Wednesday, April 30, 2008

In Which I Am Helpful

In the coming year I will be part of at least three weddings. In the ten thousand years that I have been married, there have been so many changes to what is and what is not cool/accepted/done/considered bat shit crazy that I am having a really good time enjoying the spectacle. Also, because I'm not paying for it, I have no problem suggesting things like this

I know. Awesome, right? And the Disneyland Dream Wedding package that it comes with is only $45,000! A bargain.

What? Too Much? Fine.
I am also enjoying the search for dresses. Not my own personal search for this dress though.
Looking for this dress is proving to be a gigantic pain in my wobbly ass. But I digress, and if I digress much further down this rant, I may start to foam at that mouth and gnash my teeth and rend my hair from my scalp, which sounds both painful and unattractive.
So really, what I am saying is that I enjoy finding and sending out suggestions like this one;
Pretty freaking hot. I mean who doesn't want to look like Gay C3PO made their dress? No one who's cool, that's who. I would look simply freakin' smashing in that dress. Delightful and not at all like a partially deflated Mylar balloon. And it's CLASSY. Am I right? I know.

So yesterday while I waited for M to finish her insufferably long meeting, I entertained myself flipping through the bridal magazines at WalMart, including the very entertaining "500 Fabulous Wedding Hair Designs!" not hair styles, chickens, HAIR DESIGNS. Let me tell you, it did not disappoint. I'm thinking that this one is probably my favorite

If for no other reason then she looks like she snatched the wig off of an aging and drunken French Hooker. The runners up though are equally fabulous.

You have so many wonderful options for your big day! Big Ridiculous Hair Thing? Check! Random tendrils that make you look like you ran all the way here from the best-mans hotel room? Check! Clairs clearance "rhinestone" necklace artfully off centered and pink foam curlers ringlets half combed out to cover your Van Halen neck tattoo that you got in South Padre during spring break 1989? Check!

But maybe affixing things to your head isn't your thing? Maybe you're having a theme wedding? Like, say; Trailer Park Barbies Mermaid Stripper Dream Wedding. If that's what you're planning then I would say that this look is for you.

Too much garish makeup, home perm, odd tendril bangs, "pearl" ribbons? Check, check, check and CHECK. It's got everything. It's lovely in a Miss Boise 1989 kind of way. It says, "I slept with the entire set of Grooms Men and I don't care who knows! Except if you could NOT mention it to Trailer Park Ken that would be so, like, TOTALLY fab of you! I will totally hook you up with some Chesterfried next time you stop in the Feed n' Go!" And that? That's a good look on EVERYONE.

The Only Excerise I do Is Running My Mouth

Who wants to come over and wheel me around in my office chair?

Maybe I should back up...

About a week ago I bought a Pilates DVD at Costco. I read the box about how it was for people who had never done it before, it was easy, low impact, required no additional equipment, and best of all it was FUN! Look at how perky the she looks!
Pilates DVD
See? All bendy and slender and whatever. But all that perkiness belies her EVIL core.

Oh sure, she starts you out all easy with some stretches and shit
Pilates leg stretchpilates arm stretchPhotobucket

But then, just when you're starting to think, "Hey! I CAN do this! And it's not even that bad!" she starts to get more sadistic.
But, still you're all, "Maybe if the dog were not trying to get in my lap and lick my face while I was doing this, it wouldn't be that bad!" so then you pause the DVD and let the dogs out and do your centering breathing from your ready position and then start the DVD again and wouldn't you know it, in those two minutes that vicious acrobat uncurled her pointy tail and she's all "OKAY! That's great! If you're ready, let's move onto the mat work!" in that chipper voice with it's pleasant accent and you're laying there listening to the dog licking the window and thinking "WTF? I thought we WERE doing mat work!"

But you are thinking wrong, very, horribly wrong. Because that stuff you just did? That you are kind of light headed from all the deep breathing and centering and shit? THAT was the warm up! The mat work, which has been banned by the Geneva Convention, is yet to come! She expects you to do thisPhotobucket
and if that wasn't bad enough, just when you've used the TV credenza to push your knees up over your boobs, a problem that the human pretzel apparently does not suffer from, she uncurls her rubber self and in a calm voice tells you to return to your ready position because guess what? THERE IS MORE.
ARE YOU F-ING KIDDING ME? She can not seriously expect average humans to do this! OH BUT SHE DOES! Okay, so there you are using the couch for leverage trying to launch your ass up and over your shoulders and the wee wicked bitch calmly informs you that now you should slowly lower yourself back to ready and then DO IT AGAIN. So there you are, giggling and grunting and trying to launch yourself into unnatural and wholly improbable positions when what do you know, the Mormon Missionaries approach your screen door and gazing inside mistake you for being in distress and call out "Ma'am? Are you okay?" Which of course, you are not, clearly you are mentally unwell and for just a moment, frozen mid-fling looking like a hippo having a seizure you consider yelling for the jaws of life, but instead calmly roll back down to Earth as if all of this were COMPLETELY NORMAL and tell the door to door Jesus sellers that you are in fact fine, just doing a little exercise! Because the body is the Gods temple! And wouldn't they rather come back another time?

Then you firmly close and lock the opaque front door and remind yourself that it all could have been so much worse; you could have been wearing Spandex.

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Damn Whippersnappers

If you are 30 or older you’ll think this is hilarious!

When I was a kid, adults used to bore me to tears with their tedious diatribes about how hard things were when they were growing up (ie: walking twenty-five miles to school every morning (uphill BOTH ways, etc.,etc.) And I remember promising myself that when I grew up, there was no way in hell I was going to lay a bunch of crap like that on kids about how hard I had it and how easy they've got it!

But now that I'm over the ripe old age of thirty, I can't help but look around and notice the youth of today. You've got it so easy! I mean, compared to my childhood, you live in a damn Utopia! And I hate to say it, but you kids today you don't know how good you've got it! I mean, when I was a kid we didn't have The Internet. If we wanted to know something, we had to go to the damn library and look it up ourselves, in the card catalog!

There was no email! We had to actually write somebody a letter...with a pen! Then you had to walk all the way across the street and put it in the mailbox and it would take like a week to get there!

There were no MP3's or Napsters! You wanted to steal music, you had to hitchhike to the damn record store and shoplift it yourself! Or you had to wait around all day to tape it off the radio and the DJ would usually talk over the beginning and @#*% it all up!

We didn't have fancy crap like Call Waiting! If you were on the phone and somebody else called they got a busy signal, that's it! And we didn't have fancy Caller ID Boxes either! When the phone rang, you had no idea who it was! It could be your school, your mom, your boss, your bookie, your drug dealer, a collections agent, you just didn't know!!! You had to pick it up and take your chances, mister!

We didn't have any fancy Sony Playstation video games with high-resolution 3-D graphics! We had the Atari 2600! With games like 'Space Invaders' and 'asteroids'. Your guy was a little square! You actually had to use your imagination!! And there were no multiple levels or screens, it was just one screen forever! And you could never win. The game just kept getting harder and harder and faster and faster until you died! Just like LIFE!

When you went to the movie theater there no such thing as stadium seating! All the seats were the same height! If a tall guy or some old broad with a hat sat in front of you and you couldn't see, you were just screwed!

Sure, we had cable television, but back then that was only like 15 channels and there was no on screen menu and no remote control! You had to use a little book called a TV Guide to find out what was on! You were screwed when it came to channel surfing! You had to get off your ass and walk over to the TV to change the channel and there was no Cartoon Network either! You could only get cartoons on Saturday Morning. Do you hear what I'm saying!?! We had to wait ALL WEEK for cartoons, you spoiled little rat-bastards!

And we didn't have microwaves, if we wanted to heat something up we had to use the stove or go build a frigging fire .. imagine that! If we wanted popcorn, we had to use that stupid Jiffy Pop thing and shake it over the stove forever like an idiot.

That's exactly what I'm talking about! You kids today have got it too easy. You're spoiled. You guys wouldn't have lasted five minutes back in 1980!

egards, The Over 30 Crowd

Not a Webster

My father in law was recently downsized. Being that he's less than five years from retirement, he's not interested in finding a new career; just something to pay the bills.
So far he's applied to be a security guard, a Wal-Mart greeter (is that spelled right? The longer I look at 'greeter' the less it looks like a word) and most amusingly, a fish quality inspector.
Since he's been in the photography industry for the last 30 years, and the Navy before that, his resume is a little narrow. Undaunted, he filled out his application for the glorious field of salmon inspection. However, given his propensity for saying things like "windle" (window) "chimaley" (chimney) and things of that ilk, he called my mother in law to get clarification on his most legit claim to the job.

FIL - How do you spell Abbott?
MIL - Abbott? Like Abbott and Costello?
FIL - No, the other kind
MIL - (confused) Can you use it in a sentence?
FIL - "I am an abbott fisherman"
MIL - You mean avid A-V-I-D
FIL - No, I don't, I mean ABBOTT, like I'm good at it and I know stuff about fish? So, if you don't know how to spell it, just say so!

He didn't get the job. Apparently they're not interested in Abbott Fishermen. Go figure.

It Would Seem Accountants can be Bad-A$$ After-all

(scene - Wal-Mart gun counter; last night)

Very Tattooed Thug – And a box of .45's
Wall of Thug Meat – Lemme get some 9's too, man
Me – That's what I need, too. Two of the hundred round boxes of the Winchester 9mm 125grain full metal jackets, please.
WoTM – Damn, Girl, that was HOT.
VTT – yeah, baby, you a bad ass.


Red Hats are for Wimps

My boss has an 88 year old grandmother who is the very model of what I aspire to be.
You see Grandma, after losing her husband, took up with a spry 97 year old. She flew cross country to live in sin with him and apparently went at it like geriatric rabbits until he kicked off.

Then, she wised up. You see the elderly keel over at an alarming rate, so she hooked up with a younger man. A mere whip of an 83 year old. All was well until he had the nerve to decide to reunite with his ex-wife. He wrote Grandma a "Dear Phyllis" letter and mailed it to her.
Understandably, Grandma found this to be déclassé.

However, her solution might have been a tad extreme. This morning she drove her Cadillac right through the elderly Lothario's house. Right. Through. The. House.

When her bemused son arrived to bail her out she quite calmly informed him that "The Bastard was rude not to tell me to my face!" because while felony vandalism is excusable, bad manners is not!

Fine, Your Second Favorite Then!

me: ...and your most favorite thing ever for after dinner
J: I didn’t realize they were selling them in packages now.
me: What?
J: blow jobs

Petty is As Petty Does

When someone asks me to guess something, I make a point of coming up with something completely obscure and possibly inappropriate.

Guess what I want for my birthday?
Six pounds of butterfly cut pork-chops?
Close. A sea kayak.

My mother called the other day

Guess who showed up on our doorstep?
Snoop Dogg?
Close. FRED*!

I’m pretty sure that my white, green eyed ex boyfriend can’t be mistaken for a black rapper, but no matter what random thing I come up with, the guessee almost always says “close” to my guess.

Of course, I wanted to know why he was there, but that, my chickens, THAT is the whole point of this game. Feigned disinterest. That’s nice I tell my mother. Really I’m thinking that I bet he’s dying. Or maybe he wants to return the No Doubt CD that he “borrowed” in 1997. Maybe he’s recently come in to a large sum of money and wants to give me some because once, a long time ago, I let him see my amazing rack. I might have even let him touch it, but this is a G-Rated blog (sometimes) so I won’t say if I did or didn’t.

The truth was much less interesting, he needed my contact information so that he could provide me as a reference for a job he’s applying for.

Guess what else? My mother gleefully asked me. This is because my mother, above all things, LOVES gossip. He’s missing all his teeth? I guess. Close! He’s married and they have a baby! I find this information less than interesting. I knew all that. I have Google after all. AND he’s fat! But not FAT fat, just kind of fat. This information I do appreciate. I appreciate this information because twelve years or so ago, he made a huge deal about how *I* had gained ten pounds or so. I’m already a big girl, does ten pounds really matter? We should go on a diet he tells me. DIET? Um, Fuck You? I’m pretty sure the reason that you had no girlfriend for a long time before me was because you don’t have the brains to realize that telling someone whose vagina you wish to know in the Biblical sense that she needs to lose a few pounds is NOT A GOOD IDEA. So, yeah, I’m glad he’s fat, because me? I look exactly the same. That’s not true, I actually look better, because I can afford $60 hair cuts and bi-monthly mani/pedi’s and I have learned to dress to accentuate rather than hide my figure.

Anyhoodle, back to him being fat. I’m pretty sure that the only thing that would make me happier would be if he had a really hideous wife. Not because I wish her ill, but because, COME ON, who doesn’t secretly hope that their ex, however amiable the split, is now dating someone that you have to look away from because other wise you’ll throw up in your mouth? Oh stop that. You know you’ve thought the exact same thing.
We chat a few minutes longer, but really I’ve lost interest in the subject. I mean it’s not as if he’s gone from homeless to billionaire and has just sold his memoirs for a huge sum to Paramount and wants to know if I’d prefer Jennifer Garner or Reese Witherspoon to play me in the movie.

But then, you’ll never guess what happened! He sent the ‘rents a couple of pictures of himself and his family! And then the DaD MaN send them to me! HAHAHAH. Okay, breathe deep, Thystle. Ahem. You know what? He is fat! And balding! Hee hee! Alright, so the baby is cute. But he’s a baby after all so that is kind of a given. His wife is alright. Not hot, but not hideous. She *was* wearing Mom jeans so that made me happy.

But you know what made me really happy? His house is a mess! I’ve no idea why I’m so thrilled with this, but really I am. He used to give me ten tons of grief over the fact that my apartment was cluttered. Now, I’ll grant you that it was, but the apartment was about 500sf, so what do you really expect? I sew, I write, I read (all the time) and I’m a teeny-weenie bit obsessed with clothes, shoes, make up and all other things related to being a girl. Also, I lived alone so really, if I left three months worth of magazines and six bottles of nail polish on the side table who was it hurting? No one except (apparently) someone who should have been happy just to be allowed in to the incense scented pink glory that was my single girl apartment.. Now, all these years later seeing that his house is ten times as cluttered as mine (a feat, I assure you) gives me no end of amusement. It’s like Karma backed right up and dumped a hot-steamy load all over him. Because that Karma? She’s a bitch my lovelies.

P.S. If anyone needs me, I’ll be feeding handicapped nuns and orphans homemade chocolate cake this afternoon. In case you see Karma hanging around or anything.

*Name changed because it makes me seem more mysterious that way.

More Gods, More Veggies; SAME THING

J: I can’t believe they let a card-carrying pagan like you become a minister!
Me: That’s why I love the Internet.
M: If you’re a pagan, how come you eat meat?
Me: What?
M: Pagans? They don’t eat meat? You know, like vegetarians only crazier?
Me: um, you mean vegans.
M: Whatever. Can I have your cheeseburger?

Forbidden Fruit

At my last job, I had a boyfriend called Coke Machine Jesse, who was, shockingly, the guy who filled our Coke machine. He had the cutest little tushy and every time he came by, he would come in to my office and visit me.

Once, when we had a temp, she asked him who he was here to see and he said "my girlfriend" and I was suddenly sorry that I had gone to work with out combing my hair.

Coke Machine Jesse and I flirted for at least a year and after every fill up I would sigh to my office mate that if he were only a wee bit older, say 25 or so, or at least not jail bait, that I would make him my work husband instead of my work boyfriend. Then we would ogle out the window as his tight heinie. We may even have accidentally-on-purpose left change on the ground in front of the machine every time he came over, because even though he was a tad too young, he was still YUMMY.

Imagine my deep, deep sadness to discover today that he is 30! All this time, lusting from afar at a youngin' feeling like a dirty-old-lady when I had vivid imaginings of him doing my filing and he was of age! And a reasonable age at that!

So I had to break up with him.

But Am I Your Boo?

And who said kids these days aren't romantic? I just heard a lovely little song wherein the singer professes
"I love you like a fat kid loves cake".

That sound you just heard was my panties hitting the floor.

Tooty Tootwell

Want to hear something gross? I know you do, otherwise you would be reading some other, more refined blog. Because classy just isn't what we do here.

Anyhoodle, I started taking a multi-vitamin. It's mostly awesome, my hair is great, my skin is luminous and I fart all the time. For real. ALL THE TIME. Like at least twice an hour. That's 50 farts a day. And not the little lady like toots either, long, loud, bad eighties comedy movie farts. Let's be honest, farting is quite enjoyable for the farter, it's like, oh, I don't know, a really good sneeze. Or an orgasm.

Sadly, for the fartees (those left smelling the farts) it's proving somewhat less enjoyable. Because they smell like old, almost sour milk. Which is totally odd, because I don't drink milk. So, I was getting a little concerned. That can't be normal, right? I'm probably dying right now. I am probably going to die before lunch even and then I'll get to St. Peter and he'll be all, "Hmmm, died from milk farts, huh? Well, to get into Heaven we'll just need to know how you spent your last hours on earth." and I'll be all looking around for some clue as to what kind of answer he's looking for and then I'll get all nervous and blurt out the truth which will be "Googled ex-boyfriends to see if they're fat and/or married to ugly chicks" and then he'll shake his head and point to the down elevator.

So I decided to use my Googling skills to save myself. Better to Google for good than evil, right? Just in case? So I Googled the most important question I could think of "Can you die from farting?".

Good news. You can't.

And my ex? Fat.

Curiously White Lips

Have you seen those commercials for Listerine disolving white strips? Don't they look like the best idea ever? I mean really, white teeth in five minutes a day? Brilliant!

They come with simple instructions even, just three steps, (paraphrased)

1) Remove strip from package, the notch should be on the top right for bottom teeth and the bottom left for top teeth.
2) Appling to the bottom teeth first, using dry hands, gently press strip to teeth. Using steps one and two apply strip to top teeth.
3) Strip will dissolve in five to ten mintues, refrain from eating or drinking during this time.

What it *should* read is;

1) Using teeth, tear celophane wrapper from box.
2) Pick up strips that flew all over bathroom.
3) Using left hand firmly grip packaging while tearing with the right.
4) tear harder, because you're just mangling the packing
5) Give up and try using teeth
6) Give up and use scissors.
7) Squint at packing trying to find strip. Couldn't they have at least made them blue or something?
8) Go look for glasses
9) Find glasses in laundry room, locate strip on right side of package
10) Gently peel strip from package
11) Get stuck to fingers
12) peel off fingers
13) Open mouth wide, lower lip sticking out
14) Press strip to teeth
15) relax lip
16) try to peel stip from inside of lip
17) try to peel strip from fingers
18) wipe gummy strip from fingers on towel
19) pick lint off of sticky fingers
20) Wash hands
21) wipe hands with alcohol
22) Wipe hands with finger nail polish remover
23) dry mildly sticky hands
24) open another stip (using scissors)
25) Hold lower lip out with left hand
26) press strip to teeth with right hand
27) Gag because finger tips taste like polish remover
28) peel strip from inside of lower lips
29) scrape gummy wad of strip off inside of lip, lips, chin, fingers and shirt with finger nails
30) wipe fingers with polish remover
32) Open another strip
33) hold lips out
35) Scrape strip from inside of cheek
36) Brush teeth
37) Thow away 6 remaining stips and wad up reciept for $23.97
38) Call "comment line" leave bitter message.

DEAD to me.

Dearest Wax Paper,

After years of fighting with you, peeling mangled sugar cookie reindeers from your clutches before baking, wiping frosting from your face, I have found someone new. That some is Parchment Paper. Oh, I know stupid Martha stupid Stewart has been yammering on about parchment papers virtues for years. But Waxie, did I abandon you? I did not. For years, my misguided loyalty has made sentences like "The one the looks like a dead squirrel is meant to be a mitten" and "That roundish blob is Santa" necessary at the Christmas cookie exchange.

But then, in an act of fortuitous betrayal, you ran out on me, and then, had the nerve to try to charge be $6.50 to get you back. And there was Parchment, and I thought, what the heck? I'll show YOU Waxie! Oh, yes, I will.

And do you know, Parchment helped me roll out even dough, readily gave up perfectly shaped snowflakes and then! Oh yes! AND THEN! stalwartly protected the cookies asses when I put them in the oven! OH HELL YES it did. Perfectly shaped, perfectly browned cookies were finally made by ME. HAHAHAHA.

So Waxie, my dear, this is the end. Never again will I spend three hours baking only to have to eat them all myself out of embarrassment, because me and Parchment are best friends now and YOU, you are dead to me.

Spoonful of Lithium

M is 12. For those of you who've never had the pleasure of the close company of a teenage girl, I have one for sale, cheap. For those of you who *have* can I just say Midol should be free and dispensed like Pez, don't you think?

Anyhoodle, like most teens of the current day, she's got two obsessions the color black and bad Emo poetry about the terrible angst that comes from having parents who just do not understand. But, like every one of these hopeless, desolate victims of injustice, she also needs cash. Cash that Mom, (cruel, horrible, NONCOMPASSIONATE Mom) refuses to provide without some sort of (DEMEANING) labor being preformed first. And that is just NOT FAIR.

So, in an effort to thwart the control of the MOM-Ster she has begun babysitting.

Now, knowing M as I do, I figured it would last about an hour before she would be calling for back up. This is because she is not so much about things like hard work and perserverance as she is about finding the easy way out. I was surprised, nay, flabbergasted to find that not only does she like babysitting (if someone was paying me $7/hr to yell 'stop eating your booogers!', eat pizza and watch t.v., I'd love it too) but that the kids like her. They beg for her, they squeal in delight at the sight of her and then, dragging her by the hand demand to know if she can "sleep ober this time? Puhwease? Mommy said Otay!" and then climb her like sticky little monkeys as their mothers escape, gratefully, blissfully unaware that the person with whom they have trusted their dear little ones is currently sporting a Sharpie tattoo of a skull head and the word DEATH TO AUTHORITY on her left calf.

The other day, as I dropped the Queen Of Bitterness off at her job for the day, I mentioned how odd I found the adoration of her Dora quoting minions she thought for a moment, clutching her copy book festooned with the Grim Reaper and then says;

"It's because I'm the freakin' Goth Mary Poppins"

Got Back?

A while ago it was decided that I needed more supervision at work. This is probably true, since I spend a healthy portion of my day bullshitting and the remainder of it fucking off.
To that end, I was moved from my cave in the rear of the building to a nice sunny office with a window right up front.

It’s pretty awesome because the window looks right out onto the entry way and coke machine, so I see everyone that comes and goes. Even better, the girls do all kinds of hilarious things while standing at the coke machine. The goal, of course, is to get the others to laugh while they’re on the phone to the customer.

The best way to do this is a dance we call “The Butt Dance”. It’s exactly as it sounds. You turn around and while the top half of your body stays still you jiggle your bottom half like a tub of opaque pink Jello in Levi’s.

So today, I’m out at the Coke machine getting ready to push the Dr. Pepper button and notice both my office mates on the phone and one of them looks pretty pissed off. Perfect timing for the Butt Dance. So there I am, Butt Dancing when a car alarm goes off. And then another. And then a third.

So I bought the Diet Coke instead.

Best.Mother.Ever. STILL

“That’s how you know you’re giving the kid enough chores; they sing slave hymns while they work..”
“We’re the best parents ever.”

It Sho' Nuf Do!

It has recently come to my attention that I am a sixty five year old man from Alabama.

I find myself saying things like, “I have hankerin’ for cookies” and wearing mismatched sweat-socks and eating dinner at four thirty. I will admit, restaurants are not at all crowded at that hour and the wait staff are just starting their shifts so they almost never smell like feet, but I digress.

The question is; at what point will I begin to shout at small children for running through my yard and shooting the neighbors cats with the hose while wearing house shoes and drinking Jim Beam and lemonade from a Mason jar while the bug zapper hums steadily in the background and Ma fries up some okra and greens for supper?

Because that? It sounds like a hootenanny

The One With The Lizard Y’all will never guess what happened to me this morning. I swear to Oprah that I just about crapped myself. Now, I have been in some scary situations. I’ve been held at gun point, I’ve wrecked a car, I’ve been on a plane without landing gear and I’ve been caught in a rip tide, but NOTHING, nothing is as scary as what happened this morning.

I am not a morning person, first of all and I spend most of the first two hours of my day on autopilot waiting for the caffeine to kick in. In my zombie state I swung the garage door open. Then, out of the sky, out of nowhere, a lizard drops INTO MY SHIRT.

So, naturally, I start screaming. Because there is a lizard. And it is in my shirt. And it is touching me. And it is a LIZARD IN MY SHIRT.

So there I am, screeching like a Banshee in my driveway at six in the morning, red hair standing straight out on end, whipping my shirt off and throwing it down the driveway as far as a tee shirt will throw. Which is three feet.

And God bless him, Drunk Grandpa, my erstwhile boyfriend, comes running from across the street shovel in hand to save me.

“You! Mijah! Okay?”

And I manage to stammer something along the lines of “LIZARD LIZARD LIZARD!” and point at my discarded shirt.

Then he looks at the shirt and then at me and then at the shirt which is not ON me and a slow smile spreads across his face.

Now, I fully expect lizards to drop from the sky every time I leave my house.

Which I will never, ever do again.


This weekend I learned many things. Like; it's hard to take a picture of your own ass.

Now, you may be thinking (indeed, I hope you are!) WHY THE HELL ARE YOU TAKING A PICTURE OF YOUR OWN ASS? and I will be thinking why are you shouting at me? But then, I will answer you by saying, because I wanted to know if these jeans made my ass look fat. And I can not see my own ass. Because it is behind me. Now, I tried many, many things. Like standing on a chair to look in the bathroom mirror, asking the dog, and checking my reflection in the patio doors all to no satisfactory conclusion, because the bathroom mirror made it look flat, the doors made it look bulbous and lumpy and the dogs said that it smells interesting so who cares? You know who cares? ME. Because we all know that I'm obsessed with myself. It's part of my charm.

So then I thought, Thystle, (that's what I go by around here, is Thystle), Why don't you just take a picture! Oh! Good Idea, Thystle! I thought, and I congratulated myself on this novel approach. But do you know, I spent a half hour and took twenty pictures and not ONE showed my entire ass? I think it's because my arms are too short. Yeah. That must be it. It's not POSSIBLY that my ass is too wide for the cell phones view finder. Right? (any time now peeps; I can hear the crickets....)

Sure, I could have used the self timer mode, but I have no idea how it works. And do you think I can find the manual? If you thought yes, you're wrong because I can not. I can find the manual for the first phone I had, I can find the manual for ex-roomates ex-phone, but not the one for my phone. So now, I have twenty blurry pictures that show the back pocket of my jeans and a sinking feeling that my ass is in fact bigger than Rosie's. Her ass is all over the place, but it fits in the picture. You know whose ass I have? Big Momma's. You know, Eddie Murphy in fat old lady drag? Yeah. Except not black. I think. I can't see it so I don't know.

The whole thing was very depressing. So I bought new shoes. Red Shoes. Shiny red shoes. Because there's nothing that a good pair of red shoes can't fix. Now, if I could just get that house off my sister....

It's Not Stalking If We're Friends

One of M’s more annoying habits is the drill I like to call “Ten Million Questions”. Last night in the car, she’s all;

“Who do you like better, Oprah or Dr. Phil?”
Seriously, has this child EVER met me? I would think, by this point, my obsession with Miss Winfrey would be pretty obvious to everyone. So I say;
“Duh, OPRAH. I love Oprah.”

And she goes;
“You LOVE Oprah? She’s like 50!”

How dare that like monkey speak disparagingly about my potential future best friend and TV? co-host? So I’m like;
“Yes, I LOVE Oprah. I have loved Oprah since 1988. I loved her when she was fat and I loved her when she was skinny. I loved her when she made over hookers and confronted Baby-Daddies and I loved her when she built a school in South Africa. I loved her when she had big hair, when she had big earrings and when she got a weave. I love her book club and her favorite things and when she pretends to cook and when she has Martha Stewart on and when she and Gayle go on road trips and when she gives us tours of her house. I lover her clothes and I love her fake eyelashes and I love that she’s got ninety two dogs. I love her. I’m going to go on her show one day, you know?”

So then, the Brat formerly known as M says;
“For What? Being a stalker? You’re a freak, Mom.”

So I’m all;
“You don’t even UNDERSTAND. It’s Oprah, okay? She’s more influential than the PRESIDENT. She’s got like a billion dollars and she earned every one of them and she’s lost like a thousand pounds and she is OPRAH.”

And then, my precious angel says;
“I am so writing Oprah a letter about this conversation. I bet she’ll have you on so they can psycho-analyze you.”

Whatever. I’ll be on Oprah and that, that will be the beginning of my destiny as the New Best Friend who Replaced Whatshername. Then me and Op’s will do each others hair and shop for purses and she’ll loan me her awards show dresses and I’ll wear them around the house while I vacuum and everything will be perfect.



Yesterday I found a torn out piece of memo-sized notebook paper on the floor in the hallway. Where of course, it had been stepped over or on ten million times by certain other household members. But I digress. Before crumpling it up and throwing it at the dog (what?) I turned it over and read;
I love Rocky
I love Rocky
I love Rocky
I love Rocky
I love Rocky
I love Rocky
I love Rocky
I love Rocky
I love Rocky
I love Rocky
I love Rocky
I love Rocky
I love Rocky
I love Rocky
I love Rocky
I love Rocky
Which can mean only one thing. SOMEONE LOVES A BOY NAMED ROCKY. And because I am the worlds best mother ever, I asked the likely suspect;
“Who’s Rocky?”
To which she replied
“Just a boy”
So I’m like “Really, a cute boy?””Uh, I guess”
“A boy that you want to kiss”
“Is he your boyfriend?”
“Do you want him to be your boyfriend?”
“Really?””Why do you even KNOW about Rocky? What are you; like spying on me?”
“Oh, I know, because I know.”
“You know what else I know?”
Then I whip out the paper and start singing
Then, for some reason, she slammed her bedroom door and yelled out
So they can get married, I bet.

Old Enough

Someday, when I’m old, I will not wear purple and a red hat, I will wear leopard print spandex, maribou and too much jewelry and say exactly what I’m thinking.

Because you know what sucks? Politeness. Sure, sure, everyone feels all warm and fuzzy and shit, but wouldn’t it be nice, just once, to say EXACTLY what you’re thinking?

For example, when you’re trying, politely, to describe someone, you would never say “The blonde with the big fake titties.” Instead, you’d say, “Um, she’s about, um, medium tall? With blonde hair? And um, really, um, BIG, um….blonde hair?” and then the other person would say “The one with the blue glasses?” and you’d have to think to yourself, “Who even LOOKS at her eyes with the twins RIGHT THERE?” and you’d stammer, “Uh, no. Not that one. The other, um, blonde one” and the other person would still be mystified because it’s not like there’s only ONE blonde in the whole world. But you know and HE knows, that if you just said “The one that looks like an aging stripper” you’d both know exactly who you were talking about.

Or what about when someone shows you Precious Darling’s school picture and the poor dear looks like Jaba the Hut in a sequined pink tee shirt? You have to say, “Oh my gosh! I can’t believe how quickly they grow up! Look! Right there in that tree! A penguin!” and then run for cover before they look back around at you. Because if you say; “I hear Jenny Craig has a children’s program. You should check that out. Oh, and for the love of God, tell her to SIT UP STRAIGHT before someone starts rubbing her belly for luck!” people get all butt hurt. Then, they say things like “I can’t believe you said that! That is SO MEAN!” because even though it’s true, it’s not okay and you are a bad person for saying it.

Unless you’re old. Then you’re just eccentric. Eccentric is okay. Eccentric is funny. Eccentric is “You’ll never guess what Miss Thystle said today”. Because believe you me, Miss Thystle’s already started making notes.

We'll Call it The Irish Family

I’ve been thinking a lot about why I’m not fabulously wealthy. While the obvious conclusion is that it’s because I do cross word puzzles when I’m supposed to be working, I have an alternate, more plausible answer.

It is obviously because I do not have an entourage, nor body guards, nor yet a band of menacing (but stylish!) thugs.

After a careful study of movies where the lead character (evil or not) was obscenely wealthy and somewhat feared, it’s become apparent to me that the key similarity was the presence of a large group of people whose sole role is to follow the hero(ine) around and be ready, at a moments notice, to perform a variety of supporting functions. Like look menacing. Or scrub toilets.
The real question here is not the do-ability of maintaining a large assembly of fedora wearing killers with names like G-Money and Pauley, but where does one FIND such a work force?
Prison, I’m sure. But then I’d have to go to prison, and I’m much too pretty for that. Not to mention women thugs haven’t got nearly the same cache’. Unless they have a song and dance number, a flawed heart of gold and a weeping angel tattoo. Then, we could triumph in a male dominated gun running world and still not smudge our mascara and everyone would secretly hope we could avoid capture before we retired to run a home style restaurant in Belize.
Hmm…but I want something tougher….the French Foreign Legion might be a place to look, but the whole Jean Claude damp mullet thing is SO 1989. I really need someone more Michael Clark Duncan in Daredevil with the pin striped suit and cane.

Maybe I should just run a classified ad.

“Wanted: Six former linebackers turned assassins. Must own dark colored suit, large fire arm and fedora. Duties to include: hanging people out of windows, disposing of enemies in creative ways, standing behind employer in menacing fashion, fetching things and massaging employers feet. Pay DOE but starting wages include occasional praise and homemade pancakes.”

I can’t see any reason that won’t work, can you?

Angel Dust

“I think I have a brain tumor”
“Based on what?”
“The fact that I think it’s completely awesome that Keith Richards snorted his dead dad’s ashes”

Flattehn This Punk

The other day, I bought a pair of jean that were resplendent with adornments claiming that they would Flatten YOUR Tummy! Guaranteed!

Who can resist a claim like that? Certainly not I, not at the bargain price of $39.99.
So I bought them and brought them home, hugging them to my chest and lovingly stroking them. At last, at long last, I would be able to wear a belt with out looking like someone tied a tourniquet around a sack of flour. Oh, the fun that we should have; Jeans and I as we danced the night away as our groove thing shook but we did not. Oh, the places that Jeans and I would go! Maybe to Paris! Maybe to Paris, Texas anyway.

Today, I wore them all day, confident in the slimness they would bring.

All day, I could scarcely breathe as they performed their GUARANTEED flattening actions. I even had to unbutton them when I ate that grape, but it was worth it, that laying on the restroom floor and panting with exertion as I used the pliers to re-zip them.

As soon as work was done, I rushed home, light headed and not just from the lack of oxygen either.

But do you know, when I took them off, my tummy was not, in fact, any flatter? And they won’t take them back because they smell like Crisco? Even though it’s butter flavored?

No justice in this world. None at all.

Either Way

“What’s an oldtomato?”
“A what?”
“An O-L-D-T-O-M-A-T-O”
“Use it in a sentence”
“Um, Kelly said she gave her boyfriend an oldtomato that if he didn’t quit cheating on her, she was going to break up with him and go to prom with Frankie”.
“I think you mean ultimatum”
“Oh. I guess that does make more sense.”

In Review

Today it will be 95* here. For those of you who aren’t good at science, it’s the temperature of boiling point of water. It’s the temperature at which homeless people begin to bathe in public water features. It’s the temperature at which fat becomes liquid. And not in a good way.

In the spirit of summer, I think it’s only fair that I discuss some of the most pressing fashion faux pas of the season.

1) If your feet in any way resemble those of Bilbo Baggins, you should invest in a pedicure.
2) Just because you can get it on, DOESN’T MEAN IT FITS. For the love of God people, if you have to use PLIERS to zip your pants you NEED BIGGER PANTS.
3) If you bought your swim suit for Cancun, Spring Break ’92 it’s time for a new one. Especially if it’s neon. Or has a tiger printed on the front.
4) If your toes eek over the lip of your shoes and scrape upon the ground like a Harpies’ claw, BUY BIGGER SHOES.
5) If you can braid your leg hair, pit hair or back hair get a wax, get a shave or get a snow suit. I know, it’s very French and the French are very chic and all, but they also eat snails. I’m just saying.
6) Men wearing tank tops better be life guards or they better not be leaving the house.
7) Now is not the time to forgo undergarments. Sweaty underboobs lead to rashes and there is nothing sexy about boobs that smell like cheese.
8) If your naked vajayjay comes in contact with a sun-baked vinyl seat, you’ll need the Jaws of Life, a drum of Vaseline and a herd of firemen to remove you. I don’t think you want to be filling out THAT insurance claim, do you?
9) I don’t care where you live (cough SEATTLE cough) you do not need to wear socks with your sandals.
10) Tie Dye is no one’s friend.

Tough Choices

There comes a point in everyone's life when you are faced with a difficult choice. Down each path lies comfort of one kind and suffering of another. Only you are able to make the choice which path you will travel because no one will be able to walk it for you.

When faced with this, the most difficult of decisions, you must weigh all options and when the choice is made you must live with the consequences. Trying to have both, to do both, to avoid a choice will only lead to disaster.

And so you choose...will it be the Lunesta or the Ex-Lax?

Telling The Truth

It’s well known, or should be, that I am completely full of shit. In fact, fully one third of what I say on any given day is probably a complete fabrication. A good rule of thumb would be, the quicker I answer you and the more authoritative I sound, the more likely I am to be trying to dupe some unsuspecting rube into buying a line of hooey. I come by it honestly though, in my defense. My grandfather had all of us children convinced for years that his mother, a statuesque 4’10” was so short because her father was a leprechaun (fully believable given her Irish accent).
But one of my resolutions this year is to use my powers for good rather than evil (most of the time…I need a loophole, okay?) so to that end, I’d like to come clean about the following things I said in 2006;
I do not wash my hair with dog shampoo, it doesn’t have the same ingredients as people shampoo and it doesn’t leave my hair “super soft”
I do not roll my own tampons from cotton balls and kitchen string
My father doesn’t know Arnold Swartzenegger and can not “personally swear that his pet name for Maria is ‘Skeletor’”
My mother’s real name is not Morticia.
Neither did I change my name from “Sunshine Daisy” when I was seventeen to rebel against my hippy roots.
I didn’t leave my circus training program due to a bad case of vertigo and a love triangle involving the elephant trainer and the ring master.
I am not allergic to asparagus
Mullets are not making a come back.
Chef Boyardee was not a communist
Betty Crocker boxes were never used to send coded messages to Allied troops based on the color of Betty’s apron.
My sister never stole Madonna’s underwear
Anna Karenina was not executed along side her father Czar Nicholas
It’s not pronounced “Ka-Zahr”
Henry Ford probably didn’t wear women’s underwear
I have never been bungee jumping and that scar on my scalp isn’t from hitting the ground beneath the bridge
I can not fly a helicopter
I do know a guy, who knows a guy, but I will not “hook you up”
My friend Kelly is really a man and always has been.
I have never been infected with a tape worm
Chap Stick was not originally intended as a sexual lubricant
Any story that I tell that starts with “This guy I know” is a lie
My uncle never got high with Bill Gates at a laser show at the Seattle Center
Ulysses S. Grant didn’t invent the telegraph
Or flushing toilets
It’s not a well known fact that Martha Washington was George’s step sister
There is no rumor that Microsoft is responsible for a satellite malfunction that caused Hurricane Katrina
Mickey Mouse isn’t a revered as a God on an island off of Micronesia.
I do not have a tattoo of Guam on my left butt cheek
No one has ever confused me with someone famous and no hilarious high-jinks have ensued.
Okay. So that was nice and therapeutic. I feel good about getting that all out in the open. I’m sure there were more but these were all the ones I remembered.
Actually, this reminds me of that one time a guy I knew…….


“Thank god you’re home. We’re SO HUNGRY.”
“I left you lunch money.”
“But it’s COLD outside. MUCHO FRIO. We had to forage. We’re so weeeaaakkkk nooooowww”
“There’s plenty of food out there. I’m sure you found something to eat.”
“No I didn’t. I couldn’t find ANYTHING. I had to make soup. And it wasn’t enough, so I had to eat those French bread pizzas. And M was hungry so she had to eat a chimichanga, but that took too long so I made her a quesadilla. And some toast. And a pop-tart.”
“Well, then, you survived.”
“But there was nothing to snack on.”
“And yet, you didn’t die.”
“Almost. We had to eat chips and cheese. But there wasn’t very much so we had to eat trail mix. And it wasn’t very good, so we had to put some chocolate chips in it and some cashews. And there was only one Kit-Kat bar so the dog didn’t get any and now, he’s mad at you.”
“He seems fine.”
“Maybe right now, but later? He’s going to rub his butt on your pillow.”

Of Course You Don't

“She looks like that girl.”
“What girl?”
“The blonde one? From the movie? Last weekend? You remember.”
“Was it porn?”
“Uh, no.”
“Then I don’t.”

True Love

Some days, all I can think about is lunch. When I wake up in the morning, I am thinking about lunch. Where will I go for lunch? When will I go to lunch? Most importantly, what will I eat for lunch? Some mornings it’s the first conversation I have at work and I find myself distracted at the prospect of something delicious awaiting me a few scant hours in the future.
The some days, lunch is the pinnacle.
Today was just such a day. I came in to find a cat fight, dealt with a vendor that’s cut us off, called the plant manager, counseled the fighters, held some hands, kissed some asses, etc.
When lunch rolled around it the saving grace that kept me from hiding under my desk eating staples and singing “The Sun Will Come Out TOMORROW” and other selected (butchered) songs from musicals.
So to honor my love of lunch, I wrote this poem.

Sweet Lunch
I heart you
More than Breakfast
More than dinner
More than Brunch
You are my destiny
Darling Lunch

Beautiful isn’t it? Don’t worry, I’ll sign all the autographs you want.

As long as you bring me lunch.

Oh Yeah? Well...Shut Up!

While sitting on the couch, my husband announces “you’re weird” and while I’ll present this as though it happened spontaneously, I’m sure it was in relation to something.
“I AM NOT” I reply, because, of course I’M NOT.
“Yeah, you are. Very much so, even”
So like any woman confronted with an argument that is completely WRONG and not worthy of a well thought out rebuttal, I say;
But will he let it drop? NO. Of course not, because he has a penis and therefore must always have the last word. So, I insisted that he name one single thing about me that’s weird.
“You TiVo Amanda Bynes movies on the ABC family channel”
“You’re thirty.”
“That’s not weird, plenty of people find her charming. PEOPLE OF ALL AGES.”
“You order a double cheese burger and a diet coke”
“I don’t want to get fat. Everyone knows diet coke cancels out all other calories”
“While you were laughing at the girl on American Idol who thought that confidentiality meant her degree of confidence, you sprayed half-chewed Honey BBQ Frito’s all over a copy of Guns & Ammo”
“That’s not weird, it’s the American Way.”
“You sing to the dog”
“He likes it, just ask him”
“You have a picture of (office mate) mooning you as your cell phone wallpaper”
“She bared it, so I’m sharing it”
“You name things”
“How is that weird?”
“Uh, you named the printer Precious?”
“But it is my Precious….my precious”
“You just quoted Lord of the Rings”
“Um, SO? You knew what I was quoting.”
Then, for the briefest moment, he closes his eyes and says;
Which TOTALLY means that I won.

Avon Commando's

Many moons ago, when I was young and ambitious, I sold Mary Kay cosmetics. When I signed on to this cult company, it was drilled into my head that to sell the product, you must LOOK the product.

Being a good little cult-member saleswoman, I spent about $100 of make up for myself and would spend an hour exfoliating, cleansing, moisturizing, toning and making-up my face. I would then spend another hour dressing and doing my hair, always remembering to affix my “Ask Me about Mary Kay!” button somewhere prominent on my person.

I sold a grand total of $300 worth of product, mostly to my mom, before I lost interest. I mean really, getting up at the ass crack of dawn to get ready to go to work with truck drivers and long shoremen was just ridiculous. They were perfectly happy with me as long as I showed and had breasts for them to stare at; the rest was just gravy.

But even all these years later, my indoctrination holds fast and I can’t even go to Walgreens at three am to buy Theraflu with out mascara.

At bowling on Saturday, we bowled against a team that has a badly dressed, toothless, slouchy, unmade up, furry eye browed, bad half-grown out home perm n’ dye job lady on it. Many times we’ve remarked on the way this woman chooses to leave the house, the general feeling being summarizable in a single word; yuck.

Imagine my surprise when the crone had the nerve to ask me if I had ever thought about wearing make up! Um, yes, woman, I have thought about it. I thought about it the entire time I was applying PURPLE eye shadow and trying to keep the lipstick off my teeth. Or did you think I was born with lavender eye lids and glossy lips?

Politely (because I always am) I told her yes, in fact I was wearing some right now. So THEN! The old hag says “Oh, well, you should try Avon. I think you’d be happier with the results!”


Then she proceeds to instruct me on proper make up application and the importance of personal presentation! As thought stretch pants with bagged out knees and a Winnie The Pooh tee shirt were the essence of Parisian fashion. As though three inches of gray roots and no front teeth were necessities for getting on the cover of Vogue. As though pores so large they could be mistaken for extra nostrils were what young girls dreams were made of.

OMG. I swear to you I spent the rest of the night looking for the camera crew of Punk’d to jump out.

If I were less secure though, I might still be hiding in the bathroom waiting for FingerHut to deliver my velour sweat suit and pink tee shirt with kittens. Because those Avon Commando’s are persuasive.

Sloth; a delicious sin

Today, I woke up too early. Like way early. An entire HOUR before my alarm was set to go off.

Laying there in bed, staring at the ceiling, I thought; “I could get up and clean the bathroom! Or fold the laundry! I could make pancakes for breakfast and then iron my shirt and start the day out running!”

But then I thought;

“What the FUCK is wrong with me?!” and rolled over and went back to sleep.

Your Hair Looks Stupid

I was trying to think of something really funny to post, because what my public wants, my public gets. But then it occurred to me that I have nothing humorous to write about. Not because nothing funny has happened but because the sheer volume of time it would take to set the story up would leave you stupefied and drooling into your keyboard.

What good is a story that has a three word punch line and takes an hour to set up? It’s like those jokes that people try and tell when they’re drunk and half way through they realize that they don’t actually remember the joke and they say “wait, let me start over” and so by the time they do get to the punch line you’ve completely forgotten it was supposed to be a joke and you stand there, staring, until the poor schmuck says “A lightbulb? Get it? A LIGHTBULB?” and you realize that you do not, in fact get it and to be completely honest you’re not really sure what it is anyway. To make matters worse, the next time you see that person you’re thinking about that joke-that-wasn’t-a-joke and start looking for an escape route and spend the rest of the party hiding behind a rubber palm tree and whispering “PSST, is Larry gone yet?” while you wait for the timing to be perfect to make your escape.

I don’t want you to spend the rest of your life behind a fake palm tree, so I just will post this;

Something hilarious happened, but you had to be there.

Stay Classy, my beloved pirate hookers, stay classy.


Man Boob’s came into my office a moment ago and said;

“Thystle! Feel my chest!” but left when I replied

“They’re called Breast SELF exams! I told you that the last time you asked me to feel you up!”

Some people never learn.

Blonde Roots

Today on the way to work it occurred to me that I’d left my Christmas cards sitting on the dining room table yet again. Since I was only about five minutes from home I decided to just turn back around.

Half way there I remembered that I had a meeting at 8am and I would be cutting it close by adding ten extra commute minutes.

Oh, but I am a quick thinker and I think “I will just grab my keys, dash in the house and then run back out. Thirty seconds, max.” So I start to root around in my purse.


No keys. Where the HELL are my keys? I need my keys!

Now how will I get in the house? I’m going to have to find that stupid hidden rock thing and God knows where that is but I’m turning the corner to my block and it’d be stupid to turn BACK around now with nothing to show for it, so I’m just going to have to suck it up.

Sure, I’ll miss my meeting and get fired, and then we’ll go broke and then the bank will foreclose the house and we’ll all be living in a Frigidaire box down on Grand & Central, but PEOPLE NEED THEIR CHRISTMAS CARDS FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.

If only I could find my keys. And what the hell is that clinking noise?

And then I look down.

And there are my keys.

In the ignition.

Who Needs Enemies

Despite the fact that I am a Godless heathen, I LOVE Christmas music, and I love to sing it. Which would be awesome, if I could, you know, sing. I choose not to let that deter me however and was howling away to Santa Baby in my office this morning when my “friend” stuck her head around the corner and said;

“You know what’s awesome?”

“What?” I reply optimistically, certain my first vocal compliment is on its way.
“That you have a day job."

Good Lord

You know how sometimes, you think, "Wow, I look totally cute today!" but then later, you see yourself and you wonder if just maybe your happy pills are starting to affect your eyesight? And that just maybe you should not ever, EVER, do your hair that way again, no matter what because your bathroom mirror LIES and you do not look fun or sporty, but instead like a big, cheesy dork?

Then, at the end of that day, you think "Thank GOD no one took a picture of me with that hair-do because it's exactly the kind of picture that would wind up on the news after something tragic happened and the whole world will be thinking that girl is such a dork. I swear if I EVER leave the house looking like that I hope I get hit by a bus too!"

But then as it turns out there IS a picture and now you have to move to Chile and you don't even speak Chileaneseish or what ever they speak down there?

Yeah. That's never happened to me either.

Funny Because It's True

I love how little kids get things almost right, but still very wrong.
When my sister CK was little she couldn’t for the life of her determine why everyone was all in an uproar that Dolly Parton had the Best Little Warehouse in Texas.
Not that I’m one to talk, I was like thirteen before I figured out that thespians and lesbians were not the same thing. Well, not always anyway.
The other night, in the throes of middle school drama, M lamented “God, I am a complete social leopard!”
It probably didn’t help that I was laughing *at her* not *with her* after that.

Play Ball

My Grandmas’ brain in basically Swiss cheese.

When her nursing home lost power in Seattle’s big storm last week, my uncle went and got her and took her to his house.

The very first thing Gram did was march up to the hallway bathroom (visible from most of the house) and take a big, smelly poo with the door wide open and then walk away leaving it unflushed. My uncle says to her “Mom, we prefer that the bathroom door be closed when people are using the toilet” to which she replied “But why? It stinks in there!” Can’t argue with that I guess.

Oh, but Gram-time gets even better!

The next morning, she walks out of the bathroom stark nekkid and proceeds to wander around the house. My aunt, who would be up for sainthood were she not Buddhist, says “Mom, you’ll catch a cold if you don’t get dressed” to which Gram replies “My underwear is too small. I can’t get dressed with out underwear.” Hmmmm again with the logic.

And for her grand finale….

Saint Auntie finds her in the office surveying an array of chargers for things like cell phones, MP3’s and laptops.

“What are all these pluggy whatsits for?” she asks Saint Auntie.

“Well, we have a lot of fun electronics and toys and everything needs to be charged up, and everything has a different plug, so we keep them all here so they’re organized”. Saint Auntie patiently explains.

Gram thinks for a moment and says

“Which ones are for the sex toys?”

Makes me wish we were going home for Christmas, the dinner conversation is bound to be scintillating!

Totally The Same Thing

Scene: Safeway checkout line with an impulse buy rack of DVD's at end cap

Brunette: (holds up copy of Star Trek "Wrath of Khan") Have you seen this?
Blonde: No, I don't like historical movies.
Brunette: Um, it's like science fiction.
Blonde: Yeah, that's what I meant.

Redhead: (shakes head, chuckles to self, dies a little on the inside)

The End

Jazz Hands!

On Wednesday night, M comes dancing down the hallway, pausing at its door.
Suddenly she breaks into song

"Mom I’ve got a proposition for you a PROPOSITION for YOU!
We are out of cheesy popcorn,
Yes it’s true, yes, its true
There is no cheesy popcorn, and I am feeling blue!
Feeling blue! Feeling Blue!
If you will buy some cheesy popcorn I will eat it all!
Eat it all! Just for me! None for you!

Or something like that. Complete with dance moves and an ending on bended knee with jazz hands.
I had to give her props for the most creative begging I’d seen in a while. Almost as good as when she was four and she spelled out “PLS by Choclate” in Alpahbits, ABC magnets and the dust on the TV.

You're in the Ghetto When;

Last night I called to report a wreck I'd witnessed.

"One of the cars just drove off" I tell the dispatcher.

"Okay, what kind of car was it?"

"A beat up white dodge's the one dragging it's bumper beneath it down Indian School Road" I say.

"Ma'am" he replies "That really doesn't narrow it down!"

Black Pajamas

Today I saw a man in black pajamas, his feet bare on the morning cold pavement.

Aloft in his hand his cardboard sign sought to part passersby from their lunch money with the purple-penned plea;

Ninja’s killed my girlfriend! Need money for Karate lessons! If I don’t get them, THEY WILL GET YOU!

Indeed, my dirty solicitor, indeed

Young Love

Today on my way to work I was stopped at a stoplight behind a hatchback with a duct-taped “Just Married” on the rear window.

In the front seat, the passengers were snogging their faces off. I paused to reflect on love so passionate that the thought of going an entire morning compute with out kissing was unbearable. I thought about how giddy they must be calling each other “Mr.” or “Mrs.” for the first time. Does he call her “wife”? Does she still have to stop and think whom they’re referring to when someone says “your husband”?

As the light turned green, they remained lip locked and oblivious to the world the way that only young love or new love can be. I remembered those first beautiful days, saving up little tidbits of my day to share, my heart leaping to my throat at the sound of his voice and I was filled with nostalgia for time gone by. And for just a moment, the briefest second I felt sad; then I laid on the horn and yelled “GET A DAMN ROOM!” as I drove around them.

Truth In Advertising

Yellow hatted men gather round like vultures; clamoring for burritos. So tender the meat! So flavorful! What could the secret be?

No answer from the man who drives the Slow Cat Catering truck as he ladles out more chili.

My lunch money is safe

Eternal Question

Bus-stop Goddess in a pink leotard, non-sequitur combat boots unlaced

Pendulous abdomen sways side to side
Is she dancing or shivering

Take it From Me

If you lean your head back and open your mouth REAL wide and pour in enough liquid to make it full, but not over-flowing, when you try to swallow it will shoot out of your mouth like a fountain and you will spend the rest of the day explaining the stain on your shirt.

Everyone's a Critic

Being, as I am, a firm believer that people who “love” to clean their house are either lying or mentally ill, I found it not at all funny that after discovering I had (during my semi-bimonthly scrubbing of the shower) disposed of the empty shampoo bottle that he had festooned with a wash rag cape and shaving cream lid hat, my husband yelled out from the shower; “OH MY GOD, SOMEONE STOLE CAPTAIN SUDSY!” .
So I plotted with the Carnivorous Dust-Bunnies to have the Smelly Sock Brigade smother him in his sleep.
My *next* husband will be a mute.

Mother Thystle

Today I got invited to a coworkers 21st birthday party.

Cause I’m like his mom. But at work.

So I asked him, “Johnny, how old do think I am?” and I see the wheels turning frantically in his head as he looks around, terrified, for an escape route.

“um, I know you’re only, like, thirty-two or something, but like you’re so, like MATURE and mom-like, cause you like always have snacks and change and gum and stuff, but like you’re still COOL. I’m like, if I were older, I might, like, but you’re like married and like um, so…….”

Poor kid, I *almost* felt bad for him.

Moving On

Today has been just the kind of day that is required to cheer me up.

M got up and out the door on time and there was no traffic so I wasn’t even late for work. I knew that I had a delicious lunch of Hawaiian BBQ waiting for me and the line at Starbucks was short (I had a free drink thing my friend Amy gave me).

When I got to work, the stuff that I had handed around for corrections was all done and I had some great emails; including one from my twin about how she has the “biggest ass in Nevada” a fact that attracts a lot of positive, if lewd comments from the boys at the Navy base.

MP came into my office about ten minutes after eight and asked “So, Brandon wants to know if you like him.” (Brandon is her best friends’ brother and one of the kids from her Special Olympics team. She’d brought him by the office yesterday afternoon and introduced him to all of us.)

“Uh, well, there’s that whole husband thing to consider” I tell her.

“That’s what I told him. He was pretty upset.”

“Awww, that’s so sweet!” I say, because even a “special” boyfriend is better than none at all. The lack of guile he possesses makes the complement that much more genuine, and I was truly flattered. For about twelve seconds.

“Yeah, well he’s over it. He thought about it and said ‘that’s okay, I guess. She’s fat. I didn’t want to say anything, but she’s fat’”

At this point we are busting at the seams laughing. Spoken just like every other red blooded man that’s been rejected.

“Oh my God!” I manage to stutter.

“Oh it gets better, all night he was asking about you. He wanted to know every thing. But since you have kids, he said you’ve got too much baggage for him!”

“Nice MP! Is this what you’re teaching him? That you pick up chicks by calling them fat and saying they have too much baggage! Good going!”

“Well at least he wasn’t staring at your boobs like this (she does a dead on impression of him) all night! I thought this lady at the baseball game was going to knock him out! I kept going (motioning to look up) to him all night!”

Tears are rolling down my cheeks I’m laughing so hard.

“But they were big old fake ones, so he was just staring away!”

“Well then, she had it coming! I am a little upset he’s cheating on me already though!”

“Yeah, well, you’re fat!” she says as we completely lose it.

Sometime later, this story having gone around the office to much hilarity (at my expense, I suppose, but what can I say? Funny is funny!) my office boyfriend comes in contritely to ask if I was breaking up with him for Brandon.

“Of course not” I tell him “he never offers to take me to the Salvation Army for dinner!”

“Oh that’s good, ‘cause now I don’t have to go to the cemetery to get you flowers so you’ll take me back.”

I tell ya Peeps, it does a girl good to know that she’s got options in the world.

Who Knew?

I stopped at Wal-Mart on the way home today and had a very strange interaction.

As I put my items on the counter, I noticed that the clerk was looking nervously around.

"How are you today Ma'am?" he asks

"Fine, thanks" I say as I busy myself with the card reader.

"Everything good at home?"
"Yep" I reply, thinking since when does Wal-Mart hire the polite? I look up and notice him eye-pleading with the supervisor at the end of the row for attention, looking wildly from me, to the bags, to her.
"Big plans for tonight?"
"Oh, nothing major, just a little house cleaning" I tell him, but what I really mean is "seriously, shut the fug up! I have places to go! Come on! Just bag it already!"
He hands me my change and receipt and off I go. It's not until I'm unloading my three purchases at home that I realize what made the poor pimpled youth so nervous.
It seems that when you buy Midol, three hundreds rounds of 9mm ammunition and a large shovel that boys start to worry. Go figure, right?

Keeping The Faith

When I was in high school a girl we hung around with was the only one of us with a steady boyfriend. They were in LOVE and even had actual sex three times. We were all desperately jealous and grilled her on all the details.

One night, while we were having a sleep over L pulled out a wooden box. This was the box we all knew she kept the marijuana and rolling papers in so, of course, we were all shocked that she had brought it to someone else’s house.

“Promise you WILL NOT TELL” she instructed us, and of course, dutifully we swore, the poor hostesses crapping herself at the thought that we were getting ready to light up in her mothers formal living room.

We were momentarily disappointed when rather than a late night dose of wacky weed we were presented for worship a piece of dried latex. It took about twenty seconds before someone squealed

“OH.MY.GOD. that is a USED.CONDOM.”

Nervous, excited laughter was stifled as she dished all the dirt on the dirty deed and the deed doer. Length, width, the fact it was bent to the right, the time it took from start to finish(five minutes), foreplay and skill level were all assessed, dissected, discussed and filed away as “facts” for later.

At the time I remember thinking “Uh. That is disgusting. I wonder if S knows she’s kept this!” but at the same time thinking “coolest souvenir ever.”; my own boyfriends being prone to gifts won at dart throwing games or stolen from their sisters’ rooms.

It became a competition of sorts, in our circle to see who would get the best “parting gift” from the boy of the week. CD’s (new at the time) were obtained, tee shirts, jerseys, beepers (remember those?) and perfume were all weaseled out of the unwitting. It’s not to say we were gold diggers, more that we were desperate for some sort of possession to flaunt to confirm that we were, despite being fat, desirable.

As I got older, these things got lost or given away in favor of boys with jobs who brought jewelry and paid for theater tickets, the heartfelt mixed tapes with their sappy intro’s and corny song collections long forgotten.

The other day I came across a couple of seemingly blank tapes and popped one in the (only!) tape deck at the house. From the speakers boomed the voice of a long forgotten love. One who, at the time, was certainly THE ONE. Each song, carefully chosen, reminded me of something. This one from a movie we saw, that one was playing the first time we kissed, the one after because he said it reminded him of me, the heroine being a red headed heartbreaker.

For an hour, I was seventeen again. It was a beautiful thing.

I stashed those tapes away, for another time when I need to remember what I was like when I was just me; just a red haired girl with places to go and no reasons why not.

I kept them to remind me of a time when I believed that anything was possible

Growing Up

I’m feeling contemplative again today, so here’s another story about my distant youth.

When I was in Junior High there were “clicks” whose lines were never crossed. Parish the thought that a nerd should date a jock or a band geek attend a cool kid’s party.

The top of the food chain were the girls I’ll call the Sweethearts. They were the ones afforded their popular status by their beauty but who reigned with a benevolent hand, being incongruously kind and intelligent as well as gorgeous. These girls (for they were mostly girls) were the ones whom the rest of us revered from a distance but who seemed at the same time attainable. As if they MIGHT be your friend if only you were lucky enough to have an “in” like a seat next to one of them. These were the girls that you would have hated if not for the “but”. They were the ones whom JR high fame was a right, a given.

Below them but always scratching desperately at their door were the Climbers. These were the kids who WANTED to be cool, who declared themselves cool, who were cruel in their quest to dominate; these are the kids who would tear you down to impress the rest, who would make an example of lesser mortals whom they would seek to destroy. I think that these are the type kids whom the recent school shootings are caused in part by. Nothing makes them happier than to “dog” someone to the point of tears. Sadly, they were “cool” and the rest of us would have given ANYTHING to be one, blind as we were to their toxicity yet conscious of the fact that Sweetheart status was unattainable but Climber status could be bought.

The third rung down were the Fringes; the kids who were neither cool nor uncool. This was the group that housed the regular kids. The ones whose clothes were not right enough to be cool but were right enough to not be lame. This was the swing group; if you were here you could see yourself there. Out of pity or old alliance you might find yourself at a cool party, you might be called upon as a lab partner to someone cool, your nerdliness might buy you enough time to catapult yourself up a rung or two. Fringe kids had fun amongst themselves and mostly escaped adolescence unharmed.

At the bottom, of course, were the Losers. These were the REALLY fat kids, the really poor kids or the really weird kids. There weren’t very many of them and they kept to themselves. Wary was the soul who was stuck with one for an assigned partner for they were potential social death and much was made of the horror of accidentally touching one.

Though firmly a Fringe, I found myself inexplicably a Climber one day. How I got there, I do not recall. But I was grateful. I changed my hair, my clothes and my friends; throwing out the old like so much dirty water. For nine months I was one of the in crowd. Even at the time, I think I did not like them so much. But once you have felt the sun, going underground seems a ridiculous idea.

In the spring of that year, now comfortable enough with my status to no longer consider myself an outsider, I was surprised to find no seat saved for me at lunch. The Climbers didn’t bother to explain; instead looking at me with the thinly veiled disgust one generally regards squished bugs or dog poo. By the end of the day I was hearing rumors about myself. Nothing outrageous, but none the less hurtful. By the end of the week notes that said “U R A FAT LOOOOSER” or “BITCH” were being left on my locker, in my book bag, on my desk. By the end of the following week the rumors were the sort that gets kids today suspended or arrested. Junior High had officially become one of the deeper levels of hell.

Somehow, I had lost my tenuous hold in the Climber world and was at limbo. The Losers were still beneath me and I doubt they would have had me anyway and the Fringers; having been unceremoniously ditched by me were none too welcoming either. I was alone, well and truly and on some level deservedly. I was miserable. I hated going to school. I wanted to die. My confidence was shaken to a level that it would not recover from during my school years and maybe not even now. What I had viewed with such ease, what I had believed; that I was likeable, that I was pretty, that I was smart, that I was something, was gone. I was adrift, confused, and morose. Looking back I wonder how I made it through eight hour days five days a week of unrelenting mind fucking by people who days before had been my BFF. Proof that kids are resilient I suppose.

Luckily summer came and with it a respite from the torture. By the time school started again, I was sick. Desperate not to be a Loser, I wasn’t willing to whimper my way back into the Fringe pack. In the way that kids do though, the prior year had been forgotten. The queen of the Climbers and her closest minions had fallen out and she was out. The Fringe had welcomed me back; forgiven after my summer of banishment, but B the queen Climber who had orchestrated so much pain was left in the cold. Lunch tables were closed to her, all bus seats were taken, lab partners, gym teams and report groups were chosen with her left on the sides to beg a spot. On one hand, I think I felt bad for her. But mostly not. Mostly I was glad that she should see what life was like for everyone else.

Seeing her dethroned and unceremoniously cast out was the single best thing that could have happened for my self esteem. I spent the year floating between the Sweethearts and the Fringe carefully avoiding all the Climbers.

By the end of the year we scattered to different high schools across the city and B moved away to California never to be heard from again. The rest of the Climbers one by one fell away and joined other groups and some even became human again. Many did not, but they ceased to matter in my world.

As much as I would still skip that part of my life if given the chance to rewrite it, I learned a lot. I learned that true friends forgive and that truly beautiful people are the ones who are kind and welcoming to others. I learned that what other says matters more than we like to admit and as such being judicious in our words is important. Most important, the lesson that I carry to this day is what goes around comes around.

I sometimes wonder what happened to B. I hope that she grew a conscious. I hope that life was cruel enough to her that she learned to be kind. I hope that the kids at her new school saw her for what she was and kept their distance. I hope that she made friends who didn’t bond through torture.

I hope she remembers me. I hope that some day she thinks back to what she did and feels guilty and wishes she could find me to apologize.

I just hope she doesn’t want to do it on the Jerry Springer show, because I also secretly hope she got fat and we all know what fat, bitchy trash does on that show and I’m just a little too ghetto not to throw a chair right back at her.

Silver Dragon

Today I saw an old woman. Stooped and white headed with crisply creased jeans and sensible shoes she stopped in the lane beside me, her Harley rumbling like an antique Dragon.

Where was she going so early in the morning aboard the silver Hog with its sparkly black spiders web? To get her hair set? To see the cardiologist? To Bingo? To meet her younger lover; a spry sixty year old with lust in his heart for a Rebel Woman?

Was she really old or merely a hard fought thirty five?

I wish I had followed her, stopped her for coffee and heard her story. I bet it would be epic

Signs You're Too Desperate

A friend of mine is single (isn't that how these things always start?) and is considering personal ads as a potential place to find a date.
"I don't have TIME to trawl the bars!" She tells me.

So at lunch we're surfing Craigslist personals, the only personals our work computer doesn't block, and are laughing ourselves positively SICK. It's no wonder many of these guys are single! In addition to typo's some say clever things like "I got my shit together" and "I need someone emotionally stable, therefore I prefer you not be overweight" (oh, sir, you clearly DO NOT know your audience!").

So just in case any men out there (and I suppose ladies too) are considering a personal ad, here are some tips from me to you -

* Do not post only shirtless pictures of yourself. Especially if the viewers first impression will be "I wonder if that sweater is mohair?"
* If you DON'T want gold diggers, the only picture you post should not be of your house.
* Posting a picture of your Porche makes your small weiner that much more obvious.
* Don't post photo's of your underpants. Especially if it's ONLY a picture of your underpants (no head or legs). GROSS. You're clearly a dirty little pervert. Women know these things.
* Don't post three pictures of yourself each with a different woman. Uh, we KNOW they aren't your sisters.
* Posing with an AR (assault rifle) doesn't make us feel warm and safe. Even those of us that can identify your "little black rifle" for something more than just a "big gun!"
* Your drivers license photo is maybe not the best looking one you ever took. Or at least I hope not.
* Saying things like "I'm not going to worship you" isn't helping your case. You might as well just say "my ex dumped me because I wouldn't eat pussy."
* Advertising your yearly income is declasse'
* No one believe you love "long walks in the rain (and) rubbing (your) feet"
* Posting a picture of your dog is kind of sweet. But not if he's got a dead duck in his mouth.
* Blacking out your face in the photo makes us wonder if we've seen you before...on Cops.
* Any man who wears a pleather cat suit is creepy. No exceptions.
* If you're wearing the same expression in every picture, We think "Overboard" where Goldie Hawn's picture from when she washed up is photo shopped on to the other pictures. That or you've had a few too many shots of botox.
* "I only have one problem and I mean this with all seriousness... I am a sex addict" = I DON'T THINK SO.
* Posting only photo's of your Eminem teeshirts is not cool.
* Doing the "Westside" gang W hand signal especially when you're white is ALSO not cool. Shocking, I know.
* The "'sup BIATCH" face and a white sleeveless teeshirt is not sexy.
* If your ad line is "kind of weird and kind of stupid" we will believe you.
* Posting more than one ad smacks of desperation and desperation means potential PSYCHO. No thanks!
* Posting a picture of a celebrity you "look exactly like" means you're clearly delusional.
* If you are wearing socks and Teva sandals you are lying when you describe yourself as "athletic/outdoors type".

and finally, but importantly

* There's a word to describe a woman who "is only looking for a hookup while (I'm) in town" and that word is HOOKER. MMkay?


I had to stop for diesel on the way to work today. As I’m standing with my back to the pump I get the uneasy feeling that someone is behind me. Turning around I find myself about thisclose to a heap of dirty camouflage and greasy hair.

“Girl” he says, leaning in conspiratorially as I simultaneous lean back to avoid having his breath melt the skin off my face “Girl, THEY are listening”

Now, what to do? Of course there is NO ONE else around and I am alone with this hobo and his Pink Hello Kitty backpack and burlap shoes.

“MMMM” I say to convey leave me alone

“No, Girl, THEY ARE LISTENING” he is more insistent this time, desperate to be understood.

“Uh, who are THEY?” because really, it could be anybody from the government to the Travelocity Gnome that he’s referring to.

“THEY” he says pointedly as though *I* am the crazy one; “THEY”

“Oh” I say as thought it is now crystal clear “THEY. Uh, okay thanks for letting me know”

He thumps his fist twice on his chest and scurries silently away.

Standing there, I couldn’t help but laugh. If THEY are, in fact, listening, THEY are getting an earful. Last night at dinner there was a conversation about the benefits of assassination with shotguns versus handguns (less ballistics with a shot gun), figuring the aiming point of an AR15 using Kentucky windage and the relative effects of temperature on the .223 round, the potential military and economic repercussions of using 100lb bags of potatoes dropped from planes as “bombs” in countries where mud bricks are the primary construction material, my sisters fake sounding NY address being a cover for her CIA activities (I quipped her costuming degree would assist in her disguises), the weight limit involved in lowering someone from a helicopter onto the roof of the State Department building in Baghdad, whether or not the exploding dump truck was actually Jimmy’s fault (he says no, they shouldn’t have given him an Arabic only manual) and whether or not a farmer should be allowed to have sex with his sheep (only if the sheep is of consenting age was the decision).

I guess I just have to hope that THEY were busy watching porn last night, because otherwise you can guarantee somewhere there’s a list with my name on it.

Ten Men From My Past

1) Scottie – When I was a kid, no one was fat. Well, some people were fat, but most kids weren’t. There were about six fat kids total at my school and Scottie and I were two of them. We were friends from kindergarten until I graduated. Even when other kids were cruel (because lets face it, kids are) and I was the designated “plague” of the seventh grade, Scottie was still my friend. After graduation, he moved to California, lost fifty pounds, got some ripped ab’s and became a stripper. I think he was cuter when he was chubby.
2) Greg – He was my first “boyfriend” when I was fourteen. He nicknamed me “The Tease” because I wouldn’t put out. Although we did a lot of making out at his parents house when they were out of town. I broke up with him because he had terrible table manners. Then my friend Amy went out with him and broke up with him for the same reason (I had warned her!).
3) JM – He’s the one that I never dated. You know that guy, that you like but never go out with because he’s your friend and you know that kissing him would some how ruin it? That’s JM. He got his girlfriend pregnant when he was 16. They made it for the first few years then she bailed with his best friend and left JM to raise their son. He’s been through dozens of girls. Once, when we were both single we almost “were” but it just felt weird. I always hope he’ll find someone wonderful, because I do love him. He’s got a very sweet girlfriend now and I hope she’s his forever.
4) James – my second boyfriend. We only went out a half dozen times before his ship was deployed. But I carried a picture of us together and called him my boyfriend as needed for several years.
5) Brandon – The one who I could have married. We just were never “it” for each other. He rode in to my rescue a time or two but I couldn’t be what he wanted and he couldn’t be what I wanted so we went our separate ways. A friend googled him not that long ago and sent me the results. He’s a lawyer! Never would have seen *that* coming!
6) Erich – the one I hide from. He’s my toxic boyfriend. The one that I can’t get away from. Just when I think he’s gone, when I think he’s finally moved on, gotten the hell over me, there he is again, working at the QT or delivering pizza’s in my neighborhood or hanging out with my friends. Luckily, he’s terrified of my husband so he keeps his distance, but I still do a double take from time to time at random strangers, my heart in my throat thinking that he’s tracked me down again.
7) Sister Dave – Dave was a friend from college. He called me “Cami” as in “Chameleon” because he loved that one day I was in black with Doc Martens and purple streaks in my hair and the next day I was wearing Rockies, Ropers and Wrangler shirts. We worked together at the dorm desk. He tried to kill himself and I never saw it coming. One night he was there, the next night there was a note from the manager that he was in hospital. He tried to come back, but people treated him differently. I only saw him once after the attempt and he had heard I was pregnant. He gave me a stuffed duck for the baby and by that weekend he had withdrawn from school and was gone.
8) Beavis and Butthead – when I was single, I was lonely. Although, looking back now, I wonder why. Anyway, my friend and I ran free personals in the Seattle Times and went on a couple of fantastically bad dates. The way people describe themselves was the funniest part. One guy described himself as tall, medium build with long hair and a motorcycle. Cool. He was really 5’8” with stick limbs, a beer gut, a mullet and a scooter. The other described himself as 6’ tall, HWP (that’s height weight proportionate for those that don’t know) with blonde hair and a boat. Yeah, about that boat, it was a canoe. Seriously. He showed me pictures.
9) Scott – OMG. The best fuck of my life. There is no other way to describe him. He was seeing someone, I was seeing someone, neither of us shared that information. On Valentines Day he came into my store and we chatted a little, he left about noon. By three there were a dozen roses and a note asking me to dinner that night. Of course, being Valentines Day, there was nothing available, so we wound up eating Chester Fried Chicken from the Conoco in the bed of his truck, freezing our asses off because it was Montana and February and there was three feet of snow on the ground. A week later, he showed up at my door, bearing videos, Chinese take out and a box of condoms. Of course I let him in. We screwed like porn stars off and on for six months, then I moved away.
10) Frank – the last boyfriend. On the surface he was what I needed. Stable, kind, employed and good with kids. We went two years with “pretty good” and it was enough. It wasn’t like I wanted to marry him, although I think we both assumed that it was headed that way. Then there was the pregnancy scare. Admittedly, we weren’t being that careful and when I was late, I just assumed that we would be on the same page about the outcome. Boy, was I wrong. I am not a pro-lifer but when it was my turn to choose, that’s what I chose anyway. But my Catholic, mother loving, Democrat, non-confrontational, hooray-family boyfriend’s first thought was that we needed to “do something about it”. I was shocked. How could he profess to love me and have his first thought be that our baby was something that needed to be “taken care of” and that I shouldn’t worry, he’d “pay for it”? That was it. That night, my feelings for him flipped like a switch. I no longer loved him, but I didn’t hate him either, I just didn’t care. I was done. A week later and one doctor’s visit to the negative, I knew we were just marking time. We made a show of “working it out” but I never really meant to. It was just convenient that I met my now husband two months later and had a good push to exit stage left. Still, he hung around on the sideline for a few more months, waiting to see if I really meant to stay with this new guy, really meant it when I said I didn’t want to be friends, didn’t want anything from him. We went out one last time to talk and he held my hand and cried and tried to kiss me when I told him that in my mind it had been over since that night with the EPT. He said he was sorry, said he never would have been able to go through with it, said he just panicked and he couldn’t understand how I could just walk away leave two years behind like it never happened. What he didn’t understand is that we never had passion, we never fought because there wasn’t anything to fight about, to fight for. In his mind, peaceful, good enough love was all there was. Maybe he was right. My husband and I fight like pole cats in a pillowcase and it tears my heart out. I wish we could get to peaceful, I wish we could get to calm, but we are too busy being right to step away and realize that the damage will one day be permanent, that the scar tissue will stop the heart, that one day, the switch will flip and enough will be enough and there will be another man to add to my past, a man who used to be my husband.

Urban Rebellion

Lined up like pewter dominoes row by row, each snaking curve intrinsic to its cosmic design the bricks marched like concrete soldiers around the cramped overpriced McDuplex laden field. One by one they stand sentry to a well orchestrated prank, a stark thing of beauty bearing witness to the pressboard monstrosities, now priced from the low $200’s

Sweaty Cookies

As if I’m not vain enough already, I’ve long worried about the attractiveness of my armpits.

I blame Madonna for this. Once, I read in a Vogue article that Madonna had “the worlds’ most beautiful armpits” according to Karl Lagerfeld or someone. What does that even mean? I don’t know either, but for about twenty years I’ve obsessed about the relative beauty or lack thereof of my armpits. Are they smooth enough? Are they discolored? Do they (gulp) SMELL?

To that end I’ve tried waxing, shaving, sugaring, even tweezing each deep seated, painful little sprout all (of course) to little avail. My armpits, like my ass, have staged a long running rebellion. Every morning as I shave them, I find at least one errant hair of an obscene and unexplainably long length. As if to taunt me this single hair sticks out all wiry and French like from the folds of my oxter. Shave as I might, it will dodge all attempts at its removal; until, in frustration, I yank it out with a pair of tweezers. I feel victorious, if only momentarily over my wanton follicles.

This victory is shallow though because, for some reason (the chemicals in deodorant, perhaps?) my armpits are ever so slightly a different shade than the rest of my underarms. Blast! I will never be able to dance with my arms above my head, for fear that the world is looking at my hairy, discolored pits. Oh, the shame!

So I resort to wearing sleeved shirts. Ha! Take that, seedy armpit of discontent! Which of course brings me to the most obsessive part of my, well, obsession. Sweat.

I believe I’ve mentioned (if I haven’t I’ll be shocked) my abhorrence to sweat; the wetness, the smell, the self consciousness checking for the “ring”. Oh, the stress! To that end I’ve tried nearly every brand of deodorant, only to find that after a time, even the most effective cease to work. Nothing like raising your arm to fix your ponytail and getting a waft of BO to make you want to go home and shower!! So I switch back and forth between brands, varying the scent to keep myself appeased in my vanity, a situation which resulted yesterday in the following conversation;

Office Mate – “What’s that smell?”
Me – “What smell?”
OM – “It smells sweet.”
Me – “Sweet like cotton candy or sweet like a baby’s head?”
OM – “Sweet like cookies”
Me – “There’s cookies? Where?” (after looking around, no cookies)
OM – “I only smell it in here, are you sure you don’t have any cookies?”
Me - “Oh my god, it’s my armpits. My armpits smell like cookies. Smell them!”
OM – “Holy Crap! They do smell like cookies! Lili! Come here and smell her armpits! They smell like cookies!”
Lili – “That’s so freaky! How many cookies have you eaten?!?!”
Me – “Dude, it’s my deodorant!”
Om – “Get out!”
Me – “No seriously! It’s secret Vanilla Sparkle Deodorant I guess when I sweat, I smell like baking cookies. Cool. Wait, bad. Now I want cookies. Damn you deodorant!”

Do you see what I’m going through here? I can’t win! Either stink or smell like cookies, which makes me want cookies, which makes me eat cookies, which contributes to the great Ass Wobble Rebellion, which would mean more exercise, which would mean I would smell like sweaty cookies.

Damn you Madonna! Damn you and your beautiful armpits and Skeletor face! As if I didn’t have enough to worry about, your stupid, perfect armpits are taking away from the time I could be obsessing about things like Paris Hiltons harpy claws, or whether Julia will have the baby on Nip/Tuck or if I could ever learn to catch marshmallows like those Blue Man dudes and get on Letterman and then translate that into a visit to Oprah where we could instantly bond and then become best friends and she would invite me to help her pick her favorite things for the “Favorite Things” show and everyone would say it was the best show ever and I would be famous and have a fabulous career buying gifts for celebrities and even get to keep some for myself. But no, Madonna, you’ve ruined all of that for me. You bitch.

It’s all too much. I think I better go lie down.

With some cookies.