Random Email of the Day

I was actually working. (Imagine. I know, it was hard for me to picture it too.) In the midst of typing in some boring info, my email envelope icon popped up and I had to check. It was from a married couple I’m friends with.

Jeremy has a friend we think you might like. I don’t think you’ve ever met before. Would you be opposed to being set up? We could also schedule a get together some time and invite both of you to introduce you.

Let me know your thoughts.
Jennifer

P.S. Jeremy can tell you more about him.

After a moment of near panic, because the idea of dating sends me into fits of hyperventilation, I calmly responded with: Well, is he cute? Because these are the important questions you need to ask. This was the response.

His name is Tom. He's a good guy that I go out drinking with from time to time. You might have actually met him at the Super Bowl Party we threw 2 years ago. He's a nurse and came in scrubs I think. Anyways, he doesn't have any fetishes of killing pigs and then showing people the video. He's not a creep or anything so that's cool. He's in his lower 30s. His build is similar to mine. He's been active in several CEC shows, just not lately. I mentioned the other night that I had a friend I should hook him up with and he said "hey, I'm not seeing anyone hook me up." (There's no sexual connotation in that). A few years ago I asked him what he looked for in a girl and he said "Big boobs" so that made me think of you (wait, that sounds bad! LOL). He was semi-joking and semi-buzzed at the time too.

After hearing and seeing some of your past boyfriends, I realized he probably wouldn't be that bad of a hook-up. I mean heck, I'm not sure I could find guys like you've dated if I tried. He's got a good job (nurse at the university) and a good place (Broadway Apartments by wal-mart) and is a solid guy. He's into movies, sci-fi, and some books (not as much as you). He's about as much into sports as I am (a little bit but not as bad as he could be). He's also a semi-tech guy so that's good.

As for a double date, I don't think you/us need that. Hellion/You've been on blind dates before and can hold your own.

Jeremy.

I have to agree. He surely couldn’t pick any worse dates than I’ve already done. But of course, I’m fixated on the boobs comment. Actually I’m fixated by the fact that “big boobs” made me think of you comment. That’s really funny because they’re not. So I email:

First, let me just say how immensely flattered I am that I can fall into the category of "single girl with big boobs". Esp since you've seen them. *LOL*

The fact that he's not into killing pigs and showing videos of such kills does rocket him to the top of my list. That was going to my next question. Also behind, "Does he have any weird obsessions with the movie, Titanic?"--though I didn't want to come off as too picky.

Hmmm. He sounds good. Does he email? (And I like the whole "hold your own" comment. Makes me feel I go on my dates armed or something...rather funny really.)

And the response I get is:

Dude, I forgot all about seeing your boobs (well not all about, just in context of talking with him recently about a possible person to connect with him). I mean your breasts were spectacular. I mean heck, even Jenny has to agree with me there. Wait, what are we talking about? Or yeah, your boobs...no wait that's not it.

I don't have his email. Let me see if I can find it and I'll get back to you.

-Jeremy.

His wife immediately writes:

I am a little scared how this conversation has progressed. He’s a good guy Hellion and I don’t think he has any particular thoughts on Titanic one way or the other. If Jeremy gets his email maybe you can start your meeting there and then meet him when ready.

Jen

P.S. I don’t feel like working anymore today.

Well, who can blame her concern about this conversation? So I email back with:

Don't worry, Jen, I totally bring out this quality in emails. And really, it's my fault--I did start it. Don't feel you have to agree with his previous statement. But thank you, Jeremy, nonetheless. *LOL*

You should always thank those who compliment you, you know. Good manners.

Then she emails:

No, your boobs were great. I do agree with Jeremy. I was just laughing at how we went from ‘here’s a nice guy to set up Hellion with’ to ‘her boobs on Mardi Gras’.

These are the emails you remember…

Oh, good, I have great boobs. I’m very excited. This is a red-letter day.

Jack, Ranger & Harry: My Men

Fictional men are the bomb. They're never moody; they're always sexy; and they're not nearly the pain in the rump that the real things are. So here are Odes to all my favorite fictional men. (I probably should get one made up for Darcy--God, I love that man. Though he was a bit moody.)

Ode to Jack

Ode to the pirate called Jack
The rogue with a tongue so clever—
Norrington’s fine; and Orlie’s sublime,
But Jack’s my true love forever!

57 days (May 25 release date) until witty Jack is saved. Approximately 8 weeks. And yes, Jack, I would have come to save you just because I missed you! (Of course, I wouldn’t have handcuffed you to the ship and let you die—you really need to stop kissing the wrong women. Seriously.)


Ode to Ranger

Ode to the hunter called Ranger,
The man with the gun and the bod—
To sleep with him ruins you forever,
But that happens when you sleep with a god.

82 days (June 19 release date) until a Ranger fix—and being he’s ruined me, he needs to fix it. (I don’t know where Sin got 73 days left, but if she’s getting a copier EARLIER, she needs to hook me up with her supplier…)


Ode to Harry

Ode to the wizard boy called Harry
Who faces dastardly Voldemort!
If he dies, I’ll do nothing but cry and cry—
Sobbing tears by the bushel and quart.

114 days (July 21st release date) until Harry kills Voldie. (We know he’s gonna kill Voldie—but let’s hope he doesn’t have to die along with him.) They have the book covers out now for our rabid (okay MY rabid) fascination. I’m once again excited. (That two week moping ‘Eh, who cares about Harry?’ period has obviously passed.)


Who is your favorite fictional man? And what would his ode be if you had to write one?

Harry Update

I didn't want Harry to feel neglected that I'm still babbling about Captain Jack (but really, why wouldn't I be babbling about Jack? We have much more in common than Harry and me--and plus Jack always brings rum. He's also not as shy in the bath as Harry can get when approached by a strange girl fanatic. Plus Jack has a higher sense of self-preservation than Harry, who seems to court trouble on purpose. Say what you will of cowards, but he who fights and runs away can run away another day.)

116 days until the last book release.

32 more days until the HALF WAY mark of waiting. Woohoo!

More Bad Poetry

I find sestinas fascinating. A total pain in the ass to write, and it's hard to make them good. So I tell you now, this one isn't good...but it doesn't talk about any of my typical neurosis, so it makes for a lovely change of pace. Damn, I didn't even mention rum! Shit.

There was a handsome bold pirate named Jack
Whose eyes and bonny long locks were black.
He loved a girl with hair like loose flames of red,
Whom he affectionately called His Hellion.
Together they fought against all attack
And lived on his pirate ship of Love.

But all men, even Jack, are stupid when it comes to Love.
“She doesn’t make a good pirate,” contemplated Jack.
“What if she were injured or worse during an attack?
Why all my blue days would turn to black!
I must do all I can to protect my fragile Hellion,
My darling with hair like loose flames of red.”

When he kicked her to an island, his darling saw red!
How dare he do such a thing and then say it was for Love?
“I’ll show him who’s not a pirate,” fumed a furious Hellion
“I have some tricks I’ve yet to show Jack.”
Her mood went from scarlet embers to limitless black—
Her pirate should beware from whence of his next attack.

At sunset, the Captain soon sound himself under attack
By an enemy with locks like the sun’s flames of red
“Oh, shit,” he said, when he realized his love’s mood was black
“But I only hid her on the island out my full sense of Love!
Women! You can’t live with them or shoot them,” said Jack.
Then he began to plan what he would do about his Hellion.

With a look though her spyglass, there spied Ms. Hellion
“Yes, run, you dog, you know you’re under my attack!
But no matter where you run, you’ll find me, dear Jack”
She flew down from the crow’s nest, her hair flying red,
“Oh, the things I have to put up with for the sake of Love.
Oh, to be near my bonny with his teasing eyes so black.”

“Son of a bitch!” yelled the man with eyes so black
He couldn’t help but admire his persistent wench Hellion
Perhaps he hid out of fear, and not out of Love
Perhaps she had every right to levy attack.
Or perhaps he just missed tupping his Lady Red.
“Yes, that’s what it is,” wryly thought Jack.

Did you ever hear such a tale as Jack and his firebrand Hellion?
How a black garbed pirate could levy such a bed-melting attack?
All for a woman of red—who would give anything for Love.

Arlington

I admit I don’t know a lot about Texas. It never really bothered me before. I mean, I know they fought for the Southern Cause; I know the Texas Rangers (obviously) originated there (from Waco); and I know “Remember the Alamo!” where Davy Crockett, Colonel Travis, and Jim Bowie died. I know George Strait is from Texas, long live the King. Johnny Horton died on his way back from playing at the Skyline (in Texas)—killed by a drunk driver. Waylon Jennings has a couple kick-ass songs about Texas, “Let’s go to Luckenbach, Texas, with Waylon, Willie, and the boys…” And I still get teary-eyed when I hear “San Antonio Rose” on the radio.

That’s what I know about Texas.

Apparently there’s an Arlington there. And if you google it, they talk about football and six flags, neither of which I’m all that obsessive about. Apparently I’m a moron. I’m sure if a Harry Potter convention had ever been held there, I would know all about it, but alas, I don’t think Harry is all that popular there. Something about Bible Belt states and witchcraft doesn’t lend itself to Harry Potter conventions.

When someone mentions Arlington to me, I think: Virginia. (As Sin says, where the CIA is, baby!) But I’m thinking, it’s near all the other monuments and stuff—you know, big stuff, like Arlington Cemetery and George Washington monument and a thousand other museums. You know, it’s the spot where Robert E. Lee had his home, and Quartermaster General Montgomery Meigs thought it’d be a great place to bury all the dead. (I don’t think he thought much of Lee.) Of course, it probably jogs my memory since I've been to Arlington, VA.

But let’s not limit our scope. There are other Arlingtons I also haven't been to.

There’s an Arlington in each of the following states, none of which I've visited either: Alabama, California, Georgia, Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Massachusetts, Minnesota, Nebraska, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, Oregon, South Dakota, Tennessee, Vermont, Washington and Wisconsin. (There are some in Canada too…but I thought I’d try to focus our search to our lower 48.)

Arlington, MA, is particularly enticing since it’s like 6 miles from Boston, and Paul Revere’s famous ride went through it. Interesting. Loving that. Hell, I might have driven through it and not realized it during my Boston trip. (I can wax orgasmic about Boston.)

The Arlington in Oregon seems to pay their female workers just as shitty as they do here. *marks off her list as an Arlington to visit*

Arlington, SD, couldn’t make up its blipping mind when it was being named, first starting with Nordland (we can see why they picked a different name), then Denver (though the postal people never acknowledged this change), then finally deciding to name themselves after Arlington, MA. Must be a city of Libras. *crosses off her list*

Arlington, VT, apparently was hometown to a bunch of the Green Mountain Boys in the Revolutionary War. Also hometown of Norman Rockwell. Nice, maybe could do.

Arlington, WI, is a sprawling metropolis of 484 at last count. The women get paid more here than in Oregon. Hell, they get paid more than I do here. Maybe I should move to Wisconsin.

I won’t even bother to look at Kansas. No one lives in or visits Kansas on purpose. Kansas is the Hotel California of states.

Of course, I’m not really interested in relocating to an Arlington. If I was going to relocate or take a trip, I thought Hell, Michigan looked pretty entertaining. And from there, it’s only a couple hours to get to Climax. (Irony comes free in Michigan, apparently. Comes free, get it. God, I kill myself.) But I’m not interested in Michigan’s normal weather. If I’m going to Hell, I’m going to Grand Cayman to get there. At least there, they also have Tortuga Rum.

Devil's In The Details

To quote Jack, “A wedding? I love weddings!”

Well, with the following amendment, so long as I’m not in them. I was a bridesmaid once, and that was plenty. I didn’t understand. I was young, naïve, and yes, self-absorbed at the time of my bridesmaidal occupation; but I sincerely think I missed out on the girl gene of caring about certain details in regards to a wedding. Like, some people really care how many people are allowed at the wedding (and whose feelings will be hurt if they’re not invited), if there should be three bridesmaids or seven (and how are we going to fit all my friends and siblings into the wedding party without pissing off my friends or my mother), and should I have Alstroemeria or Liatris at the front of the church? Church? Speaking of which, where should I have my wedding? At the chapel with the red carpet or the one with the stained glass windows?

I wish I were kidding, but these are the things brides actually worry about. And it doesn’t end there. There are articles and media and mothers constantly going on and on about how each detail must be carefully thought out, or the wedding will suck and you’ll never be able to hold up your head in town again. Or worse, your mother will not be able to. And I, as the bridesmaid, was obviously unhelpful when I pointed out the obvious: It’s your wedding. Do it however you want.

This was apparently bad advice. And unwanted. I don’t understand it. It’s sound advice. (Except perhaps she didn’t know what she wanted. Maybe bridal planning is a lot like dieting—it doesn’t go well if you have too many options to pick from.) Well, I’m here to help you limit your options. There are only two things you need to worry about for a wedding, three if you count the cake. (And you should, cake is important.)

Number 1: The Groom. One would assume at the time of your wedding planning you have already acquired one of these. One-third of your planning is already solved. Congratulations!

Number 2: The Dress. You have to look good. You’re the bride. This is The Moment to look smoking hot and make every other dumbass man who ever broke your heart absolutely ripped with jealousy and regret.

Number 3: The Cake. (This one was semi-negotiable.) Wedding cake is like crack and none of us get to eat it near enough. Plus, you feed cake to people, and no one will remember anything else about that wedding. Other than you looked gorgeous, obviously.

Everything else is up for negotiation, and frankly if you don’t care about it, don’t have it at your wedding.

But my mother (grandmother/MIL/sister/friends/insert female here) thinks I should [insert needless drama item here] or my wedding will be awful! They lie. It’s not their wedding. When it’s their wedding they can insert all the needless drama items they want. In the meantime, it’s your wedding and you should be looking for a dress.

If I get married in Vegas, everyone will think I’m pregnant/cheating them out of a real wedding/not serious about marriage. Uh-huh. Who’s footing the bill for this gig anyway? You, my dear bride? Yes, people will say anything to get cake. When you return from your lovely Vegas wedding, undetailed by the burdens of massive federal debt or stress of a celebrity-style wedding, you can buy a cake for the little naysayers and be done with it.

The moral of the story is that you can’t please everybody, but you can please yourself—and if you’re happy, then the groom’s happy. And if he’s not happy and cares more for the details than you—he’s running for office or he’s gay—and in either case, you need to get out now. The End

Oh, and my wedding (provided that I’m not hit by a bus first, which is apparently more likely): Vegas. On the pirate ship. In a bitchin’ bridal pirate gown. Or…maybe a different theme. Who knows? But I assure you I’ll have the two things that matter: The Groom and The Gown. Everything else is just details, baby.

Bridget Jones in Mid-Missouri

I have a soft spot for the Bridget Jones heroine. Critics have maintained that she’s a dumbass; that no woman in her right mind would want to be mistaken for her, be classified as her, but deep down, we all have a bit of Bridget Jones in us.

Some of us more than others.

Myself really. Especially now that I’ve turned 32—and isn’t that where Bridget Jones’ saga starts? In her 32nd year? She’s at the New Year’s Turkey Curry buffet, and there is Mark Darcy—and boom, her life changes forever. She doesn’t want to be the laughing stock. She needs to crack down, get serious, and get a boyfriend.

So last Friday, I went out with Sin, who was having a crap week. We agreed to go drinking. Any way I can support a friend with beer, I’m there. Of course the problem with this is that I drank more than she did, so she had to put up with me. (So much for capping off her crap week nicely, right?) After a pitcher and a half of Miller Lite (that’s just my consumption, and I was massively upset we were leaving behind half a pitcher of beer), we leave and Sin drives us to the Mall. We wander around for a while—and I buy a Sinatra CD—and then we wander back to the movie theater. We go inside, we buy tickets and soda, and then we go into the theater.

Sin wants to sit in the back, but not in the back row. (The lights get in the way.) There is a row where long-legged people can sit and not feel cramped. She picks this row, and I plop down beside her in the midst of a beer-buzz. No one in front of me. Perfect. We chat and giggle a bit. No idea what we are talking about. I’m wondering if I should pee again—I’ve only already gone about a dozen times—but to be sure, I don’t want to go during the movie. I kick off my shoes. This is my M.O. I start undoing buttons, taking off items of clothing…I’m surprised I’m not naked by the end of films.

A couple comes in and sits in the row in front of us. Her hair is jacked to Jesus—she, of course, sits in front of me. I can’t see. Stadium seating, my ass. Sin says, “You want to move?” I’m trying not to be a total pain in the ass, so I say, “I’ll move. I’ll sit on your other side.” I kick my stuff to her other side, sit, and put my feet up. Ninety seconds later, a new couple comes in and sits in front of me. More hair jacked to Jesus.

By now Sin is laughing so hard, she struggling to muffle it in her coat. I give her a look and she says, “Let’s move a row back.” Awesome. I get up, start throwing my purse and shoes to the row behind us, and watch Sin cleverly negotiate a straddle across a row of stadium seats. She hops and boom, she’s seated again. Well, hell, I think, I can do that. (Beer, you recall.) I hitch my pants, fling a leg over the seating, and go to hurdle—just as I hear “Hi Hellion” from above. I look up, and there’s my Mark Darcy in the row where I normally sit, presumably with his girlfriend who is also smiling at all this activity. “That’s Hellion," he points, then waves.

Hell. Seriously what are the odds? I mean, my Finite Mathematics teacher couldn’t have come up with a formula to predict this.

However, unlike Bridget who would have fallen backwards, sent her skirt flying over her waist and shown off her sunflower panties (that was a different episode)—I managed to finish hurdling the seats, sit down, and proceeded to concentrate in not moving for the next two hours. Which was hard considering I’d had a bunch of beer, and I could have probably peed twice more.

No idea what the movie was about.

Anyone else have any Bridget Jones’ moments? Any romantic comedy heroines you totally relate to?

TGIF

Terri won. Of course, she’s the only one who submitted formal answers—and she got 6 out of 10 right. I mean, that’s good. Usually I refer to these men as “The Weeper” or “The Coffee Guy”. I will have to think of something appropriate to send Terri. I did greatly appreciate Christie’s response of: “These all sound like something Jack would say.” *coughing fits of laughter* That should at least get an honorable mention—being once I read the statements again and thought about Jack; yeah, they do all pretty sound like stuff Jack would say.

Took a quiz earlier this week. http://www.tomorrowland.us/tlm/ It was: Are you a Talent, Lifer, or Mandarin? I was a Talent. I’m pretty sure this had to do with the fact it asked me, “If you got to do your dream job, would you do it for a pay cut?” Sure, I said, if it was really a DREAM job. I mean, if I got to give sponge baths to Ranger all day—if that was my job—hell yeah, I’d take a pay cut.

That’s probably not what they meant, but I don’t really give a crap.

And really that’s the point of Today’s Rambling, brought to you by “I don’t give a Crap” toilets. It’s Friday, my favorite day of the week, and this particular Friday is next to a big drinking holiday. Find me a beer and someone to bullshit with, and I’m going to pretend all the other somewhat-crappy stuff that went on this week did not happen. Because you know what? It doesn’t matter—it’s over now—and I can go about with deleting those unnecessary memory cells with pitchers of Miller Lite. Then to finish off the evening, I’ll trot across the parking lot and watch that new Gerry Butler movie—you know the one where he’s half-clothed and all passionate and gung-ho? Yeah, I don’t remember the title either—it doesn’t matter. My drunk ass will ask the ticket guy: “I want to see the naked Gerry Butler film. No, I’m not kidding…it’s playing here.”

Well, that’s the intent anyway. I might just be content with the beer and bullshitting.

Happy Friday, Everyone!

Ramblings & a Pop Quiz

129 days until the new Harry Potter book comes out. That's 18 weeks. I'm not keeping tabs on it or anything. Holly mentioned the book again today when she said one of our faculty members will be out of town when it's released so she could read the faculty's copy of the book. She also made me promise to bring my hardbacks in before the Big Day so I could not set fire to them like I promised if Harry does die in the 7th book. She has also made a note to buy duct tape, but right now I'm not feeling the excitement. (I mean not like I am for POTC3). I think I'm gearing up for the worst to happen (as is my nature), so I'll probably be, "Eh" when the day actually arrives. And even if he does die, I probably won't so much as throw a paperwad in irritation. I'll just talk about what a crap book it is...then give all my books to Holly.

The next Ranger book (okay, it's the next Plum book, but I call them the Ranger books) comes out at the end of June. That will also be something to look forward to.

And then there is POTC3. I mean someone has to save Jack...and it can be me, if that's what everyone thinks. I would *love* to save Jack. That's the end of May. May 25th. (Interesting, that was the same day Braveheart was released to theaters in 1995, I think...*looks* No, Braveheart was released May 24th. My mistake.) I'm actually looking more forward to that. (Going to be broke that month too. That 70s Show Season 6 comes out May 8th. God forbid I don't add it to the collection.)

Hellion Quiz: Match the Men Who Said This

1.) Man: "What if we'd gotten married?" Me: "We'd be divorced." Man: (sinful smile) "No, no I don't think we would be."
2) "You're not the kind of woman a man has sex with. You have that vibe...that girl vibe like you'd get pregnant right away."
3) "He's right. You do have a glow about you...it's very sexy."
4) "If you skip class with me, I'll buy you ice cream...you know you want to...any kind you want, so long as you lick it from a cone."
5) Man: "Did you miss me?" Me: "Like a dose of the clap." Man: "Cool! Because we would have had to have sex in order to get that right?"
6) "No offense, but I think your boobs are dead."
7) "You're right. I was using you for sex." (*starts weeping*)
8) "You'd make beautiful babies."
9) "Did you really flash your boobs at this party? Man, I don't go to the right parties."
10) "You're really pretty. My father thinks all the women I date are dog ugly, but really, you're very beautiful."

A. Larry
B. Justin
C. Jack
D. Mike
E. Bryan
F. Mustafa
G. Eric
H. Dennis
I. Billy
J. Mac

Anyone who can get all 10 right--I'll send you one of my books off my bookshelf--I'll surely have something you'll want to read. (If there is more than one winner, the first one who got it right will get the prize.)

The Period Piece

I’m a movie junkie. It’s a flaw, yet at the same time helpful whenever I’m playing a game of Scene It. (Not that anyone wants to play with me.) Over the weekend, when I should have been working on a quilt block (which I made and it totally sucked), I went to see Amazing Grace.

This movie has all the elements of a Hellion movie.

1) It was a period piece. I love period pieces. I have quite a collection of PP movies. Dangerous Beauty; Braveheart; Rob Roy; Elizabeth; Pride & Prejudice (the long and the short versions); Sense & Sensibility (with Alan Rickman and his Voice, “Hello”—which subliminally says “take off your clothes and lie on the couch”); Pearl Harbor; The Notebook; The Patriot (Braveheart in America); Titanic (yes, I own Titanic—the ironies abound); Shakespeare in Love; and undoubtedly eons more.

2) It rips your heart out. I love to start crying at Hollywood manufactured, totally manipulative emotional scenes. I sniffle like I have a bad allergic reaction and my eyes get all teary, and if someone dies I was real partial to (see: Braveheart), I start crying like mad. Not shaking sobs though, but the real painful, silent, devastated crying where you want to curl up in your seat with your blanket and cry, cry, cry.

3) It’s inspirational. After Braveheart, I was little Miss Freedom. And I was almost Anti-England. “No, no, I love Scotland, not…” hiss “England.” Right, whatever. After The Patriot, I was all “England sucks” again—and America rules. And after this one, I sat in my seat going, “I really need a passionate cause because I’m not doing anything great with my life.” Mind you, I have as much desire to become a missionary and assume a missionary position as I do to scrub a toilet. Actually I’d rather scrub the toilet—it wouldn’t last as long and it wouldn’t require me going to a questionable third world country where I might die of dysentery. (Yeah, I know Amazing Grace isn’t about missionaries, but being that there aren’t any more slaves in America or England—I was speaking of a passionate cause that would be available to me.)

4) The lead-guy is so totally hot. (I’m really amazed at myself that I didn’t put this as my first element. I feel like I’m growing as a person.) Ioan Gruffudd (YO-an GRIFF-ith) was a hottie as Horatio Hornblower, and he’s a hottie as a bible-thumping near-preacher-now-politician. Those curls, that romantic brow, those melting dark eyes—hello fellow Welshman!

So what are you favorite kinds of movies, why, and what is possibly your most favorite movie of that genre?

Hell

I've been thinking about Hell lately. I have this book, you see, I'm writing, have written, am rewriting when I should be working on other manuscripts--but I can't help myself. What can I say? Lucy is a tempting guy.

Elizabeth and Luc get into a philosophic debate about what hell is really like. I'd really like to use this scene, as goofy as it is. (And it is. It's very soap opera-like and angsty, but I still like it. Probably because she has the last word. I love it when my heroines have the last word.)

“Oh, are you going to save me now? Are we getting philosophic?” Lucifer asked, swirling his Miller light as Elizabeth watched him with her knowing eyes. What was it about those eyes? “How’s this for philosophy, Lizzie: 'To fear love is to fear life, and those who fear life are already three parts dead.'” He took another swig of beer. “You shouldn’t fear to live or love.”

“Oh,” Elizabeth said with a smile. “Is that your problem?”

“Problem? I don’t have a problem. You’re the one who won’t step out of her big brown box and give me a chance.”

She gave another slow smile. “I wasn’t here drinking to fix the problems of my love life. You were. I’m just here to drink beer. You’re the one who wanted to be ‘saved.’ Get philosophic,” she mocked out the last work with each syllable. She leaned across the table and looked him squarely in the eyes. “If you want to be saved, you’re going to have to ask. Just like everyone else.”

She stood, picking up her beer and finishing it off, then clunking the bottle on the table. “It’s been nice, Luc. Call me again any time you want to be broody and discuss philosophy.”

“Sounded like a sermon to me.”

“That wasn’t even the beginning of a sermon, Luc. Sermons make me think of brimstone and fire preachers who are more interested in making you more scared than happy. We should fear hell because the devil is there; because it is evil, everyone will be evil; and you’ll burn forever. But you don’t go to heaven because you’re scared of fire.”

She looked at him intently, her eyes like blue fire. “But I know exactly what hell would be like. It isn’t hot, or cold, or miserable in the human ways. It’s miserable in the soul ways. It’s where everyday you wake up and realize you are separated forever from the one person who loved you most—and you will never see him again. You will never feel his breath on your cheek when he tells you he loves you; you will never know the warmth of his embrace as he wraps you in love.

And the worst thing of all, is that every day you’ll remember it a little less, what it was like to be loved, until you think you just imagined it all. It never existed but in the dreams that wake you to the emptiness. You won’t even be able to recall his face—and that’s when you’ll be the most frightened. Because if you can’t even remember him, what if he can’t remember you either? You exist for no one, until you don’t even remember yourself who you were. Hell is not fire; hell is without love, an eternity without meaning.”

She turned a half-smile at him. “How is that for maudlin drunken philosophy? Or you still thinking I’m here to save you? I have news for you—I’m not. I have no interest in a missionary position.”

What do you think Hell is like? Do you think you'll be there? And if you are, what do you plan on doing when you get there?

Fantasy Men

I’m pretty sure I was a couple geek points away from being a D&D girl in high school and college. I have geek points in other areas—total book geek, attend ren faires, and totally freaking lose my mind when I see a man in a kilt (or nearly any costume—Star Trek might be stretching it, but I might play).

My friend Tiff is constantly on some sort of banter about Taboo topics and what gets you hot and yadda, yadda, yadda. And where I’m definitely more run of the mill vanilla with perhaps a strawberry stripe (you know, sweet, but tart) rippling throughout my kink-factor love life (I’m speaking very optimistically by calling it a “life” here), Tiff’s runs along the variety of Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk—it’s dark and it has everything you can imagine and perhaps even more—and definitely goes down better in small doses. The closest thing I come to anything remotely kinky is if we’re playing dress up. I do a lot better at just about anything if I think I’m playing a part. (See: Pisces.) I’m not someone you’d hire, but if I dress the part, I can generally interview my way into at least getting offered the job.

When we go out to bars, I put on my badass Hellion outfits (or at least I used to—now I’m more the comfort seeking variety) and strut in with my heels on and my eyeliner in place. Totally playing a part. It’s one of my many versions of myself. (I sound totally skitzo, don’t I?) What was this topic again? Oh, yes, fantasy men.

Duh. I was discussing with Sin about what would probably happen if I met a guy in a kilt. “He doesn’t even have to have a good accent. He’s got a kilt on—just say hello—and I’m spider-monkeying up him, planting kisses all over him.” *sucking on a piece of chocolate* “Men should be very afraid.” They are, they are. So it got me to thinking, big philosopher that I am, exactly what kind of fantasy men I go for. I thought I’d make a list, as a word of warning to all men, that if you meet one of the following, be prepared to be molested and left with a smile on your face.

1) The Highlander: typically a guy in a kilt, but occasionally, my friend Mac had a death wish and would roll his r’s in my ear and affect this lovely, horribly fake Scottish accent purely for my benefit, because he seemed to enjoy my big grin and suddenly petting nature. So kilt or accent or both—if both, just watch where my lipstick goes….
2) The Pirate/Highwayman: something about a guy with a sword telling me I have to take off my clothes. I do prefer pirates with all their teeth—but it IS my fantasy.
3) The Ranger: he’s a new acquisition to the list. He wears all black, drives the best cars, smells like Heaven, and ruins you for all other men in bed. Hell, yeah.
4) The Rake: smooth-talker, witty banter, and moves every conversation to the bedroom. Lead the way, Mayne, and I will follow.
5) The Cop: Handcuffs. (Hey, Tiff, maybe I do have an untapped kink factor.) “I’m sorry, officer, was I speeding again?”

Hmmm. I need at least two more days so I can rotate this through out the week. I’ll think of something and post later.

Any fantasy men who you’d spider monkey for? Firemen? Professors? Architects? Cowboys?

Shoes

I like shoes. I’m an all or nothing shoe gal. I have tennis shoes, flip flops and sandals—and then I have kitten heels and CFM pumps. I have one pair of flats but they look like Catholic Girl shoes—so even then, they serve a purpose. I’m always on the lookout for new shoes.

Yesterday I was playing catch up from my Friday Freeday, and this gentleman comes in. We’ll call him Joe. He wants in the program to finish his masters, which by the way he already thinks he was in. In fact, we’ve already had a couple discussions by phone and he’s come to my office to fill out paperwork. I hand him a packet, he proceeds to fill it out at my desk. I start a folder.

“Okay, Joe,” I say. “Now let me explain what your chances are for getting your program finished this semester.”

“They’re good, right?” He’s got a big shit-eating grin on his face.

“Right. Okay, hurdle number one. You have completed 24 hours. You can only bring in 12 hours of non-degree graduate credit….”

“But I didn’t realize I was non-degree. See, it says Grad over here on my transcripts…”

“That’s nice, Joe, but you’re still non-degree. See, next to the grad, it says NON-DEGREE. Okay. Now, this is bad because although all those hours are graduate level, right now, 12 hours are going to be classified as personal enrichment.”

“Yeah, that’s not what I was shooting for.”

“It never is, Joe. So we have to get you backdated.”

“So it can be done?”

“That’s only hurdle one, Joe. Stay with me. You also have to fill out a program of study….”

“Give it to me. I’ll do it now.”

“Yes, but you can’t really fill out the form until you’re in the program. Do you see my catch 22, here? Great.” Gets program form and hands it to him anyway. Might as well. “Fill it out anyway and we’ll proceed. Now the drop-dead date…”

“Drop dead date?”

“Yes, the last date you can turn in a program or you can drop dead—that’s in like two days. And you haven’t taken the graduate exam yet—so right now I have to talk with Dr. Sparrow to see if he’ll let you be conditionally admitted. If so, if all this goes right, you’re looking at a ½ of 1% likelihood of graduating this semester.”

“So there’s a chance? Awesome.” Mr. Optimism smiles. I just start laughing. I like this guy. What can I say?

I shake my head. “You are the one Dr. Sparrow warned me about. He said you’d be a problem. Well, you know what, you’re buying me shoes.” Don’t you like my leaps of logic?

“I’ll buy you whatever you want if you get me in this program. It’ll be worth it.”

“Good, because you’re buying me shoes. You might even be buying me some dinner because shopping is so exhausting.”

“I’ll buy you dinner. Everett’s okay?” Everett’s is one of the most expensive places in town. How nice.

“Of course, Everett’s is.”

“Longhorn has better steak,” he says.

“Yes, yes, it does, and it’s a bit cheaper…no…wait…”

He grins. “Longhorn can get pricey.”

“It can. Actually if we’re doing steak, I vote for G&D, no frills, great steak, and it’s right next to Shoe Carnival. Let me talk with the Grad School, and I’ll emphasize how important it is I get my shoes.” I do, and the Hellion over there laughs at me and says, we can probably do it, if you have the program turned in, etc. Hmmm. He must have worked some magic on her too. Actually I also promised her that he was willing to buy her shoes as well. She said she wore an 8 ½ or a 9, and she preferred a nice heel. I said, “I love heels myself. I think that will be the way to go.” I get off the phone. “Okay, Joe, we’re willing to work for shoes. Where’s my statement.”

“What statement?”

“This one.” I point to a question on the form. “You were supposed to write me a statement. I don’t even care what it says. It’s not going to matter. You have a 4.0 in everything anyway; we know you can write, which is why they make you write the statement to begin with…just write something down so I can mark it off my list.”

He laughs again. “You’re so funny.”

“Of course, I am. I’m in a good mood because I’m getting new shoes.” So he fills out his statement, his program, and around 5 pm, he trots back in my office because he can’t get the online website I sent him to to work. I sit him at my desk, pull up the site, and have him fill out the other form he needs. I sit at my desk, prop up my feet, and read my Ranger book. Joe finds this the height of amusing.

Dr. Sparrow came in this morning and laughs at me. “Joe is the ultimate procrastinator.”

“Yes, but he’s buying me shoes.” Four inch FMPs if I have anything to say about it. And I have a good idea who I’d first strut them off for too…and it won’t be Joe. Or Booty Call in Ohio. Or even Southern Boy.

So are you a shoe slut too? What are your favorite pair of shoes and why? My faves are a pair of 4 ½ inch red strappy heels. Total badass, total hellion shoes. (I need to find a skirt to wear with them. That’s my other mission in life is to find a skirt that will go with these shoes. And boy, when I do….)

Nicknames

I’m not wild about nicknames myself. This may be an odd statement to reveal about myself, since most people only know me as “Hellion” or “Wench”, but there you go. Mainly because my real name is so horrendous that childhood nicknames should have been labeled as child abuse. (Seriously, children are the worst bullies. Some sort of evolutionary “you are the weakest link, goodbye” thing going on in their little lizard brains.)

My real name can be shortened to have an “ie” tacked on; however, being that many people in high school tried this stunt, and then rhymed it with “wannie” or “mannie” or whatever their rhyming dictionary offered them—I abhorred that name. To this day, there are times I can hear one of the female jocks screeching my “ie” nickname in this obnoxious way (which she considered affectionate) and I just shudder. I rarely allow anyone to call me by my “ie” nickname—and one of the two qualifiers have to be in place for you to be allowed to do so.

First qualifier: we can’t have gone to grade or high school together. Period. Even though I graduated a thousand years ago, it does not matter. If we went to school together, you’re never allowed to call me by that name. Of course, I doubt I’ll allow you to address me at all…because I pretty much can’t stand anyone I graduated with. But don’t worry, it’s a fair prejudice. I loathe them all equally. There is no reason for us to ever speak to each other again. Ever.

Second qualifier: I have to feel you like me. If I think it’s being used as a term of affection, I’ll let you call me pretty much anything you like. “Aww, my little rum-runner, how are you this morning….” My little skunk-kitten…whatever. So I let a few women use the “ie” name first, mainly because they didn’t do that obnoxious pronunciation of it. I’ve admittedly let some men call me my “ie” nickname. Mainly they met the first qualifier, but usually when they say it, they usually give me their reckless, I-know-you-love-me grins, and I probably do, so I let it go. I’m a sucker for men and their flirty ways. Men are my kryptonite. Bastards.

I got to college and I shortened my name to exclude the “ie” portion. And after a time of being mouthy, sarcastic, and a wee bit cheeky, I decided Wench was a good description…and then Hellion. [---] the Hellion was my nickname. It was my email too…but after a while, being we all knew I hated my first name, I just became Hellion. It makes a good anonymous persona, and I was able to adapt this totally badass personality to go with it. Instead of being a witty introvert with a keyboard, I could give off the vibe of being a tall red-headed, black-leather-wearing hell-cat a-la Lara Croft, but in reality, I’m more of a frumpier version of either Meg Ryan or Drew Barrymore, neither of which you’d send out back to beat up so much as chipmunk. (I do have a deadly glare though.)

What’s your favorite nickname for yourself and why? What’s the nickname you won’t allow anyone to call you?

The Merits of Brain Rot

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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?

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?

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.]

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…

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.

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.

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.

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!

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?

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.

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.

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.