Thursday, June 26, 2008

Witching Hour (GBE 43; Reality)(Life as Fiction)

I have never forgiven myself for that night.

It doesn't matter now. I’m not sure why I hold onto it so tightly. I’m not sure why that night sticks fast in my memory, frozen, perfectly preserved so that I can smell your aftershave masking the desperation. So precisely detailed that the sheen of sweat on your forehead shimmers surreally in the half light of my memory and I can still taste the salt on my lips from the kiss I gave you more than a decade a go.

In reality, that night was irrelevant to what followed, wasn’t it? You never said a thing to me. You never hinted that anything was other than fine.

I want to say that I wish you had, but I don’t. It is easier for me to take comfort in my ability to say that I had no idea. That I can say I never saw it coming allows me to reconcile myself to it. I understand why you never said anything to me. I have been where you were since then and it’s a place that you can only go alone. There is no room there for anyone else, because there is nothing that can be said to bring you back from there.

I get that.

I understand, now, what it is like to go days, even weeks with no physical contact. I understand that you cease to exist when you do not exist to someone else. I understand the intoxication of an unexpected touch. How it yanks you back into yourself and you are forced to confront what brought you to that point to begin with.

Then, I did not.

Then, you were just a boy I knew. Just a friend. Just a coworker who would always cover my ass when I was inevitably late. Someone to sit with in the cafeteria and mock the yuppie bitches trying to land rancher husbands who smelled of their daddy’s money. You made me laugh, but you did not exist to me.

Now I understand what happened after, but I do not understand what happened that night.

Why did you come to my room if you didn’t want to let me help you? You were there for hours and you never ever let on what was coming.

You didn’t even say good bye when you left, my lipstick print perfect on your cheek in the dim light of the 3am hallway.

They told me the next morning that you were already gone at dawn.

Two hours from my bed to your grave.

Why didn’t you say something? Was there a plan already formed? Was I some kind of test? A good bye? A last chance? Could I have said something, anything to bring you back from there?

Or was the reality of your life that you had believed there was no other choice?

There was a choice.

There is always a choice. You could have said something. Anything. Asked to stay, asked me to stay with you. I would have.

A decade has passed and most of another and if I could have back that one moment, that pause in the hallway when you turned from the stairs to look at me, I would trade my teasing go home for a come back. I would give you one last hug.

Maybe it would have been enough.

Monday, June 23, 2008


Of the many things that I agree to do, but don't really want to do, I managed to allow myself to get signed up for the state bowling tournament.

I do not love bowling, but I do love drinking, so I've bowled in a league for most of the last 6 years. While I suck tremendously at the "sport", I enjoy that fat, old, drunk, lazy people can play right along with the pros. Try that with sumo wrestling.

I also love that you can wear pretty much whatever the hell you want. Because chances are you're still going to be better looking that our local alley nut case whom we call Wiggy. See, Wiggy thinks that a wig, a string bikini top and/or short-shorts are acceptable attire. I have proof;

Oh, sorry. I should have warned you.

So, anyway, you can see that this is not a sport that "fashion" is a real concern.

Now, I know that since it's a tournament, there are rules as to what is or is not acceptable. For example, in the past denim, shorts and printed tee-shirts have all been out. Fair enough. So I called ahead to verify that my white capri's would be okay. They were, so I planned accordingly. Since my pants were white and my ass not something the world needs exposure to, I brought a long tunic-style top with a v-neck and layered a tank underneath it.

The thing about boobs, especially big boobs, is you're pretty much going to always have cleavage unless you're wearing a turtleneck. Sometimes even then. I didn't think the twins were dangling too far out so I was pretty shocked when they asked me to leave and go change.

That's right.

My boobs got me thrown out of a bowling alley.

So I had about 10 minutes to find something else to wear. Normally, I would have just worn J's spare work short, but of course he had taken it out of his truck. I couldn't run home because we were 150 miles away. At it was 7am so no where was open. Except Walgreens.

I hop in the truck, race to Walgreens and fully intend to buy a tee shirt. Because Walgreens always has piles of tee shirts, right? ALWAYS. Stacks and STACKS of them at 5/$10 or something.

Except, of course, when you need a damn tee shirt. THEN they only have a handful. In childrens sizes. I haven't worn a children's size ANYTHING in about 27 years. Frantically, I wreck pile after pile of tiny, tiny tee shirts searching frantically for an adult size. THEY HAVE TO HAVE A DAMN ADULT tee shirt in here, I mutter under my breath, flinging aside minuscule shirt after minuscule shirt. WTF. I have exactly 3 minutes to find a damn shirt, buy it, drive to the alley, put it on and line up. Finally, there at the bottom is one single solitary child's XL undershirt.

I snatch it up, sprint to the checkout, throw some cash at Methuselah's mother and race back to the bowling alley. I shove other bowlers out of my way in a mad dash for the ladies, whip off my shirts and dubiously hold up my sausage casing. What the hell? I figure and put it on.

And I'll be a monkey's uncle if I wasn't able to get that sucker on.
Who'd have thought?

As you can see, though, it was a And see-through. And TIGHT. I'm pretty sure the cleavage would have been less distracting than my impression of a naughty, naughty nurse/cocktail waitress, but rules are rules, right?

(That's me, drinking beer at 8a.m., in a child's tee shirt, while surrounded by elderly people gambling their retirement and eating fried food. Which makes a good argument for America being the best country in the whole damn world.)

Thursday, June 19, 2008

I know Victoria's Secret

Since some people, who I won’t name, but who sometimes answer when you call “Kati” finds great amusement in my nana chones, I decided to branch out; to go where my booty has never gone before, to trade in my gigantic cotton drawers for something more…less than.

But the thing is; I’m also HELLA cheap when it comes to things that I’m just going to throw away in a month or so. So while the Gestating Mrs. Smooth spent $50 to swath her nether regions when we were shopping this weekend, I spent MY lunch money on bras. And by my lunch money I mean $100. BUT I saved $100, because it was buy 2 get 2 free and at $50 each a girl needs to make sacrifices right? So while the twins are enjoying their new digs, my heinie was feeling a bit neglected.

And that just won’t do, because I’m exceedingly vain. (I’m sure you hadn’t noticed though.). In my vanity, though, I believe in equal opportunity. Fat, white, and vain all over; that’s me. But I digress.

Chones, like bras are a BIG DEAL to shop for. It’s not like jockey shorts where every pair is pretty much like the last. My lady bits need comfort and breathability. Not to mention I hate tight leg holes and exposed elastic. Also, they need to be pretty. And not give me a wedgies. And they should match with my bras because WHAT IF I’M IN AN ACCIDENT? My Gram made it exceedingly clear to us girls when we were young and impressionable that good underclothes were a sign of good breeding and GOD FORBID you were wearing that pair that is always left on laundry day because if you’re in an accident, they might not treat you and you will DIE. All because you are wearing sagged out faded skivvies with stretched out elastic and a wee little hole where they got caught in your zipper that one time when you had to cop-a-squat in the bushes during OzFest.

The stress was almost too much. I had a quick meeting with the Crown and braced myself to gird my loins. Bravely, I strode into that French Store and marched into the “Intimates” department. (Side note, since WHEN do pajama pants and socks with kittens qualify as “Intimate Apparel”? I’m pretty sure NO ONE gets “intimate” offers while wearing giant green knit pants with frolicking puppies on them.) But I am undaunted! I am determined! Nevermore will I do my impression of Mary Katherine Gallagher in the gyno’s office.

I WILL BE SEXY, goshdangit.

The problem with this of course is the sheer number of choices.

Do I want hipsters? Ew. NO. Next thing you know, I’ll have blue hair and write Emo poetry about my tight, tight pants and angsty-love-drama. Not going down THAT road.

So, then, maybe bikinis? ARE YOU F-ING kidding? Isn’t the whole point of panties to keep my bits safe from zippers and flaming hot car interiors? I’ve seen strippers with more fabric on then those provide. And STRING BIKINI’S? HAHAHA. DUDE. For reals; “String bikini” and “plus sizes” shouldn’t be even THOUGHT OF in the same sentence.

Of course, there are thongs, or as we refer to them around our house, “butt floss”. They’re useful in their own right, so okay. Those I can do. No panty lines…that’s a good idea, right? No reason to advertise my fondness for Hanes Her Way cotton sensibles all the time, is there? In the basket they go.

I’m feeling pretty victorious right about then. I’ve bought underpants that would make my mother avert her eyes and cause my father to say “SIIIIGGGGHHH” really loudly and then proclaim his ill luck for have spawned “girl children” if I ever were to mention them in his presence (actually, any mention of underwear in my fathers presence causes his beard to go one shade whiter.)

Can you wear thongs everyday though? Won’t you like, get a butt rash in the summer from the swamp-ass that goes unchecked by cottony goodness?

Seems dangerous.

And not GOOD dangerous, either. Bad dangerous. Fondle a baby bear in Mama-Grizzlies sight dangerous. EAT FOOD FROM A STREET VENDER dangerous.

And I? I am not that brave.

I am, however, persistent. So up the aisle I go.

There before me were these super adorable little lacy bits called “boy shorts”. Have you seen those? They’re like boxers, except for girls! And look at that adorable model! She looks so cozy! Very sporty-hot. Casual, yet sexy in a girl-next-door kind of way. YES! That’s just what I’m looking for! SCORE.

Yes, I just said “score!” like it was 1989, what are you going to do about it? I also say “awesome” and “super” like I just escaped from the set of the Brady Bunch and I LIKE IT.

Right, where was I? Ah, yes. Boy Shorts. Okay, so they had about 11,000 different brands, colors, fabrics, sizes, patterns, elastic/no-elastic and so on permeations. This, people, is why girls never do anything alone. WE NEED INPUT. The comfort of our secret selves is of UTMOST importance, am I right? There is just no way I am going to spend all day yanking at my undercarriage. That just won’t do.

I soldier on.

Into the cart goes a pair labeled “low rise boy briefs in NEW stretch lace”. That sounds good right? Low rise means they won’t hang out of my ever expanding collection of gap-waisted jeans. Stretch lace; that sounds practical, yet attractive. I’m feeling pretty good about it now. The cotton, though, oh damn you comfy, comfy cotton. Into the basket goes a pair of sensible black cotton ones.

I rush right home and wash them; even though it’s not laundry day yet, won’t be laundry day for about 4 more months. Carefully, I fluff them dry and fold them neatly.

Oooh! I am so excited!

No longer will I be hindered by the Hindenburg of lingerie! I am TURNING OVER A NEW LEAF. A fashionable, DARING, leaf. A leaf that will lead to OTHER leaves and next thing you know? Featured guest of Oprah.

First thing this morning I hop into the shower. Which pair will I wear? They better look good bronzed for the museum in my honor, I’m thinking. I select those sultry black stretch lace low rise goodies.

Gently, I slide them up over my hips, pausing to admire myself in the mirror. HELL YES! My ass looks FANTASTIC. I almost repeated the ass-photography exercise; I was so impressed with it. (Y’all can stop covering your eyes; I wouldn’t do that to you.)

I whistle my way through getting dressed, slip on my favorite jeans, step into my super cute brown heeled sandals, arms up and into a flirty summer top, comb the hair, on with the make up and I am SO FUCKING HOT I want to kiss myself.

Oh, but then.

You knew there would be a “but, then” didn’t you? Because there always is.

I am half way to work. It is already 100* at 7:30am.

And where are my precious lacy-bits?


That’s right; they are wadded all the way up there like I am the Tri-State third-grade math champ.

Out of the truck and I’m doing the wiggle. You know the wiggle? That little half side step shimmy where you clench and unclench in a (futile) attempt to avoid having to go cave diving right in front of the boss? The wiggle that NEVER, EVER works?


Of course, I am NOTHING if not stubborn, so into the loo I go and fish those bad boys out and realign them. By the time I’ve made it to my office, my grandchildren are tasting polyester flowers.

By lunch time, I can floss my teeth with them. From the inside.

At two, I give up. Back to the ladies and off with the instruments of torture.

Lucky me, though, I listen to my Gram. In addition to her edicts that we should all own red bras (in case we need to flag a train), she also mandated that we have a ready supply of fresh panties to hand. So out to the truck and into the gym bag I go, happily retrieving enough melon-colored cotton to block the sun from shining in Africa.

I guess this is why my mother always told me to never give into peer pressure.

So, Miss Kati, mock away. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but I’ll be go to hell if I’ll give up my granny panties.

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

Counting Chick Cars

I wonder if maybe the car you drive is more indicative of your personality than you'd think. I know that girls, at least, are snobs about what kind of car a man drives; dismissing out of hand a guy in a "chick car" as though he were wearing something offensive like an open necked silk shirt and gold chains. It's as though his effeminate car implies some lack of character or manliness, like a VW New Beetle convertible is a big gay flag that he flies.

Neither, though, are most of the girls I know overly attracted to guys in big monster trucks with their jacked up tires and TV head rests and spotlessly clean naked lady mud flaps. He, it would seem has too much testosterone. Or an absence of maturity. Or a very small penis. None of those things being desirable, obviously.

It would seem, that like most things, there should be some middle ground. Something like a Dodge Charger or Jeep Cherokee of a man that says, "I'm not broke, but not frivolous. I am solid and dependable. I like antique shopping and I'll hold your purse while you try on bras at the mall and then I'll insist that I saw on CNN that they've resized all the clothing lines a size smaller due to too thin Nicole Richie types rather than see you cry because you've gained ten pounds and have to wear a bigger size then last year. I will remember your birthday."

But then, I wonder, how do you explain the motorcycle factor? Is it our desperate clutching at youth that makes us eye the tattooed, beer bellied, bald guy as he goes rumbling past on his Harley while we sit in the other lane making a grocery list on the back of the water bill envelope?

What of a woman's car? Does the same hold true in reverse? Do men see a girl in a Mustang and see someone who'll go down on them in a movie on the second date while people three rows forward eat popcorn and laugh at Adam Sandler? Do they see a girl in an Escalade and mentally calculate the amount of alimony her Scottsdale ex-husband pays her? Do they see a girl in a beater hatchback and sense that any little scrap of affection will be enough for her?

I wonder then about how the girls in "non-chick" cars appear. Is she a ball breaker in her Power Stroke Diesel Ford 250? Does she drink too much if she drives a '68 Hemi 'Cuda? Is she a lesbian astride her Honda Shadow Custom?

I think maybe the "what kind of car do you drive" question should be seen more as a "what sign are you" than "so, what's your FICO?" kind of question. More of a personality clue that tells you if you're compatible on some mostly indefinable level than a materialistic inquiry.

Because I wonder, could a truck girl and a Cabriole guy ever find love? Or would the cost of the strap-on, the purple fur-lined handcuffs and H20 lube cause them to go bankrupt?

Monday, June 16, 2008

Bootyliciousness? Not so much.

In my life, I've 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 of my sister....

Friday, June 13, 2008

Pass the dutchie to the left hand side

In addition to being Fathers Day, this week it's also my grandmothers 41st 39th birthday, my dads birthday and my mother in laws birthday.

I, of course, treated this with my usual lack of attention. So I just got the stuff in the mail yesterday. Except the cards that my child lovingly drew with her collection of 1,457 Sharpie markers. Those I carried around in my purse until today.

But since it's suitably last minute, I figured I better whip those bad boys out and get them in the mail. So that they at least arrive in the same month. Because I care.

So there I am, flipping through the cards, signing my name and J's to them, when I come across this;

Is that a marijuana leaf? On a birthday card FROM MY 13 YEAR OLD? *TO* *MY* *DAD*?

Yeah. I thought so.

You know what makes it worse? Clearly the little monster is Bogarting the doobie.

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

If Wishes Were Belly Buttons

I just signed up for a blog group called “The Group Blogging Experience”. Every week you get a topic. This week is “Wishes”, so here goes.

I wish I had a beautiful belly button.

I know, I know. It seems a little vapid. But I’ll explain. Promise.

If I had a beautiful belly button, it would mean I lost the weight that I should have lost years ago.

Which would mean that I finally managed to get off my ass and make it to the gym regularly.

Probably because I solved my inability to get motivated.

So chances are I have gotten my depression in check finally after nearly 20 years.

In all likelihood, that means, I’m at least content with life. Maybe even happy.

Therefore, I’m probably ALSO doing all the other things that I always say I will, but never do. Like finishing that novel. Or learning to knit. Or you know, cleaning my house more frequently than I have birthdays.

If I had a beautiful belly button, I’d probably stop saying mean things about people. People like super models, for example, whose lives are OBVIOUSLY very difficult. You know, with all the standing around being pretty and waiting for it to be time to eat their daily raison.

If I had a beautiful belly button, I might wear a belt. Then my ass crack wouldn’t hang out of my pants, causing massive traffic pile ups when the sun glints off of it.

If I had a beautiful belly button, I’d give to charity. Dozens of fat orphans would have designer jeans and adorable tops to lift themselves out of poverty with. They’d probably go on to get jobs, go to college and do something amazing and meaningful they might not otherwise have accomplished. Like curing cancer! Or maybe bring about world peace! Or make gas affordable again so that I don’t have to consider selling my plasma to be able to afford a quarter of a tank. Or maybe they would invent a way to teleport from place to place so that we completely reduce our dependency on fossil fuel for transportation, thereby reducing the effects of global warming and SAVING THE WORLD.

So that’s why I’m wishing for a beautiful belly button.

It’s for the good of all mankind, really. It’s very selfless of me; NOBEL even.

I know. You’re welcome.

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

In Which I Am Hit On In A Classy Fashion

All of my life people have thought it was okay to say whatever random thing comes to mind to me. This makes my life pretty interesting. It's also taught me to think on my feet. There is very little that you can say to me that's going to leave me speechless.

This is an awesome trait to have I've found because most other people are easily made speechless. Especially when talking to someone whose brain has no filter. Like

But this isn't about what I say. This is about what other people say to me. ALL THE TIME.

Last week I was standing in an impossibly long, slow line at CVS. Because I'm prone to talking (that's what every teacher EVER wrote on my report card, btw), I strike up a generic conversation with the guy behind me.

Slow line I say.
Ain't DAT the truff he says. Gun be hot, t'day.
That time of year again I reply.

See? See how generic this conversation is? See how I am not making any reference to what I am, say, wearing?

Which was this, by the way.

We stand there in companionable line waiting silence for a minute and AT LAST it's my turn. I put down my Midol, my King Size Special Dark, my Diet Dr. Pepper and my Glamour and as I wait, MINDING MY OWN DAMN BUSINESS, my line mate leans forward, his mouth right by my ear and says

I bet you have amazing nipples.

WTF. Are you kidding me right now? WHO THE HELL says that to a random girl in a check out line on a Saturday morning? If I was at a club, okay. If I was wearing a bikini and dancing around a pole, OKAY. But at CVS? While I'm buying MIDOL? Come on now! So I reply;

I certainly do.

I mean really, what else COULD I say?

Monday, June 9, 2008

Ice Cream Social

I am nineteen and you are twenty one. Our relationship has long since faded to friendship, but I make a point still of seeing you when I am home from university.

It is late November and we are sitting huddled on a park bench eddied from the wind. My left hand is in your pocket and my right thumb worries, worries at the cuticles of the other fingers. You're spinning the ring on my finger and we are talking about something or nothing.

There is a silence, companionable, still, inviting and I blurt I am pregnant with no preamble. You don't say anything, just spin the ring, forward and back. At last you say Is it his? and I nod, because I can not say his name.

You are quiet again, spin, spinning the ring and ask who knows? and I say no one. This isn't wholly true, but is true enough. The women at the clinic know. My flat mate knows. You have stopped spining the ring and slide it instead, up and down my finger, up and down, up and down and then at last all the way off and you are on one knee before me. Will you marry me? You ask and I know that you are serious.

Having a child you did not plan is one thing, marrying somone you do not love is another and I shake my head no. You hesitate a moment longer and I can almost taste your relief in the cold, wet air. Well, then you say as you return to the bench, pulling me closer, my face pressed against the frigid nylon of your parka, we'll just say it's mine then.

This is a very neat solution to my problem. A good, honest man to claim a bastard beget by a bastard. I can not let you do it though. Your parents, mine; there would be a wedding anyway.

You know this too, but you don't back down. You are determined to be my savior. I do not want or maybe can not allow myself to be saved at this point. I am too far gone into myself, into this mess that I have created to be brought back by simple goodness.

You know what I am not okay with?


That is a big ass cockroach. And his friend. Like the Skipper & Gilliagan of the roach world. They are just 2 of 6!!! dead roaches in the ladies room this morning.

So I'm thinking about filing a workmans comp claim. For mental anguish.

Not Really A Post

I usually dream very vividly and I usually remember them. And usually? They make NO SENSE.

But last night I dreamt up the best reality show EVER. If I knew someone to pitch it to, I totally would. It was called "Apocalypse". It was similar to Survivor, but much more hard core. The contestants were unaware when the show would start, the crew just shows up at your door and you have one hour to grab whatever you can carry, push or drag from inside your house to help you survive in a remote location the longest.

Of course, there is a twist. Once you've gathered all your stuff, but before you leave, you draw a card that "twists" your fate. Maybe you have to leave behind everything but what you're wearing on your body (if you happen to be wearing your pack, you're golden, but if your pack is on the ground? SCREWED), or maybe you have to take someone with you, but you both have to survive on only your gear or maybe you have to switch places with a member or your household. For example, the husband was the contestant, but the wife has to go in his place.

Then, they drop you in a remote location with a camera and a sat phone (so you can call out when you give up and so they can check up on you at a scheduled weekly time). Whoever lasts the longest wins $50,000 a year for the rest of their lives.

What do you think, would you watch it?

Friday, June 6, 2008

"B" Side

I was thinking last night, when I should have been sleeping. That seems to be my curse, recently. Sleeplessness I mean. Not thinking.

I was thinking about how every favorite song I’ve ever had could be the story of my life. Not my life right then exclusively, either. There is something about some songs that make them stick with you. It’s as if the song writer reached into your brain and pulled out every hope, every fear, and every thought and set them to music.

I tried to remember every song that’s ever been my favorite. My song. It’s funny, you know, I can remember almost all of them. Words and all. I could sing them for you if you wanted me to. I assure you that you don’t though. Music? Not my gift.

So here, in the interest of vanity, is my list. The mixed tape of my life you could say. (In chronological order, as best I can recall). It’s long, but I couldn’t make it shorter, so just stay with me here!

Looking for Love – Johnny Lee. A sweet little country song from the eighties about never finding love when you’re looking for it. Nice. Excellent first favorite song. I was 3 or maybe 4 when I begged for this record at the PX in Ewa Beach. Do you suppose your first favorite song sets the tone for your life? I hope not, because M’s first favorite song? Mambo #5

The Gambler – Kenny Rogers. I know.

Take It Easy – The Eagles. I still love this song. I love the covers of this song. I have been through Winslow, AZ, but I’ve yet to stand on the corner there. I will though, it’s on my LIST.

It’s my Life – Billy Joel. This was the theme to the show “Bosom Buddies”. I loved that show and I still do. Tom Hanks in drag? Always funny. But the song; that I didn’t get until much later. Every time I hear it, I sing along. Sorry.

Time after Time­ – Cyndi Lauper and later Eva Cassidy. Who didn’t have this album? It had Girls Just Wanna Have Fun on it as well. Also an excellent song, but some how the slightly stalkerish feel of Time after Time always felt more me.

9 to 5 – Dolly Parton. I had this on tape and wore it out. We had a skit, I think, that involved water balloons and bra’s stolen from my mother’s drawers. We used to perform it on the neighbors retaining wall as we lip synced into broom handles and blared the music on the olive green tape deck we found in my dad’s “work” room.

Posse on Broadway­ – HF and I spent HOURS stopping the tape and scribbling down the lyrics on purple note book paper with a purple pen. I still know all the words. This song is way better than Baby Got Back if you ask me. A close second to this would have been Kid Sensation Buttermilk Biscuits because it’s hilarious.

The Unforgiven – Metallica. Nice and depressing. Just the way a teenager’s favorite song should be.

Live and Let Die – Guns n’ Roses. OMG, did I want Slash’s hair. I got this song on tape from a friend for Christmas. I bought her one of the “Use Your Illusion” CD’s and she bought me the other.

You Spin Me Right Round (like a record) – Dead or Alive. This song was old by the time it infiltrated my life. I think I was 14 or maybe 15 and Miss Diva and I would occasionally ride the bus to the University District in Seattle and sneak/cajole/flirt our way into clubs. I have a very vivid memory of Miss Diva in Mini Mouse ears at a bus stop at 5am. The sun is just coming up and we’ve been out all night. I remember wishing I could be that cool all the time. I totally wasn’t though. I was a huge dork.

Rusty Cage – Sound Garden. I’d been listening to Seattle punk scene for a while. This was the first big single for Sound Garden and it was cool to say that I was a fan before.

Bird House in Your Soul – They Might Be Giants. This one came to me via a mixed tape from a friend with infinitely cooler music sense then I’ll ever have.

Jose Cuervo­ ­­– Shelly West. This song taught me about drunken one night stands. We played in incessantly on the juke box at the back of the Four Aces while we nursed cokes and fries with cheese. And generally acted like idiots. This is the song I learned about boys to. It reminds me of a time in my life where anything was possible and Fire Birds and Marlboro Reds were cool.

Hearts in Armor­ – Trisha Yearwood. Ah, yes. Broken, wounded, angsty hearts. Teenage dramatics much? Still a good song though. This song took me to college. I remember listening to it in the car on my super awesome new Disc Man and thinking about the boy I’d left behind. Stupid Boys. They’re about to become a theme on this playlist.

Desperado­ & Peaceful Easy Feeling – The Eagles. Both songs remind me of boys. Of two different boys. One I loved and one I thought I loved. Both broke my heart, but for different reasons. Then? Then I hated them, but now I think it was just a lesson I needed to learn.

Asshole­ – Dennis Leary. This song? This one came on a mixed tape from the boy I did not love and who did not love me. He taught me about lying, about what it means to take responsibility for your actions and why you should always trust your instincts. He was the type of boy that you shouldn’t have in your past. He was the type of boy who taught me to guard my thoughts. I am still angry with him. But he did make a kick ass mixed tape.

The Dance – Garth Brooks. This song, too, reminds me of a boy. This boy was worse than the rest, the worst one before or since. But I loved him. God save me from myself, but to this day, I think about him. Every day. I sometimes think I see him, in places where he should not be and my heart stops. For just a moment, everything stops and I can not breathe. But then, it’s not him and my heart pounds in my ears and I’m not sure if I’m glad for it or not. Because the paperwork involved in homicide is very daunting…but not daunting enough to dissuade me.

Cecilia – Simon & Garfunkel. This song used to play all the time at the Rockin’ R Bar. My gorgeous roommate Larkin and I used to sneak in and pick up boys. One night, we hooked up with a Hawaiian and a bull rider who we were taking home with us, only they got in a fight in the parking lot when some dumbasses tried to beat up the retarded guy who used to drink there as well. The cowboy’s name was Jeff I think and I can still hear him saying “They knocked out my GodDamnit Tooth! Five years of bull riding and I never lost a one and now a stupid ass goat fucker gone knocked out my goddamnit tooth!”. Good times, good times.

I Must Increase My Bust – Lords of Acid. I had almost forgotten this one. Larkin and I used to play this album so loudly the windows rattled. I wonder if I still have this CD?

Closer to God – NIN. At the risk of telling you WAY TOO MUCH, this song? Every time I hear it all I can think about is wild, wild sex with a long haired boy who didn’t belong to me. I can’t hear it with out getting aroused.

Margaritaville – Jimmy Buffet. My twin and I are living in a turquoise singlewide at the end of a dirt road. There is a cast of characters and drama and heart ache. There are moments where everything is clear and perfect and days when I can not bring myself to get out of bed. In the back ground though is always the thought that I can walk away, any time I want and it keeps me going.

Trashy Women – Confederate Railroad. This ties with Fat Bottom Girls by Queen for the song I want playing in the opening credits when my life becomes a movie.

Wonderful Tonight ­­­- Eric Clapton. I am raising a baby by myself now. I have a boyfriend that I have written a friend “will do for now”. He’s in a band, which is cool. He plays the guitar and sings to me sometimes when we’re alone. I’d never heard this song before he played it for me. When he sang it on stage, adding it to the set at my request, he’d change the lyrics from “long blonde hair” to “long red hair” for me. He kind of sucked as a boyfriend, but that will stick with me always, the very public acknowledgement of my existence.

Song for the Dumped- Ben Folds’ Five. This is the kind of break up I always wished I had the balls for.

Don’t Want to Miss a Thing­ – Aerosmith. This was the theme to the movie my husband took me to on our first and only date. It was our first dance when we got married less than a year later.

Cold Day in July­ – The Dixie Chicks. Every marriage has it’s ups and downs and I suppose mine no more than any other. This song reminds me that it needs to be nurtured because the end sometimes come with a whimper rather than a bang.

Milkshake – Kelis. To be honest? I don’t really love this song, but it reminds me to laugh. I worked at a job I didn’t like but stayed at because I loved my coworkers. It was the kind of job you didn’t want to miss, because you never know when the next in-joke will start and you want to be in on it. One day things were particularly stressed, so I stood up and said, “Hey! I just want you all to know something!” and then started singing and shaking my booty. By the time I was done (about three lines in) we were all crying with laughter and dancing along.

Gotta Get Up From Here – Ellie Lawson. I play this song on days when I think that things will never get better. Every day is a new day and you get to decide if it’s going to be a good one. You need to own your life. Own your choices. Own you happiness.

This is the part where the list breaks down. This next group of songs has no order and stories I’d rather not tell or no story at all, but still deserves to be included.

I’m Movin’ On ­– Rascal Flatts
Realize – Colbi Calait
In My Life – Bette Middler
Break Down Here – Julie Roberts
Lady Down on Love – Alabama
White Flag – Dido
Paralyzer – Finger Eleven
Hate Me – Blue October
Battle of Who Could Care Less – Ben Folds Five
Stronger Woman – Jewel
I Need You – Trisha Yearwood
Penny to My Name ­- Eva Cassidy
In the Rough – Anna Nalik
What Mattered Most – Doug Supernaw
Boston – Augustana
Baby Blue ­- George Strait
I can’t Love You Anymore – Gary Nichols
I Will Survive -Gloria Gaynor

This brings me to the last song on the list. My theme song. The song that I want you to always think of me when you hear.

Still Got My Health – Better Middler.

Tell me, though, what’s your theme song? Which one song sums it all up, which one song are YOU?

Thursday, June 5, 2008

Heavy Machinery Warning

Since the Big Truck is at the doctor, J has the Juice. Which means I have no ride.

Since my lunch date (who I will not name, but who is DEAD TO ME and whom I've TOTALLY BROKEN UP WITH) ditched me, I was forced to scrounge for lunch. Those of you who have been to my house can attest to the fact that I do not believe in grocery shopping more than 2 or three days in advance. This is good, because at least you know the food that's in there is fresh (and by food, I mean BEER and ICE CREAM). This is bad because when you're hungry? You're screwed. Unless you want to eat pickles and butter with marachino cherries and a duab of whipped cream.

Therefore, I almost never bring my lunch. This morning, though, I was starving so I grabbed a Lunchables from the fridge on my way to catch my ride from the Gestating Mrs. Smooth.

Since she's knocked up, she's pretty much always starving. Which is awesome. So we swung through one of the local dive taco shops and hooked it up with some big fat burritos.

Good thing to, since as I mentioned two paragraphs ago, SOMEONE WHO IS DEAD TO ME AND READS THIS BLOG FROM HIS GRAVE opted to have lunch with his mom instead and I was forced to eat my Lunchables for lunch.

Because I'm five.

Actually, I kid. I like Lunchables. Add some"meat" and the "cheese" smack it on a little cracker and squeeze on some mustard. Yum. I love mustard. I put it on everything.

But the thing about the mustard in the Lunchables? It's dangerous. And explosive. And should not be operated by people under the influnence of medication.

Or um. Me.

In addition to the mustard all over the "lunch"? All over my arm. My boobs. My desk.

You know what?

Ate it anyway.

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

In which I channel my middle aged father

So I had this really preachy blog going about how being positive, even when things are have gone completely pear shaped, is the only thing that will bring positive things back into your life. I thought it could do with a little illustration, so I hopped over to photobucket to look for the Calvin & Hobbes cartoon wherein Calvin is seen to be yelling to they sky "I'm signifigant! screamed the speck" But of course I couldn't find it. I found this

which, while likely true (true of myself, at any rate!) just wasn't quite what I was going for. So I kept searching.

As I scrolled through the billions of images looking for the one that says "Stop being such a pussy. The Universe isn't out to get you, you're just not THAT important" I started to notice something alarming. That something? The "Sup" face.

Can he (she?) possibly look like any more of a goober? The stupid hair is bad enough, throwing the gang sign for the Fashion District Hispters is tragic, the fingerless gloves made me cry a little and the fact that s/he is taking a self portrait in the shitter is fitting, but the face? WHY THE F must all teenagers who are trying to be cool make that stupid pursed lipped face?

They do it when they're alone

They do it when they're in pairs

and what a F-ING SHOCK they do it when they gather with their herd

they do it when they're attempting to look cool for their MySpace profile so that they can lure in other Sup-facers to mate with

(yeah, and don't get me started on people who aren't old enough to shave giving the "Shocker", that's a whole 'nother subject)

As I scrolled through image after shocking image of dorkularity, I became worried. What if this trend spreads? What if everywhere you go, people make the Sup face? What if the Sup face replaces the O face? Will I ever be able to have sex with someone other than myself without laughing?

What if the Sup Face becomes the hallmark of the generation that is going to have to support and care for me in my old age? How the hell can I take seriously a doctor with a Sup Face?

"Miss Thystle, I'm Doctor Wackenheimer, I'll be performing your brain surgery, but first, I wanna say.....SSSSUUUUPPPPP, hoooommmmmskillet?? Less give it UP for ma bitches Nurse Wanda and Nurse Dee! Ima bouts to scrub the shizzet from una ma finga nails then we gonna do this thang, aight?"

Can this be stopped before it spreads any further? If we just, say, lobotomized everyone between 12 and 20 could it be halted?

What? What do you mean, It's already too late?

Dear Gods, NOT THE BABIES TOO! When will this madness end? WHEN?

Back in MY day, when they were just inventing dirt and the whole world was black and white we NEVER made the Sup Face! We smiled for the camera and we LIKED it. We walked up hill, six miles in the SNOW to have our picture taken and we got there we combed our hair with CRISCO and then we put on our crinolines or skinny ties, laced up our saddle shoes and then we held still for thirty seven hours WITH OUT EVEN BLINKING so that we could memorialize our stoic visages for future generations! And this is how you repay us? WITH THE SUP FACE?
Some people's kids, I tell ya.

Monday, June 2, 2008

Jersey Style

So those of you that have been with me for years remember the debacle of moving the Buttlickers two years ago. Because how could you not? But I've noticed a lot of new traffic here (Hi! Um, sorry about my bad language. And the goat balls. And um, sucking) so I'll catch you up...

2006 - This was the height of the housing boom here in the Desert and EVERYONE was buying new, giant, custom, overpriced houses. Well, everyone but us, because we love the ghetto and you know, being able to pay our mortgage AND eat. But my husbands friends, the Buttlickers, were seduced by an 80/20 ARM loan on a $400,000 semi custom house. Across the street from a dairy farm. I think they probably had to pay extra for the ambiance of cow ass. They decide to move on a day that registered 112* in the shade. But we're nice people (read: SUCKERS) so we show up to help them move. With our truck. And our trailer. And our hand-truck. And tape, boxes, drinks, tie downs and a babysitter for their children. (yeah, I KNOW). And guess what? THEY HAD NOT PACKED ONE SINGLE BOX. Okay, that may be an exaggeration. There were some boxes that were packed. From their last move. There were four trucks there though, complete with two or more movers each. That's what friends do, right? So as we pack them, the wife leaves. LEAVES. Leaves the kids, the house, all their friends and goes to Home Depot to buy paint for the new house. AND DOES NOT COME BACK. (Why, yes, I DO carry a grudge for ages!) Seven hours and two tanks for diesel fuel later (that I paid for), we break for lunch. That we pay for ourselves. Seven more hours and we go home, exhausted and vow to never, ever move them again.

2008 - They haven't paid their mortgage since last summer. Because he has lost five jobs in less than a year and has found himself to be unemployable in an industry he's worked in for 20 years. Their mortgage has reset bringing the monthly payments to the sum of twice their income. The house goes to auction and they have to move again. Guess who they call? Right. Guess who are the only people to show up? I'll give you a hint, they're suckers. So there we are, the only people they know (including their families!) who show up. I don't say this to pat myself on the back for being a good friend, I say this because I am clearly lacking in some mental capacity. I KNOW they are not fully packed because they TOLD me they weren't. Again. Yet there we are, with truck, trailor, cart, baby-sitter, drinks (they had nothing but tepid tap water - and two cups). Jersey Smooth showed up about a half hour after us and Dr. Hotstuff came by about an hour after that, so we set to moving. And you know what? I was glad I showed up. Their house was so filthy it made me feel much better about my own. (Shut up. I know I'm a bad person. Believe me, I KNOW)

The move was pretty uneventful, except for the screaming match. And their kids hitting each other with sticks and screaming so loud my uterus shriveled up. And Mr. BL almost rolling the truck. And the fact it was over 100*. And spending $50 on Gaterade, ice, bottled water & popsicles. And the second screaming match. And the third screaming match.

We did get all the furniture and packed boxes moved on Saturday, so we didn't feel at all bad about telling them they were on their own on Sunday. Then Mr. BL, knowing our house is 30 years old and a spec house at that, says Hey! Do you guys want new bathroom fixtures? Or some ceiling fans? Because we paid for all these upgrades and we're taking them with us. Right. They're taking the FIXTURES with them. Now you're probably saying, what kind of person moves out and takes the toilets. But me? I'm saying, SCORE! Because my toilets? They SUCK. One doesn't always flush and one flushes sometimes, but then leaks water from the tank and makes an annoying sucksucksucksuck noise and then flushes itself. Despite 6 replacements of it's hardware. So me? I promise Jersey Smooth some pizza and rootbeer (because a. He's a cheap worker and b. he used to be an actual licensed plumber) if he'll steal me the toilets.

Which is how we wound up back there on Sunday at lunch time. Where guess what? They had not moved one single thing. They had however managed to convice Dirty DEA and his lovely bride to drive 100 miles to come and help. And where was Mrs. BL? At the new house. Taking a nap. So we stole the toilets and left.

No, we didn't really. We stole the toilets, the ceiling fans, the faucets and the light fixtures and then helped pack the rest of the stuff (crammed in trash bags) into the truck. While making fun of their collection of breast pumps and thousands of dirty socks stashed in every nook and cranny of the house.

Then we went home and changed our phone numbers. Because I may be a slow learner, but I do learn.