
I recognize me, obviously: The Dolly Parton hair I’d done, my t-shirt, the jeans that refused to stay zipped (it wasn’t me, it was them), the fact I can’t stick to the WW’s program for more than two weeks at a time—all glaringly obvious, Hellion in full form. Only I’m hopping or something, one arm is in the air, and yet my head is tilted in a way that I can tell I was quite seriously intent on whatever I was doing. Whatever I was doing being the operative question.
Holler: “I think you’re dancing.”
Hellion: *horribly offended, but struck by the realization ‘I think she’s right’* “Are you sure?” Immediate thought: I can never dance again. Holy shit.
You know that cute little email that sometimes gets passed around that says “Dance like no one’s watching?”—yeah, pack of lies, because if you saw this photograph, you too would go: Hellion, why didn’t anyone shoot a tranquilizer dart at you? This is painful!
Yes, yes, it is.
Holler: *still giggling* “Yeah, I think so. What’s going on with your arm?”
Hellion: “I have no idea. Obviously I was in the midst of a seizure.”
Holler: “That’d be my next guess.”
So we’re at lunch when Holler drops this next little bomb.
Holler: “Dr. Cricket asked me to send that picture to him.”
Hellion: *going stock-still* “What?” I’ve obviously heard correctly. More giggling.
Holler: “Yeah, I sent it to him.”
Hellion: “Holler! Now I’m definitely not going to live this down! Remember the Personal Ad incident? I’m going to be seeing that damned picture everywhere! And my birthday is this week!”
Holler: *still giggling* “I know, but hey, no one can really tell it’s you. It’s not a face shot.”
Hellion: “No, it’s just a flailing limbed seizure dancing shot. That’s so much better.”
Holler: “I know, but it’s going to be really funny.”
So not only do I have circumstantial proof I was dancing like a complete moron, but I also have direct proof since Holler was wielding the camera at the time.
This will rate up there with the pictures of me on the mechanical bull, wearing my tiara and pink feather boa. Except the flailing in those pictures makes much more sense.
Humiliation factor on scale of 1-10, probably a 7. The one on my 18th birthday with me sitting on the toilet is a definite 10. The Laura Ingalls Wilder 5th grade school picture, probably an 8.
Any pictures you have you wish you could burn?
Pisces' Rule
Pisces are usually given a lot of credit for a lot of things. We're the death sign; we're supposed to be the "evolved' one of the bunch because we've been around longest. Usually we have several past lives under our belt.
We're the astrological trash can of all the other signs, plus a little something extra. That I can agree with. But since most sites tell you why should you be glad you're a Pisces, and it's all dreamy, love, peace crap--I thought I'd share the real reasons you can be glad you're a Pisces.
1) No one ever expects you to finish anything, and if you do, everyone is really surprised and supportive.
2) Everyone thinks you’re going to be an alcoholic anyway—you might as well drink.
3) Two words: self-destructive. Break out the fun!
4) #3 is the perfect excuse why you’re breaking up with whoever you’re dating. “Baby, it’s me, not you.” And for once, this will be true. It really is you.
5) You’re an excellent liar because you’re used to making up excuses as to why you were late or didn’t show up for something, because you were actually drinking.
6) All alcoholics make the best actors and/or writers (Liz Taylor anyone? You can’t tell me she’s never slung back the hooch)—and those are the only really two cool jobs worth doing anyway. Plus you can sleep in late for both of them.
7) You spend most of your time in the perpetual dream world of your mind, which is okay, because it’s a hell of a lot better than the reality of your Gas Station Attendant job. We call it: being imaginative.
8) You make the best martyr victim. You bring your own cross to the execution.
9) Your friends adore you because no matter what they have done, you’re cool with it. You always believe it could be worse—mostly because it could be. You’re always willing to explain away their faults as simple human failings we all have.
10) You’re a people pleaser—because you really want people to like you—which works out for everyone in bed. (Plus there was all that daydreaming you were doing while you were pumping gas… *makes rainbow motion, looks starry eyed and says* “Imagination.”)
11) People use these words to describe you: “quirky”, “unique”, and “dreamy”, which is better than the words they use for some of the other signs, which are usually, “critical”, “flaky”, and “tight-fisted.”
12) You’re excellent at making friends. Usually with the ones you wake up next to the day after a bitching party while doing #2. Because they think you’re quirky, unique, and a total freak in bed, they will usually keep your number for a booty call.
[Jackie would totally tell me this was full of crap, but she thinks astrology is crap anyway. This is still true.]
We're the astrological trash can of all the other signs, plus a little something extra. That I can agree with. But since most sites tell you why should you be glad you're a Pisces, and it's all dreamy, love, peace crap--I thought I'd share the real reasons you can be glad you're a Pisces.
1) No one ever expects you to finish anything, and if you do, everyone is really surprised and supportive.
2) Everyone thinks you’re going to be an alcoholic anyway—you might as well drink.
3) Two words: self-destructive. Break out the fun!
4) #3 is the perfect excuse why you’re breaking up with whoever you’re dating. “Baby, it’s me, not you.” And for once, this will be true. It really is you.
5) You’re an excellent liar because you’re used to making up excuses as to why you were late or didn’t show up for something, because you were actually drinking.
6) All alcoholics make the best actors and/or writers (Liz Taylor anyone? You can’t tell me she’s never slung back the hooch)—and those are the only really two cool jobs worth doing anyway. Plus you can sleep in late for both of them.
7) You spend most of your time in the perpetual dream world of your mind, which is okay, because it’s a hell of a lot better than the reality of your Gas Station Attendant job. We call it: being imaginative.
8) You make the best martyr victim. You bring your own cross to the execution.
9) Your friends adore you because no matter what they have done, you’re cool with it. You always believe it could be worse—mostly because it could be. You’re always willing to explain away their faults as simple human failings we all have.
10) You’re a people pleaser—because you really want people to like you—which works out for everyone in bed. (Plus there was all that daydreaming you were doing while you were pumping gas… *makes rainbow motion, looks starry eyed and says* “Imagination.”)
11) People use these words to describe you: “quirky”, “unique”, and “dreamy”, which is better than the words they use for some of the other signs, which are usually, “critical”, “flaky”, and “tight-fisted.”
12) You’re excellent at making friends. Usually with the ones you wake up next to the day after a bitching party while doing #2. Because they think you’re quirky, unique, and a total freak in bed, they will usually keep your number for a booty call.
[Jackie would totally tell me this was full of crap, but she thinks astrology is crap anyway. This is still true.]
Monday, February 19, 2007
Hidden Talents
So while tying one on at the Mardi Gras party (I can already tell I’ll be dining out on Boob Flashing Night for days to come), I introduced my ex (who I usually refer to as Gay Ex Boyfriend, or GXB for short) to my friends I’d brought with me to the party. I then gave him permission to tell all the Hellion dirt stories he could recall. Then I walked off to get a refill on my punch, because I was going to have to return to talk with him again.
He didn’t tell the story right. WTF? I give him permission to tell the humiliating farting-mad story and he fucks it up? Are you kidding me? I sighed at him, then tried to save it from its death on the FUBAR-ed story ravine.
Hellion: “Are you kidding? I actually give permission this time, and that’s how you told it?”
GXB: “Can I tell the one about the board game and the farting?”
Hellion: *horrified look as realizing what that story entails; people will think I have nothing but intestinal troubles the whole time we dated* “No! You had your farting story and you fucked it up.” *turns to friends* “I’m sorry, he’s usually more animated in how he tells things. I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”
GXB: “Can I tell them about the birthday curse?”
Hellion: “You mean YOUR birthday curse?” What a surprise there. The story would be about him. “Well, that one is funny. Fire away.” *I glug half my drink, one of those “Brace Yourself, Hellion”*
GXB: “I told her I had a birthday curse, and she didn’t believe me.” This is apparently going to go much like the farting mad story, I can feel it.
Hellion: “How the hell was I supposed to know you weren’t exaggerating? You’re a damned diva!” We laugh. “But he had a point. Five minutes into his birthday, 12:05 am, I accidentally flood his toilet, and while he’s left to figure out what happened, he stomps out to the car to yell at me where I’m huddled up with my friend Jackie, and we’re listening to his birthday present—a soundtrack of Titanic. I am facing a pissed off GXB who yells at me, ‘You flooded my toilet! And I can hear the soundtrack from the bathroom! I told you my birthday is cursed!’ Then he stomped back into the house in a fit of rage.” I turn to the others. “Total diva. Seriously, the stories he told about it up until this moment. ‘My tire fell off my car!’” I rolled my eyes, then asked him, “Come to think of it, how many tires did I go through just dating you? Six?”
GXB: “In the first month.”
Hellion: “My luck turned around in tires as soon as we stopped dating. Oh, remember that one flat tire? The one where I returned to your house?”
GXB: “Yeah, the one where we were naked in bed when your father shows up at the door at 3 am. It rings a bell.” GXB makes a facetious shot gun pumping sound.
Hellion: “I swear to God, we’d just drifted asleep, and I hear a knock, and it was like a fire alarm had gone off. I rolled one way, he rolled the other—and the first thing out of my mouth was, ‘That’s Dad.’ GXB informs me that it couldn’t be—and proceeds to answer the door in his boxers, cowboy boots, and wifebeater shirt.” We all look at GXB to picture this fashion outfit. “I think the cowboy boots are really what made the outfit.”
GXB: *laughing but glaring at the same time; hey buddy, I owe you for telling all the stories about me dressed in cut off shorts and more wardrobe malfunctions* “Never mind YOU.” He turns and starts the animation in full form. “I thought she was Elizabeth from Bewitched. I don’t get anything more than ‘Um, hello, Mr. Hellion, uh, let me see where Little Hell…’ and I turn, and you’re fluffing your hair, COMPLETELY fucking dressed, not even breathless, and ask your father as bold as you please what he was doing there! When did she have time to dress?” I did manage to have a rather shocked look on my face when I took in GXB’s get up that night, as if that was the first time I saw him in boxers or something. Really, the cowboy boots were quite hysterical.
Hellion: “I was dressed.”
GXB: “Yes, but it was literally like magic. It was like your clothes just melted right on you.”
Holler: *laughing uproariously since the gun-pump explanation* “She does that at the gym too. I won’t have my shoes completely off and she will have changed out of everything and is tying her shoes back on!”
GXB: *pointing at Holler as proof* “See! See!”
Jenny: “She is a fast dresser—I did notice this at the gym too.”
Hellion: “What? It’s a handy talent, damnit. I can dress and undress at a moment’s notice. And pretty much in the dark. It’s worked well for me. You have to be able to do that.” And also how to dress in the back of a car with limited space, but I didn’t share this information.
So that was a long way to get to Vegas, but that’s the question of the day: what’s your hidden talent? Fast dresser? Super-sonic potato peeler? What? GXB can belch like a lumberjack. It’s quite impressive…
He didn’t tell the story right. WTF? I give him permission to tell the humiliating farting-mad story and he fucks it up? Are you kidding me? I sighed at him, then tried to save it from its death on the FUBAR-ed story ravine.
Hellion: “Are you kidding? I actually give permission this time, and that’s how you told it?”
GXB: “Can I tell the one about the board game and the farting?”
Hellion: *horrified look as realizing what that story entails; people will think I have nothing but intestinal troubles the whole time we dated* “No! You had your farting story and you fucked it up.” *turns to friends* “I’m sorry, he’s usually more animated in how he tells things. I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”
GXB: “Can I tell them about the birthday curse?”
Hellion: “You mean YOUR birthday curse?” What a surprise there. The story would be about him. “Well, that one is funny. Fire away.” *I glug half my drink, one of those “Brace Yourself, Hellion”*
GXB: “I told her I had a birthday curse, and she didn’t believe me.” This is apparently going to go much like the farting mad story, I can feel it.
Hellion: “How the hell was I supposed to know you weren’t exaggerating? You’re a damned diva!” We laugh. “But he had a point. Five minutes into his birthday, 12:05 am, I accidentally flood his toilet, and while he’s left to figure out what happened, he stomps out to the car to yell at me where I’m huddled up with my friend Jackie, and we’re listening to his birthday present—a soundtrack of Titanic. I am facing a pissed off GXB who yells at me, ‘You flooded my toilet! And I can hear the soundtrack from the bathroom! I told you my birthday is cursed!’ Then he stomped back into the house in a fit of rage.” I turn to the others. “Total diva. Seriously, the stories he told about it up until this moment. ‘My tire fell off my car!’” I rolled my eyes, then asked him, “Come to think of it, how many tires did I go through just dating you? Six?”
GXB: “In the first month.”
Hellion: “My luck turned around in tires as soon as we stopped dating. Oh, remember that one flat tire? The one where I returned to your house?”
GXB: “Yeah, the one where we were naked in bed when your father shows up at the door at 3 am. It rings a bell.” GXB makes a facetious shot gun pumping sound.
Hellion: “I swear to God, we’d just drifted asleep, and I hear a knock, and it was like a fire alarm had gone off. I rolled one way, he rolled the other—and the first thing out of my mouth was, ‘That’s Dad.’ GXB informs me that it couldn’t be—and proceeds to answer the door in his boxers, cowboy boots, and wifebeater shirt.” We all look at GXB to picture this fashion outfit. “I think the cowboy boots are really what made the outfit.”
GXB: *laughing but glaring at the same time; hey buddy, I owe you for telling all the stories about me dressed in cut off shorts and more wardrobe malfunctions* “Never mind YOU.” He turns and starts the animation in full form. “I thought she was Elizabeth from Bewitched. I don’t get anything more than ‘Um, hello, Mr. Hellion, uh, let me see where Little Hell…’ and I turn, and you’re fluffing your hair, COMPLETELY fucking dressed, not even breathless, and ask your father as bold as you please what he was doing there! When did she have time to dress?” I did manage to have a rather shocked look on my face when I took in GXB’s get up that night, as if that was the first time I saw him in boxers or something. Really, the cowboy boots were quite hysterical.
Hellion: “I was dressed.”
GXB: “Yes, but it was literally like magic. It was like your clothes just melted right on you.”
Holler: *laughing uproariously since the gun-pump explanation* “She does that at the gym too. I won’t have my shoes completely off and she will have changed out of everything and is tying her shoes back on!”
GXB: *pointing at Holler as proof* “See! See!”
Jenny: “She is a fast dresser—I did notice this at the gym too.”
Hellion: “What? It’s a handy talent, damnit. I can dress and undress at a moment’s notice. And pretty much in the dark. It’s worked well for me. You have to be able to do that.” And also how to dress in the back of a car with limited space, but I didn’t share this information.
So that was a long way to get to Vegas, but that’s the question of the day: what’s your hidden talent? Fast dresser? Super-sonic potato peeler? What? GXB can belch like a lumberjack. It’s quite impressive…
Mardi Gras: French for “Free Tittie Show”
Once upon a time, a long time ago, I knew a guy named “Ben.” Roguish when he was good, downright slutty and obnoxious when he was bad, Ben amused me. So one night we were all drinking together (because when you’re in Missouri, drinking is mainly how you pass long periods of time), and Ben declared that I was a closet freak.
Not in the Martha Stewart “OMG, these closets are huge! Let’s decorate them!” sort of way, but in the “Give the Amish girl some liquor and watch her clothes fly off” sort of way.
He declared several of us to be closet freaks, mainly because he had to have some sort of rationale of why we pretty women didn’t immediately want to take off our clothes and offer to have sex with him as soon as we met him. (The reasons were many and varied.) So basically it boiled down to “you all haven’t had enough to drink yet, but when you do, watch out.”
We closet freaks don’t drink out in public. Well, we do, but we do it in moderation. We may giggle; we’ll definitely get louder; but all clothes remain righted. But have us throw a party at our house? All bets are off, baby. What happens at the Big House, stays at the Big House.
Now when I was younger, I was actually shyer. An irony to say the least, considering some of the stuff I will leave my house in, but shy nonetheless. No flashing, no nudity, not even a whole lot of drinking. (I didn’t get an early start like some of my drinking buddies.) However, once I hit 24, I sorta found a groove with drinking and exhibitionism. Mainly because by then, I had this ex-boyfriend who kept showing up to these parties too, and if you make a broken-hearted Pisces attend the same functions as her ex, even if she doesn’t love him anymore, she will drink…and she will drink HARD. Example: On my 26th birthday, they invited my ex to the party as well, and I started the evening with 3 shots of tequila with Amaretto Sour chasers. I ended the night mauling the Scotsman-dressed guy they brought to wish me happy birthday.
Then there were several years of us not drinking. Well, there were no parties anyway. (It was hard to top the year of the Slip-n-Slide and the whole Janet Jackson wardrobe malfunction I had with my swimsuit top.) And my friends mourned the fact we were “old” and boring and didn’t know how to have a good time.
Then the Two Planners threw a Mardi Gras party just last weekend. It always falls around my birthday, and I love being rewarded with pretty necklaces for showing you things I probably will be showing regardless of the bribes, provided I drink enough rum. I do lots of things on rum. My friend Holler and I tried to figure out what to take to the party—it was a big deal we bring something—so in Walmart, we perused the liquor section. We were going to make Jello shots. I call Chris (husband of Party Planner #1) and he informs me they’re making Jello shots right now! Scratch. And we couldn’t make hurricanes because they were also making hurricanes. We plopped ourselves in Walmart to plan another drink, but after pouring over a bartender book, we decided to make Fuck It Punch. We would need a fifth of rum, and everything else was optional.
We arrive with our punch in a cooler, and I spot my ex. True to form, I pour a 16 oz serving of the drink and chug half. I then consume two (or was it three?) jello shots. Rum flavored ones. I like to stick with a theme. I drink about two more glasses of this stuff, and more jello shots—to which Holler is “Aren’t you going to eat anything? You cannot puke on my carpet. Pace yourself, please.”
My ex leaves about an hour later, and I’m finally able to scale back my drinking just a tad, but by then, I’m having such fun, I don’t care. I do a shot of spiced rum. And another jello shot…and I work on carefully pouring more juice into my glass. I’m headbanging to the music, leaping around, and talking even louder than usual. (So basically I’m yelling.) I bounce over to the Host of the party, who is happily trashed, and he offers me 12 strands of beads if I flash him. I try to flash him just my bra. No dice, and then another party girl goes, “I did it.” And then it was a challenge. (Hellion’s fatal flaw #7: if challenged, will do it to prove she can do it, by God.)
If *she* can do it, well, hell so can I. I flashed him and collected all of my beads. Then I headbanged and danced around some more. Then I flashed another friend I’ve known for at least a dozen years—and a new guy who I’d never met before the party—and also J. who then was vocal about the fact his wife’s hand was blocking half the view. So I flashed him again so he got a full look. I collected more beads.
Who says the Amish don’t know how to tie one on? The only man at the party who didn’t see my boobs was the Ex, and he didn’t care for them to begin with.
So on behalf of all men (and all the men Saturday were very complimentary—and considering my boobs aren’t that much to look at, that was nice) if you got ‘em, girls, flash ‘em. Embrace your closet freak. The men will thank you.
Not in the Martha Stewart “OMG, these closets are huge! Let’s decorate them!” sort of way, but in the “Give the Amish girl some liquor and watch her clothes fly off” sort of way.
He declared several of us to be closet freaks, mainly because he had to have some sort of rationale of why we pretty women didn’t immediately want to take off our clothes and offer to have sex with him as soon as we met him. (The reasons were many and varied.) So basically it boiled down to “you all haven’t had enough to drink yet, but when you do, watch out.”
We closet freaks don’t drink out in public. Well, we do, but we do it in moderation. We may giggle; we’ll definitely get louder; but all clothes remain righted. But have us throw a party at our house? All bets are off, baby. What happens at the Big House, stays at the Big House.
Now when I was younger, I was actually shyer. An irony to say the least, considering some of the stuff I will leave my house in, but shy nonetheless. No flashing, no nudity, not even a whole lot of drinking. (I didn’t get an early start like some of my drinking buddies.) However, once I hit 24, I sorta found a groove with drinking and exhibitionism. Mainly because by then, I had this ex-boyfriend who kept showing up to these parties too, and if you make a broken-hearted Pisces attend the same functions as her ex, even if she doesn’t love him anymore, she will drink…and she will drink HARD. Example: On my 26th birthday, they invited my ex to the party as well, and I started the evening with 3 shots of tequila with Amaretto Sour chasers. I ended the night mauling the Scotsman-dressed guy they brought to wish me happy birthday.
Then there were several years of us not drinking. Well, there were no parties anyway. (It was hard to top the year of the Slip-n-Slide and the whole Janet Jackson wardrobe malfunction I had with my swimsuit top.) And my friends mourned the fact we were “old” and boring and didn’t know how to have a good time.
Then the Two Planners threw a Mardi Gras party just last weekend. It always falls around my birthday, and I love being rewarded with pretty necklaces for showing you things I probably will be showing regardless of the bribes, provided I drink enough rum. I do lots of things on rum. My friend Holler and I tried to figure out what to take to the party—it was a big deal we bring something—so in Walmart, we perused the liquor section. We were going to make Jello shots. I call Chris (husband of Party Planner #1) and he informs me they’re making Jello shots right now! Scratch. And we couldn’t make hurricanes because they were also making hurricanes. We plopped ourselves in Walmart to plan another drink, but after pouring over a bartender book, we decided to make Fuck It Punch. We would need a fifth of rum, and everything else was optional.
We arrive with our punch in a cooler, and I spot my ex. True to form, I pour a 16 oz serving of the drink and chug half. I then consume two (or was it three?) jello shots. Rum flavored ones. I like to stick with a theme. I drink about two more glasses of this stuff, and more jello shots—to which Holler is “Aren’t you going to eat anything? You cannot puke on my carpet. Pace yourself, please.”
My ex leaves about an hour later, and I’m finally able to scale back my drinking just a tad, but by then, I’m having such fun, I don’t care. I do a shot of spiced rum. And another jello shot…and I work on carefully pouring more juice into my glass. I’m headbanging to the music, leaping around, and talking even louder than usual. (So basically I’m yelling.) I bounce over to the Host of the party, who is happily trashed, and he offers me 12 strands of beads if I flash him. I try to flash him just my bra. No dice, and then another party girl goes, “I did it.” And then it was a challenge. (Hellion’s fatal flaw #7: if challenged, will do it to prove she can do it, by God.)
If *she* can do it, well, hell so can I. I flashed him and collected all of my beads. Then I headbanged and danced around some more. Then I flashed another friend I’ve known for at least a dozen years—and a new guy who I’d never met before the party—and also J. who then was vocal about the fact his wife’s hand was blocking half the view. So I flashed him again so he got a full look. I collected more beads.
Who says the Amish don’t know how to tie one on? The only man at the party who didn’t see my boobs was the Ex, and he didn’t care for them to begin with.
So on behalf of all men (and all the men Saturday were very complimentary—and considering my boobs aren’t that much to look at, that was nice) if you got ‘em, girls, flash ‘em. Embrace your closet freak. The men will thank you.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Rites of Passage: The Talk
So for a laugh, my friends and I usually like to discuss two things: dating or sex. Or both. And in regards to me, the funnier parts are either my dates gone wrong, or my introduction to sex.
Not how I lost my virginity. (Though I think that’s up for debate. It too is rather laughable, and can be argued I threw it at his head rather than “lost it.” I lost my flash drive; I did not lose my virginity.)
No, no, I’m talking about “The Talk.” How old were you when your parents had the talk with you? I was fourteen. And it wasn’t so much a talk as a book was handed to me, a 64 page little handbook called, “Almost Twelve.” (Do you see the irony with giving a fourteen year old a book called “Almost Twelve”?)
My father was in no way involved in this talk; and my mother said, “Read this. It explains everything. And if you have any questions….” Here she looked a bit frightened. “Well, the book explains everything.” Meanwhile I’d already been having a crappy week. I’ve gotten my first period; I’m even more bitchy than usual (and considering what A First-Class Bitch I was then, that’s saying something); and I’ve been handed this sex book that had more to do with morals than actual sex. In fact the whole thing was rather clinical—drawn pictures of what everything looked like. Nice. Then a clinical explanation of what makes you pregnant. Nice. (This crap had already been covered for me in 5th grade during the “Julia’s Story” seminar, but whatever.)
Then the actual sex. (I’m pretty sure it mentioned NOTHING about oral sex. Or anything remotely fun in that realm. Mostly it was “sex is for marriage, and if you have sex before you’re married, you won’t be that special to your husband because you didn’t save yourself for him.”) Of course, come to think of it, the author was a man—and maybe his wife didn’t save herself for him specifically. Maybe he was just pissy. Maybe he was writing this specifically for his daughters so they’d never have sex…yeah, that sounds like the guy thing to do.
Anyway, this just summed up yet another crappy teenage Christmas—I got my period (gee, thanks) and I got this book on why I could never have sex unless I wanted to go to hell for it. I assure you, every other page talked about sex and sin. Blah, blah, blah. Ugh. And you know if they didn’t talk about oral sex, you can guess their views on masturbation.
Which I believe masturbation and virginity and religion is how I got to thinking again about HOW I found about sex. (Amazing the topics that come up when you’re working out on the elliptical machine at the gym. I never know how exactly I arrived at this conversation, but I always enjoy it. I’m so going to hell.) Anyway, my friend T thought it was particularly hysterical how I got the talk—and I thought I’d share it for the rest of the world.
You’re not nearly as warped from your childhood as I am. Rest assured.
And I’ll have you know the way I learned about sex was from a romance novel called “First Love, Wild Love” by Janelle Taylor. It was about a Texas Ranger who deflowers a rancher’s daughter who he mistakes for a lady of the night. She of course orgasmed right way, on her first try. Talented bitch. I’d read it the year before I even got the “Almost Twelve” book, thank you very much, and my mother nearly had kittens when she realized the kinds of books I was reading. *evil laugh*
And let’s not even discuss what happened when my father found my George Michael cassette tape when I was 15. “I Want Your Sex” in bold vivid lettering. Lord. I got a talk then, I assure you, and one I never wanted again. So I hid all my dirty rock and roll songs after that. And I ignored my mother when she told me that wearing tampons would make me not a virgin. Seriously. Yes, she said that.
Not how I lost my virginity. (Though I think that’s up for debate. It too is rather laughable, and can be argued I threw it at his head rather than “lost it.” I lost my flash drive; I did not lose my virginity.)
No, no, I’m talking about “The Talk.” How old were you when your parents had the talk with you? I was fourteen. And it wasn’t so much a talk as a book was handed to me, a 64 page little handbook called, “Almost Twelve.” (Do you see the irony with giving a fourteen year old a book called “Almost Twelve”?)
My father was in no way involved in this talk; and my mother said, “Read this. It explains everything. And if you have any questions….” Here she looked a bit frightened. “Well, the book explains everything.” Meanwhile I’d already been having a crappy week. I’ve gotten my first period; I’m even more bitchy than usual (and considering what A First-Class Bitch I was then, that’s saying something); and I’ve been handed this sex book that had more to do with morals than actual sex. In fact the whole thing was rather clinical—drawn pictures of what everything looked like. Nice. Then a clinical explanation of what makes you pregnant. Nice. (This crap had already been covered for me in 5th grade during the “Julia’s Story” seminar, but whatever.)
Then the actual sex. (I’m pretty sure it mentioned NOTHING about oral sex. Or anything remotely fun in that realm. Mostly it was “sex is for marriage, and if you have sex before you’re married, you won’t be that special to your husband because you didn’t save yourself for him.”) Of course, come to think of it, the author was a man—and maybe his wife didn’t save herself for him specifically. Maybe he was just pissy. Maybe he was writing this specifically for his daughters so they’d never have sex…yeah, that sounds like the guy thing to do.
Anyway, this just summed up yet another crappy teenage Christmas—I got my period (gee, thanks) and I got this book on why I could never have sex unless I wanted to go to hell for it. I assure you, every other page talked about sex and sin. Blah, blah, blah. Ugh. And you know if they didn’t talk about oral sex, you can guess their views on masturbation.
Which I believe masturbation and virginity and religion is how I got to thinking again about HOW I found about sex. (Amazing the topics that come up when you’re working out on the elliptical machine at the gym. I never know how exactly I arrived at this conversation, but I always enjoy it. I’m so going to hell.) Anyway, my friend T thought it was particularly hysterical how I got the talk—and I thought I’d share it for the rest of the world.
You’re not nearly as warped from your childhood as I am. Rest assured.
And I’ll have you know the way I learned about sex was from a romance novel called “First Love, Wild Love” by Janelle Taylor. It was about a Texas Ranger who deflowers a rancher’s daughter who he mistakes for a lady of the night. She of course orgasmed right way, on her first try. Talented bitch. I’d read it the year before I even got the “Almost Twelve” book, thank you very much, and my mother nearly had kittens when she realized the kinds of books I was reading. *evil laugh*
And let’s not even discuss what happened when my father found my George Michael cassette tape when I was 15. “I Want Your Sex” in bold vivid lettering. Lord. I got a talk then, I assure you, and one I never wanted again. So I hid all my dirty rock and roll songs after that. And I ignored my mother when she told me that wearing tampons would make me not a virgin. Seriously. Yes, she said that.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Creativity
When you boil me down to my elements, I'm not really that creative. I find it easier to tell the truth than to tell a lie, unless I like you and you ask me if those pants make your ass look fat. Then I will LIE like a dog on a rug in the kitchen. Lie, lie, lie.
But everyday things, little surveys from friends via email--I don't think to be real creative about it. I just answer the questions. I do sit and go, "God, Hellion, you're fucking Amish in the realm of exciting lives...hell, Amish people are more exciting than you." But I don't think to make stuff up for the hell of it.
Example. Today I got the following survey. I will provide you with MY answers.
Four jobs I have had in my life:
1. Grad Studies Secretary
2. E-911 Technician (not as cool as the title sounds)
3. Temp for the University
4. Student Worker for Humanities Department
Four Movies you would watch over and over:
1. Pirates of the Caribbean 1
2. Pirates of the Caribbean 2
3. Elf
4. French Kiss or Braveheart (depends on the mood)
Four places you have lived:
1. On a farm
2. In the city
3. In a cardboard box (at birth, they forgot the crib)
4. In a dorm room
Four TV shows you like to watch:
1. Grey’s Anatomy
2. Ugly Betty
3. The Class
4. How I Met Your Mother (also reruns of That 70s Show)
List four places you have been on vacation:
1. Boston
2. California (Hollywood and San Fran areas, different vacations)
3. Cozumel, Grand Cayman, & Jamaica (same boat trip)
4. Washington DC
Four of my favorite foods:
1. Chinese
2. Ice cream
3. Chocolate covered strawberries
4. Linguine Alfredo
Very June Cleaver answers, right? Obviously you can tell I'm not making shit up. I farm this email with my answers out to my friends, and this was the response I got back from a friend:
4 JOBS I HAVE HAD IN MY LIFE
FLUFFER
TOWEL BOY AT BATHHOUSE
NUDE MODEL
SHORT ORDER COOK
4 MOVIES I WOULD WATCH OVER AND OVER
BOY IN THE PLASTIC BUBBLEDOWN
ON THE FARM PART 7
MI BURRITO GRANDE (w/English subtitles)
4 PLACES YOU HAVE LIVED
PURGATORY
BROTHEL
BOTTOM OF A WELL
MOTEL BATHROOM
4 TV SHOWS YOU LIKE TO WATCH
DOOGIE HOUWSER M.D.
THE FACTS OF LIFE
JOAN LOVES CHACHI (Happy Days spinoff)
CITY PUBLIC ACCESS CHANNEL
4 PLACES i HAVE BEEN ON VACATION
IN YOUR PANTS
BAHAMAS WITH ANNA NICOLE SMITH
KIRKSVILLE
GARY, INDIANA
4 OF MY FAVORITE FOODS
PUSSY
SARDINES
TUNA
SMOKED OYSTERS
I mean seriously, is there any comparison on the creativity shown here? HE should clearly be the fiction writer, not I--because other than the Fluffer job, I don't believe any of the other things he listed.
Being shown up in the creativity department, and realizing that my current WIP is probably more true to my life than I care to think on, should I rethink my career as a romance writer? I obviously don't have the lying capabilities to carry it off.
But everyday things, little surveys from friends via email--I don't think to be real creative about it. I just answer the questions. I do sit and go, "God, Hellion, you're fucking Amish in the realm of exciting lives...hell, Amish people are more exciting than you." But I don't think to make stuff up for the hell of it.
Example. Today I got the following survey. I will provide you with MY answers.
Four jobs I have had in my life:
1. Grad Studies Secretary
2. E-911 Technician (not as cool as the title sounds)
3. Temp for the University
4. Student Worker for Humanities Department
Four Movies you would watch over and over:
1. Pirates of the Caribbean 1
2. Pirates of the Caribbean 2
3. Elf
4. French Kiss or Braveheart (depends on the mood)
Four places you have lived:
1. On a farm
2. In the city
3. In a cardboard box (at birth, they forgot the crib)
4. In a dorm room
Four TV shows you like to watch:
1. Grey’s Anatomy
2. Ugly Betty
3. The Class
4. How I Met Your Mother (also reruns of That 70s Show)
List four places you have been on vacation:
1. Boston
2. California (Hollywood and San Fran areas, different vacations)
3. Cozumel, Grand Cayman, & Jamaica (same boat trip)
4. Washington DC
Four of my favorite foods:
1. Chinese
2. Ice cream
3. Chocolate covered strawberries
4. Linguine Alfredo
Very June Cleaver answers, right? Obviously you can tell I'm not making shit up. I farm this email with my answers out to my friends, and this was the response I got back from a friend:
4 JOBS I HAVE HAD IN MY LIFE
FLUFFER
TOWEL BOY AT BATHHOUSE
NUDE MODEL
SHORT ORDER COOK
4 MOVIES I WOULD WATCH OVER AND OVER
BOY IN THE PLASTIC BUBBLEDOWN
ON THE FARM PART 7
MI BURRITO GRANDE (w/English subtitles)
4 PLACES YOU HAVE LIVED
PURGATORY
BROTHEL
BOTTOM OF A WELL
MOTEL BATHROOM
4 TV SHOWS YOU LIKE TO WATCH
DOOGIE HOUWSER M.D.
THE FACTS OF LIFE
JOAN LOVES CHACHI (Happy Days spinoff)
CITY PUBLIC ACCESS CHANNEL
4 PLACES i HAVE BEEN ON VACATION
IN YOUR PANTS
BAHAMAS WITH ANNA NICOLE SMITH
KIRKSVILLE
GARY, INDIANA
4 OF MY FAVORITE FOODS
PUSSY
SARDINES
TUNA
SMOKED OYSTERS
I mean seriously, is there any comparison on the creativity shown here? HE should clearly be the fiction writer, not I--because other than the Fluffer job, I don't believe any of the other things he listed.
Being shown up in the creativity department, and realizing that my current WIP is probably more true to my life than I care to think on, should I rethink my career as a romance writer? I obviously don't have the lying capabilities to carry it off.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Rum-induced Recap
Friday I went to a musical. I adore musicals really. Even the cheesy ones; or perhaps especially the cheesy ones. I have a special fondness for ones with sailors in them, so I absolutely adore "Anchors Aweigh" and "On the Town." (Not a lot of pirate musicals, so sailors are the next best thing to a pirate in uniform. And a little more hygenic.)
I saw Camelot. Now normally I'm not a Camelot sort of person. I find people who can't make up their mind who they're in love with to be a royal pain in the ass. Yes, yes, Guenivere, that icon of Chivalry and Middle Ages Original Soap--I think she's a twit. Here she is married to King Arthur, who clearly adores her and isn't that bad to look at. I mean, he's not Larry the Cable Guy or anything, which if he were, would certainly explain her fixation on Lancelot. But he's not. He's good looking, he's strong, he's heroic! And what's wrong? She wants this twit over in the corner, whom she can't technically have. Lancelot.
I find Guenivere to be a product of her youth, who is constantly yearning for things they can't have and totally oblivious to the things they do have. And Lancelot is younger, more her age, and looks really good in his armor, maybe. Whatever. It's like making a decision between Brad Pitt and George Clooney. If you're married to George Clooney, what the fuck are you arguing that you can't have Brad? Who cares? I assure you no one else feels sorry on your behalf. Hence my problem with Ginny. She falls "in love" with Brad. Come on. And this leads me into a whole other argument about what love really is. Is it some fleeting passion that is a love at first sight sort of thing, or is it a choice? You choose to love someone, at least to some degree; and since people fall in and out of love quite a bit, you have to choose to continue loving that person even when you're not so enamored with them at the moment--because eventually it'll come back around. It's cyclical. Hang in there.
But no, I'm at this musical, watching Ginny fall in love with Brad, who is as conceited as he could possibly get. Enough to where you're laughing hysterically at just how arrogant he really is. I mean, sure he really is THAT good, but it's still pretty funny. He's so clearly...20 or 22 tops. Young, young, young.
All in all, the musical told the story as we've always known it. Camelot falls due to this doomed love affair. Ginny goes to live in a nunnery; Lancelot goes off to do his thing; and Arthur dies in battle. The story lives on.
Of course, it reminds me much of Tristan and Isolde, or the Helen of Troy saga. In fact, this is a common theme. Young girl marries older guy, has a pretty good marriage and all is well, then falls in love with hot young stud--and the world goes to hell in a handbasket. I'm thinking, maybe the older guys should stop dating all these young women. They're too young to know what they want. No, George Clooney, don't reach for Scarlett Johansen--she's but 22 or so. You need an older girl, one who knows clearly what love is...and won't go roaming off with the nearest Brad. Someone who is say, 31 or 32, drinks rum, and has a fondness for musicals--who can see the sad, sad patterns for what they are!
I saw Camelot. Now normally I'm not a Camelot sort of person. I find people who can't make up their mind who they're in love with to be a royal pain in the ass. Yes, yes, Guenivere, that icon of Chivalry and Middle Ages Original Soap--I think she's a twit. Here she is married to King Arthur, who clearly adores her and isn't that bad to look at. I mean, he's not Larry the Cable Guy or anything, which if he were, would certainly explain her fixation on Lancelot. But he's not. He's good looking, he's strong, he's heroic! And what's wrong? She wants this twit over in the corner, whom she can't technically have. Lancelot.
I find Guenivere to be a product of her youth, who is constantly yearning for things they can't have and totally oblivious to the things they do have. And Lancelot is younger, more her age, and looks really good in his armor, maybe. Whatever. It's like making a decision between Brad Pitt and George Clooney. If you're married to George Clooney, what the fuck are you arguing that you can't have Brad? Who cares? I assure you no one else feels sorry on your behalf. Hence my problem with Ginny. She falls "in love" with Brad. Come on. And this leads me into a whole other argument about what love really is. Is it some fleeting passion that is a love at first sight sort of thing, or is it a choice? You choose to love someone, at least to some degree; and since people fall in and out of love quite a bit, you have to choose to continue loving that person even when you're not so enamored with them at the moment--because eventually it'll come back around. It's cyclical. Hang in there.
But no, I'm at this musical, watching Ginny fall in love with Brad, who is as conceited as he could possibly get. Enough to where you're laughing hysterically at just how arrogant he really is. I mean, sure he really is THAT good, but it's still pretty funny. He's so clearly...20 or 22 tops. Young, young, young.
All in all, the musical told the story as we've always known it. Camelot falls due to this doomed love affair. Ginny goes to live in a nunnery; Lancelot goes off to do his thing; and Arthur dies in battle. The story lives on.
Of course, it reminds me much of Tristan and Isolde, or the Helen of Troy saga. In fact, this is a common theme. Young girl marries older guy, has a pretty good marriage and all is well, then falls in love with hot young stud--and the world goes to hell in a handbasket. I'm thinking, maybe the older guys should stop dating all these young women. They're too young to know what they want. No, George Clooney, don't reach for Scarlett Johansen--she's but 22 or so. You need an older girl, one who knows clearly what love is...and won't go roaming off with the nearest Brad. Someone who is say, 31 or 32, drinks rum, and has a fondness for musicals--who can see the sad, sad patterns for what they are!
Friday, February 09, 2007
A Pirate's Life For Me
As I sit at my desk, trying to get out of doing folders (story of my life), I look down at my little desk companion, Captain Jack Sparrow Bobblehead, and I think, God, what I wouldn’t give for a Miami Vice right about now. (Miami Vice being the name given to a Carnival Cruise drink that was a layered drink of half pina colada and half strawberry daiquiri. Rum is a beautiful thing.) *taps Jack’s braids and he agrees with a bobble nod*
If I had my druthers, I would be sitting on a beach in Grand Cayman with my Miami Vice and my bobblehead doll (the real Jack Sparrow is temporarily unavailable), and I soak in the warm delicious sunshine, blind fellow beach combers with my pasty white skin, and dream about being a pirate.
No, not the scurvy, short life expectancy parts. The interesting parts. Rum, wenching (can men be wenches? I mean I know they can be bas…oh, well, men-wenching), and freedom. I long for the dissolute life. Probably because I’m so damned Amish. The Other Side calls to me…Freedom calls to me. Bobblehead Jack agrees. Well, he should, he put the idea in my head, after all. He said it, tapping his rum bottle to Miss Swann’s, when they were toasting. “To Freedom!” Aye, to freedom.
And I admit there is a lure there. It cannot be denied as I sit at this desk, staring at folders, watching my single, all-I-need-now-is-a-damned-cat life unfurl before me as I continue to do folders and people please and defer. Not Jack. Not if you’re a pirate. You please yourself—and you make every moment count because you’re not going to live long enough to need a damned cat. (Though they do make good companions. Don’t get me wrong.) And you don’t even bemoan the fact you’re single and rootless, without family—because you have friends who are like family—and you have all the bed companionship you want once you hit port. Well, at least if you’re Jack. I imagine I could do all right if that’s what I sought. Show up naked and bring beer—I could have all the companionship a girl could want.
Plus I’d get to sail a ship and live on the ocean…and being a Pisces, that almost holds more lure than having all the rum we can handle, and I assure you, Pisces are horrible alcoholics. Where’s my rum?
If you could do anything else right now? Rock star, Vegas show girl, oh, hell, school teacher—what would it be—and why?
If I had my druthers, I would be sitting on a beach in Grand Cayman with my Miami Vice and my bobblehead doll (the real Jack Sparrow is temporarily unavailable), and I soak in the warm delicious sunshine, blind fellow beach combers with my pasty white skin, and dream about being a pirate.
No, not the scurvy, short life expectancy parts. The interesting parts. Rum, wenching (can men be wenches? I mean I know they can be bas…oh, well, men-wenching), and freedom. I long for the dissolute life. Probably because I’m so damned Amish. The Other Side calls to me…Freedom calls to me. Bobblehead Jack agrees. Well, he should, he put the idea in my head, after all. He said it, tapping his rum bottle to Miss Swann’s, when they were toasting. “To Freedom!” Aye, to freedom.
And I admit there is a lure there. It cannot be denied as I sit at this desk, staring at folders, watching my single, all-I-need-now-is-a-damned-cat life unfurl before me as I continue to do folders and people please and defer. Not Jack. Not if you’re a pirate. You please yourself—and you make every moment count because you’re not going to live long enough to need a damned cat. (Though they do make good companions. Don’t get me wrong.) And you don’t even bemoan the fact you’re single and rootless, without family—because you have friends who are like family—and you have all the bed companionship you want once you hit port. Well, at least if you’re Jack. I imagine I could do all right if that’s what I sought. Show up naked and bring beer—I could have all the companionship a girl could want.
Plus I’d get to sail a ship and live on the ocean…and being a Pisces, that almost holds more lure than having all the rum we can handle, and I assure you, Pisces are horrible alcoholics. Where’s my rum?
If you could do anything else right now? Rock star, Vegas show girl, oh, hell, school teacher—what would it be—and why?
Monday, February 05, 2007
Pick Up Lines
I love pick up lines. I think they’re funny, and frankly, if a guy can get you laughing at his jokes right away, I think you’re off on the right foot. Unfortunately pick up lines only work if you’re good looking. I saw this cartoon once with the caption that said the right and wrong way to pick up a girl. In the first picture, a short, balding, goofy and obviously lives with his mother looking man approaches this gorgeous woman and says, “Hi, I think you’re beautiful—can I have your number?” The obvious answer to this is: NO. However the cartoon below features the same woman, but the man is tall, dark, and handsome—and has the look of someone who doesn’t live with his mother and he says: “Hi, I think you’re beautiful—can I have your number?” The answer is YES.
In college, my friends and I would exchange pick up lines we’d heard that we found particularly cute. Or funny. Or extremely pathetic. My friend Mac, a tall, handsome Marine who had absolutely no sense when it came to women, introduced me to my favorite pick up line of all time. He walked past me, then did a double take, then said, “Do you believe in love at first sight, or do I need to walk past again?”
He found my favorite pick up line particularly amusing. I licked my finger and touched his shirt, then mine. “What do you say to going back to your place and getting out of these wet clothes?” He at least made a playful bid of tugging me back to his place.
But pick up lines are not limited to the last 70 years, when my Dad’s idea of a pick up line in WWII consisted of “Hello, wanna screw?” (sailors, what are you going to do with them?). It was in another language, of course, so that might have made it slightly more romantic, but unlikely. He insists *he* never used this line, but for some reason, I don’t believe him.
I mean, even Shakespeare has some classic lines, himself, but if I were to pick my favorite golden oldie of pick up lines, I’d have to go with Thomas Moore (who ran around with Lord Byron, so that should be a big indicator), an Irish poet (another indicator—did you ever meet an Irishman who wasn’t full of crap?) who said:
I've oft been told by learned friars,
That wishing and the crime are one,
And Heaven punishes desires
As much as if the deed were done.
If wishing damns us, you and I
Are damned to all our heart's content;
Come, then, at least we may enjoy
Some pleasure for our punishment!
An Argument, well made, to my way of thinking. What a rake! I can totally see myself shucking some corsets for this bit of rhyme. So here’s to all those goofy pick up lines men use to win us over—and to the men daring enough to use something so incredibly lame.
In college, my friends and I would exchange pick up lines we’d heard that we found particularly cute. Or funny. Or extremely pathetic. My friend Mac, a tall, handsome Marine who had absolutely no sense when it came to women, introduced me to my favorite pick up line of all time. He walked past me, then did a double take, then said, “Do you believe in love at first sight, or do I need to walk past again?”
He found my favorite pick up line particularly amusing. I licked my finger and touched his shirt, then mine. “What do you say to going back to your place and getting out of these wet clothes?” He at least made a playful bid of tugging me back to his place.
But pick up lines are not limited to the last 70 years, when my Dad’s idea of a pick up line in WWII consisted of “Hello, wanna screw?” (sailors, what are you going to do with them?). It was in another language, of course, so that might have made it slightly more romantic, but unlikely. He insists *he* never used this line, but for some reason, I don’t believe him.
I mean, even Shakespeare has some classic lines, himself, but if I were to pick my favorite golden oldie of pick up lines, I’d have to go with Thomas Moore (who ran around with Lord Byron, so that should be a big indicator), an Irish poet (another indicator—did you ever meet an Irishman who wasn’t full of crap?) who said:
I've oft been told by learned friars,
That wishing and the crime are one,
And Heaven punishes desires
As much as if the deed were done.
If wishing damns us, you and I
Are damned to all our heart's content;
Come, then, at least we may enjoy
Some pleasure for our punishment!
An Argument, well made, to my way of thinking. What a rake! I can totally see myself shucking some corsets for this bit of rhyme. So here’s to all those goofy pick up lines men use to win us over—and to the men daring enough to use something so incredibly lame.
Friday, February 02, 2007
Hormonal
I visit my favorite blog, SquawkRadio, and discover I’m in the throes of a PMS fit. The blog is about mothers. Well, sorta. The blogger talked about her relationship with her mother, and how it’s strengthened over the last few weeks—the discovery of things she didn’t know about her mother. How we’re always amazed our mothers were young women first and had dreams and such like us. And it is always surprising. *LOL* You never think of your mother as someone…like you, with dreams and plans and crushes and silliness. At least I didn’t. My mother was 45 when I was born, and she was not of the Kool-Aid mom variety, which I always wanted as a child. (I wanted the commercial childhood with kool-aid, after school stuff, and sleepovers at my house, which was not some drafty farm house—but a really cool new two story house with central heating and air.)
But in college, I mellowed out a bit; and the year I graduated, I spent the summer at home (as usual)—and I got to spend more time with her. I spent time with her before, naturally, but this time, I was actually paying attention. I listened to her stories. I discovered the little bits of her that made me happy or sad for her, proud of her, awed by her. I discovered her mischievous side. She was the happiest I ever remembered of her.
She died August 20, 1997, that summer. I had just gotten my driver’s license, and I had gone to town to get the picture done. I called home to check on her—I had one of those crazy feelings, for no reason, and I called home—and I was told I needed to come home. She had died while everyone was out of the house—in fact at the moment I called, my sister happened to pick up the phone and thought mom was napping—but then, my niece came into the room and said, she was dead. None of us knew. It was all so sudden.
My friend drove like a bat—and all the way home I chanted and prayed and bargained and denied…and I sprinted up my driveway, crying, panicky, passing emergency people who all had that same blank look on their faces…and I ran into the house—and no one would look at me, my Dad looked shaky, and my sister met my gaze, and she gave the briefest of head shakes, her lip trembling—and I flew back out of the house, running to an empty part of the yard, crying as if my heart was broken. I guess it was. My friend followed me—she stayed with me as much as she could—she was my rock—and I, I was a wreck all during the arrangements. I didn’t eat; I couldn’t sleep—our house is quiet at night, but I swear you could hear people breathe—and I know I could hear Mom’s breathing at night. But that first night was the worst. I couldn’t hear anything. It was the emptiest sound. I turned on Jewell and played “You Were Meant For Me” all night.
For the funeral, I was fine, actually. A little snarky at parts. People say the stupidest shit at a funeral. “Your mother looks so lovely. She looks like she’s sleeping.” To which I replied, rather darkly, “My mother slept on her side, and she snored…it doesn’t look like her at all.”
I miss my mother. She drove me crazy. I rarely understood her. But I miss my mother.
But in college, I mellowed out a bit; and the year I graduated, I spent the summer at home (as usual)—and I got to spend more time with her. I spent time with her before, naturally, but this time, I was actually paying attention. I listened to her stories. I discovered the little bits of her that made me happy or sad for her, proud of her, awed by her. I discovered her mischievous side. She was the happiest I ever remembered of her.
She died August 20, 1997, that summer. I had just gotten my driver’s license, and I had gone to town to get the picture done. I called home to check on her—I had one of those crazy feelings, for no reason, and I called home—and I was told I needed to come home. She had died while everyone was out of the house—in fact at the moment I called, my sister happened to pick up the phone and thought mom was napping—but then, my niece came into the room and said, she was dead. None of us knew. It was all so sudden.
My friend drove like a bat—and all the way home I chanted and prayed and bargained and denied…and I sprinted up my driveway, crying, panicky, passing emergency people who all had that same blank look on their faces…and I ran into the house—and no one would look at me, my Dad looked shaky, and my sister met my gaze, and she gave the briefest of head shakes, her lip trembling—and I flew back out of the house, running to an empty part of the yard, crying as if my heart was broken. I guess it was. My friend followed me—she stayed with me as much as she could—she was my rock—and I, I was a wreck all during the arrangements. I didn’t eat; I couldn’t sleep—our house is quiet at night, but I swear you could hear people breathe—and I know I could hear Mom’s breathing at night. But that first night was the worst. I couldn’t hear anything. It was the emptiest sound. I turned on Jewell and played “You Were Meant For Me” all night.
For the funeral, I was fine, actually. A little snarky at parts. People say the stupidest shit at a funeral. “Your mother looks so lovely. She looks like she’s sleeping.” To which I replied, rather darkly, “My mother slept on her side, and she snored…it doesn’t look like her at all.”
I miss my mother. She drove me crazy. I rarely understood her. But I miss my mother.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
The End of Harry
J.K. Rowling’s last book about Harry Potter will come out on July 21st.
First, can I just say how excited I am? *pauses* No, I don’t think you really understand. I’m not just typical rabid fan excited. I am THE rabid fan. I dressed as Harry Potter for Halloween, and I’m over the age of 10. Boy, am I over the age of 10….
When I found the fifth movie was coming out this summer, I had to dial back my hope that the book would come too, because that would be like getting two Christmases in the same year, let alone the same month. Fortunately, my low expectations were trumped by this delightful piece of news.
*riverdances*
But now I have to worry about new things. This means in five months time (OMG, five months? That’s only like 150 days; that’s like only 21 weeks! *starts to riverdance again*) I will be reading the very last book about Harry Potter.
I have all sorts of questions and worries. Will Harry die? If Harry dies, will I handle it in a mature fashion and merely burn all my Harry books in my front yard in a fit of rage? Or will I become one of those horrible fans that writes the author and tells her she wrote it incorrectly? If I live though the ending—and by blessed miracle, he doesn’t die—what will I do when I realize there are no other Harry Potter books? What will I read? What will I do with my spare time? Actually write my own book? (Laughable, but as you will.) If he does live, will I run through the streets like a maniac, yelling, “I told Jack so! I told him he wouldn’t die!”—and if I do, will I be arrested? Who will bail me out? Not Jack.
Then once all my Harry worries and questions are extinguished and answered, it comes to my attention I will have to come up with a new obsession to bide my time. What will it be? The possibilities are too mind-boggling. I shall have to lunch on it.
Cheerio, and good luck, Harry.
First, can I just say how excited I am? *pauses* No, I don’t think you really understand. I’m not just typical rabid fan excited. I am THE rabid fan. I dressed as Harry Potter for Halloween, and I’m over the age of 10. Boy, am I over the age of 10….
When I found the fifth movie was coming out this summer, I had to dial back my hope that the book would come too, because that would be like getting two Christmases in the same year, let alone the same month. Fortunately, my low expectations were trumped by this delightful piece of news.
*riverdances*
But now I have to worry about new things. This means in five months time (OMG, five months? That’s only like 150 days; that’s like only 21 weeks! *starts to riverdance again*) I will be reading the very last book about Harry Potter.
I have all sorts of questions and worries. Will Harry die? If Harry dies, will I handle it in a mature fashion and merely burn all my Harry books in my front yard in a fit of rage? Or will I become one of those horrible fans that writes the author and tells her she wrote it incorrectly? If I live though the ending—and by blessed miracle, he doesn’t die—what will I do when I realize there are no other Harry Potter books? What will I read? What will I do with my spare time? Actually write my own book? (Laughable, but as you will.) If he does live, will I run through the streets like a maniac, yelling, “I told Jack so! I told him he wouldn’t die!”—and if I do, will I be arrested? Who will bail me out? Not Jack.
Then once all my Harry worries and questions are extinguished and answered, it comes to my attention I will have to come up with a new obsession to bide my time. What will it be? The possibilities are too mind-boggling. I shall have to lunch on it.
Cheerio, and good luck, Harry.
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