It was just a simple freaking question. I am not really sure why my mother had to go a screw it up. Now to be fair, I am sure mother had good intentions. However, it had the same results as dropping the atom bomb on your backyard and then saying “I thought it would reduce the grass cutting chore.”
Molly did what any child would do. When she had a question, she went and asked her mother. “How do babies come out?” It is a typical question from a 6 year old. The reply went something like this.
“Why do you ask,” demanded Mother.
“Lisa’s mom is going to have her baby soon, and I don’t know how the baby is going to come out of her belly?”
There was a pause…
“Go and get me one of your baby dolls and a turtleneck sweater.”
So Molly ran to her bedroom to gather the objects. Much to mother’s surprise, Molly returned. She handed the objects to her mother. Mother took the baby doll, shoved it into the bottom of the shirt towards the neck so the head was peeking out.
“Now, this part of the shirt is the woman’s vagina (What the hell is that? thought Molly). When the baby is ready, it simply comes down the birth canal (Molly pictured the boat ride at the shore.) through the vagina (Is that a city?) and is born,” said Mother. At that very moment, Mother took her other hand and went up into the neck of the shirt and pulled the baby doll out of the shirt and handed it to Molly.
“Any more questions?” asked Mother. This is the moment when I would like to travel back in time and say to my mother, “Have you lost your frigging mind?” You just couldn’t have said, “Mommies go to the hospital to have babies.” No, I have to get the 2nd year medical school dissertation from a woman who was an education major in college. Great! Let’s check in with little Molly to see what kind of radio-active, psychological fall-out has just occurred.
A look of desperate horror came over Molly’s face as she walked back to her bedroom and sat on the floor. She looked from the doll to the shirt and back again to the doll. The Epiphany: Oh my God, Lisa’s mom puts on a turtleneck shirt and then she reaches into her tummy and pulls the baby out through the neck. “Why do I have this baby shirt?” Molly screamed from her bedroom.
At that very moment, the psychological damage had been done. It would be the last sex question she would ever ask. And so began the sexual education of Molly Brown.
In tenth grade, Molly had the misfortune of having Miss Verbeck, a lesbian and part time chicken farmer, as her sex ed health teacher (Yes, there is some weird crap in my head, but that I didn’t make up). Since it was an all girls’ class, a great deal of time was spent studying the female genitalia and reproductive cycle. The information she imparted about the labia and the clitoris verged on pornographic. The only thing that was missing was the postman, plumber, or vacuum cleaner sales man showing up in the classroom with his special delivery (wink…wink). Let me put this in context for you, it was 1979, and parents really didn’t give a crap back then. But enough of me blaming the lack of parental interest in education for my problems, let us see how the semester unravels, shall we?
Since the class had spent 2 weeks on the female reproductive system, the time had come for the male talk. “Oh joy of joys,” thought Molly. It was just like the anticipation on Christmas Eve when you knew deep down in your soul you were getting your very first bike. Molly quickly sat in her seat and took out her notebook and pencil. She was ecstatic. This is it. The age of enlightenment was before her. With a pencil firmly at the ready, Molly waited for the slide. The lights dimmed, and the slide appeared on the white screen.
There it was in all its glory; the holy grail of Sex Ed. The cross section of a penis appeared before her like a glowing angel of Mercy. Molly quickly glanced over to Sarah, the girl sitting next to her, with great wonder and smiled. Miss Verbeck started talking.
“This is the male genital region (She makes it sound like a part of Switzerland). As you can see, there is a penis (giggling started), and a scrotum (A totem? What? Wait.) which contains the testicles which produces sperm. The sperm is transported via the urethra (Transported? As in bus or truck?) to impregnate the female egg. Any questions?”
Molly thought for a moment. Now she knew that urine traveled down the urethra causing boys to pee. While looking at the diagram, Molly determined that urine used gravity and muscle control. This made sense because the bladder was above the penis. However, the testicles were below the penis. How in the world would the sperm be forced out of the testicles? Molly looked at the diagram one more time.
“Next, we will discuss venereal diseases.” And just like that, the slide was gone. 53 seconds. What? Are you kidding me? That’s it. 53 seconds? (That’s the amount of time it takes for George Bush to sound like an idiot. Oh wait, that’s 5 seconds. Never mind…) we get more information from the bathroom walls. Sarah whispered to Molly as she began to raise her hand, “So, how does the sperm get to the egg?”
“Girls! Pay attention,” screamed Miss Verbeck as she slammed her wooden pointer on the desk. The girls jumped in fear and sank in their seats. And at that moment, Molly’s formal education in sex was complete.
So the good news out of this complete and utter mess called an education is that Molly was able to learn a vagina was a female body part and neither the neck section of a turtleneck sweater nor a city in Romania.
As for how sperm is extracted from the testicles and impregnates the female egg? Here is my diatribe: When you are working as a covert operative for the US trying to infiltrate the Nazi’s during World War II, it is good to leave out the important bits of information so your side can, oh I don’t know, win the war and stop genocide! This is when I find it completely acceptable to use knowledge as a weapon. To get to the point, as if I ever really have a point, is that Sir Francis Bacon (whose mother was Anne Cooke Bacon, which just cracks me up) had a point that knowledge is power.
So we leave Molly in a puffy cloud of ignorant bliss to learn the rest of her sexual education from deciphering the scribbles on the bathroom stalls and from those cunning snipers of sexual warfare, teenage boys.
MythKeeper
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Mowing the Lawn
Monty Python’s Flying Circus Presents…
Neighbor: And now for something completely different: a man with three buttocks…
Mum, Dad: [from upstairs] We've done that!
Neighbor: Oh, all right. All right! A man with nine legs.
Off-Camera Voice: He ran away.
Neighbor: Oh… bloody hell! Er… a woman with a lawn mower…
The lawn mowing chore has to be the most annoying house maintenance job man has ever invented. Yes, even over cleaning gutters or kitchen floors. The latter being the worst task for me. I still think all kitchens should have stainless steel floors with drains in the middle of them, and a mandatory kitchen appliance would be an under the counter pressure washer. But I digress.
I have on rare occasion mowed a lawn. Growing up with a bunch of older brothers there was no reason for me to mow the lawn. Even if first string sibling was on the injured list, the second or third string lawn boy was waiting on the side line ready to prove that they had the right stuff. It was more like if you didn’t mow the lawn the way mother wanted it mowed, she would show you she had the right stuff which was either at the end of a ping pong paddle or her left shoe. And if you are wondering, no I didn’t grow up in the generation of “aren’t children precious, and please don’t stifle their individuality, children are people too” era of child rearing. The parents in my generation were under the firm believe that children were meant to be seen and not hear, and if mom didn’t see her kids all Saturday and Sunday because they were playing in the woods with some ax murdering psychopath, well that would have been just fine at least we were learning a skill.
“Oh boy, can we stay on topic?” moaned Brain.
So, I now have to mow the lawn. What’s the big deal? Well, dear readers sit back and relax as you observe from your front porch.
Issue Number 1: My front lawn is on a hill.
Issue Number 2: The middle of my front lawn is one of those lovely natural areas where the squirrels are happy to run and frolic about joyfully amongst trees and lots of shrubbery.
And now for something completely different…
Pet Shop Owner: Oh yes, the, ah, the Norwegian Blue... What's, ah... W-what's wrong with it? Mr. Praline: I'll tell you what's wrong with it, my lad. It's dead, that's what's wrong with it. Owner: No, no, 'e's ah... he's resting. Mr. Praline: Look, matey, I know a dead squirrel when I see one, and I'm looking at one right now. Owner: No no, h-he's not dead, he's, he's restin'! Mr. Praline: Restin'? Owner: Y-yeah, restin.' Remarkable squirrel, the Norwegian Blue, isn't it, eh? Beautiful fur! Mr. Praline: The fur don't enter into it. It's stone dead! Owner: Nononono, no, no! 'E's resting! Mr. Praline: All right then, if he's resting, I'll wake him up!
(shouting at the cage)
'Ello, Rocky! Mister Rocky Squirrel! I've got a lovely fresh pail of nuts for you if you wake up, Mr. Rocky Squirrel...
(owner hits the cage)
Owner: There, he moved! Mr. Praline: No, he didn't, that was you pushing the cage! Owner: I never!! Mr. Praline: Yes, you did! Owner: I never, never....
(He pulls the squirrel out of the cage and...)
Brain screams…”Put down the squirrel and no one gets hurt. Let the girl finish her insipid lawn mowing story.”
Issue Number 3. I have violets, clover, moss, vole holes, and 517 blades of rye grass which are clumped together in a pattern that resemble the country of Denmark.
Issue Number 4: I am the proud recipient of the water main pipe thingy (yes, 4 years of college and that is the only term I have for it) which sits 6 to 7 inches (that’s the imperial standard 6 inches not the men’s locker room six inches) out of the ground about a foot from the curb dead center in my yard. It is a lovely feature; I think I might place two rocks next to it and see how long it takes for someone to knock on my door.
Issue Number 5: My lawn mower is electric. Now before all you organic granola, tree hugging democrats get all orgasmic on me, please re-read the above 4 issues. Waiting…waiting… image coming…Yes, I know your rose colored glasses just shattered with a cold hearted slap from reality. Here’s a tissue, dab your eyes, and wipe the snot from your nose.
And finally…
Issue Number 6: The only electrical outlet is located on the back wall of my carport.
Each individual piece is rather delightful item to itself, but once combined; mowing my yard is like going to Disneyland with a broken leg and being tethered to a pole. It just not the pleasant experience I have seen on “Leave to Beaver” when Wally tried mowing lawn for the first time. So, what sadistic lawn mowing bastard decided an electric lawn trimming device was the best option for our lawn care services? Oh yes, it was Xhusband. Ug…
So the wild green plant life needs trimming. What is one to do? Well, I must drag the mower from the shed in the back yard through the dog poop and collapsing swing set, down the rock invested side yard littered with old kid yard toys (pretty much if I cannot see it, you shouldn’t be able to either) into the front yard. String three exterior extension cords together. Now this would appear to be a simple task. However, one has to twist the male and female plugs in a specific pattern to make sure they don’t pull apart. If you look in your sexual reference manual, page 53, the Pretzel position is how the cords end up looking. Refer the following verbal description:
Curling her right leg around your right side and straddling her left leg. Use your left hand...
“Stop,” yells Brain, “vomit impulse is coming in from the stomach…”
Where to start? Hum… left side near drive way. OK, seems as good as any. It is a thin strip of land; it would be a small accomplishment, and one that will build self-esteem with the new mowing skills I am about to acquire. Mowing down the property line, maybe. Make note to self to know precisely where the property line is. Nearing flower bed. Must make turn. But to where? Go straight back up from whiniest I came or just make a right hand turn? In my state of quandary, I just start mowing the lawn like one would vacuum a carpet. At this point a nagging feeling crept from my brain. “You look like an idiot; this isn’t a carpet. Remember what the Hubs told you?” I thought for a moment. It seems to me that some where during my 20 year marriage Xhusband made mention of mowing the lawn in a particular pattern. Yes, I am sure he mentioned it several times. Why didn’t I retain that information? Quite simple really, I saw no need for both of us to be experts in the same areas. So, I was happy to smile politely as he jabbered on about which mowing pattern was healthier for the grass. You might think it rude, but Xhusband did the same for me when I babbled on about the differences between using cleanser vs. soap scum removal liquids for the tub. So I searched my brain for any information at all on lawn patterns.
“What do you think I am a Google search engine?” Brain said to me rather rudely.
“Pretty much,” I replied back to myself.
In a mumbling voice, “Google search my ass…”
“What?”
“There are two entries. One stating that mowing needs to be done in some sort of grid pattern. The other entry states something about blade height. Here is the audio,” Brain stated
“Wow, you can do audio?” I replied as my X-husband’s voice started to replay in my head.
“During the summer months, the blade is to be approximately blah, blah, blah. Notice neighbor X has applied this rule and blah, blah, blah, blah. However, Neighbor Y did not abide by this rule and their lawn has died and has brown spots. Now here is the interesting thing about brown spots, [blank for 2 minutes]. “
“What’s up with the several minutes of dead air? Nixon playing with scissors again?”
“Nope from the looks of the data feed, you slipped into a short coma. Now if you had simply chosen to ignore him, which is where the blahs appear, I can run a dialog simulation routine against it. I would use the topic and various blah, blah. Hey, you cannot ignore a conversion from your own brain. This is [blank]” Brain said furiously to no one.
“What’s up with the several minutes of dead air?” I repeated
“I need to talk with my union representative, I need to reassigned. I hear Sarah Palin needs a brain…”
Little did I know that the lawn maintenance knowledge has been handed down from father to since 1919. From the dawn of time, men hung out in backyard sheds and made whiskey. It was not that men really liked making whiskey; they just needed a reason to get away from their wives. So once Prohibition was in place, the men all got together and decided that they needed another outdoor activity to keep them out of the house and away from chores and children. Thus, lawns were invented.
At this point, I head towards the green menagerie of vegetation near the curb I like to call a lawn. After surveying my options, I decide to run the lawn mower parallel to the curb. Seemed like a good plan until the mower stopped working. Crap. The plug must have come undone. I run up the hill to the carport and check the plug…looks good. I run down the hill and checked each attachment of the extension cord…everything’s fine. I get back to the mower and stare at it. “It’s a lawn mower; it cannot speak,” mocks brain.
“Good, that means the paranoid/ delusional meds I’m taking are working.”
“Not really, but check the plug that goes into the lawn mower.”
“Oh, look at that.”
The above action was repeated about 3 or 4 times. Each time a different plug in spot had come undone. Add in various cord trappings by bushes, trees, a water pipe, and a dog, and you have woman running around frantically in her yard wrestling with an extension cord. It has been about 30 minutes, and I am still not finished. Did I mention the size of my lawn? It is about 110 feet wide by 6 feet deep. So it should take anyone with a gas mower, what, 5 minutes? In the middle of my antics, my 80 year old neighbor who has a lawn which resembles a carpet came over to say hello. And it went something like this.
“Hello dear. It is lovely to see you as always.” He is such flirt.
“Hi, Howard.”
“I see you are mowing your lawn. Such a fine woman shouldn’t be mowing her own yard. Maybe we can find you a nice man to help you.” And with that, he literally looked up and down the street. Just then Eric Idle jumped out of the bushes wearing a garter belt, bra and panties and mows my lawn with a toy lawn mower that blows bubbles.
Neighbor: And now for something completely different: a man with three buttocks…
Mum, Dad: [from upstairs] We've done that!
Neighbor: Oh, all right. All right! A man with nine legs.
Off-Camera Voice: He ran away.
Neighbor: Oh… bloody hell! Er… a woman with a lawn mower…
The lawn mowing chore has to be the most annoying house maintenance job man has ever invented. Yes, even over cleaning gutters or kitchen floors. The latter being the worst task for me. I still think all kitchens should have stainless steel floors with drains in the middle of them, and a mandatory kitchen appliance would be an under the counter pressure washer. But I digress.
I have on rare occasion mowed a lawn. Growing up with a bunch of older brothers there was no reason for me to mow the lawn. Even if first string sibling was on the injured list, the second or third string lawn boy was waiting on the side line ready to prove that they had the right stuff. It was more like if you didn’t mow the lawn the way mother wanted it mowed, she would show you she had the right stuff which was either at the end of a ping pong paddle or her left shoe. And if you are wondering, no I didn’t grow up in the generation of “aren’t children precious, and please don’t stifle their individuality, children are people too” era of child rearing. The parents in my generation were under the firm believe that children were meant to be seen and not hear, and if mom didn’t see her kids all Saturday and Sunday because they were playing in the woods with some ax murdering psychopath, well that would have been just fine at least we were learning a skill.
“Oh boy, can we stay on topic?” moaned Brain.
So, I now have to mow the lawn. What’s the big deal? Well, dear readers sit back and relax as you observe from your front porch.
Issue Number 1: My front lawn is on a hill.
Issue Number 2: The middle of my front lawn is one of those lovely natural areas where the squirrels are happy to run and frolic about joyfully amongst trees and lots of shrubbery.
And now for something completely different…
Pet Shop Owner: Oh yes, the, ah, the Norwegian Blue... What's, ah... W-what's wrong with it? Mr. Praline: I'll tell you what's wrong with it, my lad. It's dead, that's what's wrong with it. Owner: No, no, 'e's ah... he's resting. Mr. Praline: Look, matey, I know a dead squirrel when I see one, and I'm looking at one right now. Owner: No no, h-he's not dead, he's, he's restin'! Mr. Praline: Restin'? Owner: Y-yeah, restin.' Remarkable squirrel, the Norwegian Blue, isn't it, eh? Beautiful fur! Mr. Praline: The fur don't enter into it. It's stone dead! Owner: Nononono, no, no! 'E's resting! Mr. Praline: All right then, if he's resting, I'll wake him up!
(shouting at the cage)
'Ello, Rocky! Mister Rocky Squirrel! I've got a lovely fresh pail of nuts for you if you wake up, Mr. Rocky Squirrel...
(owner hits the cage)
Owner: There, he moved! Mr. Praline: No, he didn't, that was you pushing the cage! Owner: I never!! Mr. Praline: Yes, you did! Owner: I never, never....
(He pulls the squirrel out of the cage and...)
Brain screams…”Put down the squirrel and no one gets hurt. Let the girl finish her insipid lawn mowing story.”
Issue Number 3. I have violets, clover, moss, vole holes, and 517 blades of rye grass which are clumped together in a pattern that resemble the country of Denmark.
Issue Number 4: I am the proud recipient of the water main pipe thingy (yes, 4 years of college and that is the only term I have for it) which sits 6 to 7 inches (that’s the imperial standard 6 inches not the men’s locker room six inches) out of the ground about a foot from the curb dead center in my yard. It is a lovely feature; I think I might place two rocks next to it and see how long it takes for someone to knock on my door.
Issue Number 5: My lawn mower is electric. Now before all you organic granola, tree hugging democrats get all orgasmic on me, please re-read the above 4 issues. Waiting…waiting… image coming…Yes, I know your rose colored glasses just shattered with a cold hearted slap from reality. Here’s a tissue, dab your eyes, and wipe the snot from your nose.
And finally…
Issue Number 6: The only electrical outlet is located on the back wall of my carport.
Each individual piece is rather delightful item to itself, but once combined; mowing my yard is like going to Disneyland with a broken leg and being tethered to a pole. It just not the pleasant experience I have seen on “Leave to Beaver” when Wally tried mowing lawn for the first time. So, what sadistic lawn mowing bastard decided an electric lawn trimming device was the best option for our lawn care services? Oh yes, it was Xhusband. Ug…
So the wild green plant life needs trimming. What is one to do? Well, I must drag the mower from the shed in the back yard through the dog poop and collapsing swing set, down the rock invested side yard littered with old kid yard toys (pretty much if I cannot see it, you shouldn’t be able to either) into the front yard. String three exterior extension cords together. Now this would appear to be a simple task. However, one has to twist the male and female plugs in a specific pattern to make sure they don’t pull apart. If you look in your sexual reference manual, page 53, the Pretzel position is how the cords end up looking. Refer the following verbal description:
Curling her right leg around your right side and straddling her left leg. Use your left hand...
“Stop,” yells Brain, “vomit impulse is coming in from the stomach…”
Where to start? Hum… left side near drive way. OK, seems as good as any. It is a thin strip of land; it would be a small accomplishment, and one that will build self-esteem with the new mowing skills I am about to acquire. Mowing down the property line, maybe. Make note to self to know precisely where the property line is. Nearing flower bed. Must make turn. But to where? Go straight back up from whiniest I came or just make a right hand turn? In my state of quandary, I just start mowing the lawn like one would vacuum a carpet. At this point a nagging feeling crept from my brain. “You look like an idiot; this isn’t a carpet. Remember what the Hubs told you?” I thought for a moment. It seems to me that some where during my 20 year marriage Xhusband made mention of mowing the lawn in a particular pattern. Yes, I am sure he mentioned it several times. Why didn’t I retain that information? Quite simple really, I saw no need for both of us to be experts in the same areas. So, I was happy to smile politely as he jabbered on about which mowing pattern was healthier for the grass. You might think it rude, but Xhusband did the same for me when I babbled on about the differences between using cleanser vs. soap scum removal liquids for the tub. So I searched my brain for any information at all on lawn patterns.
“What do you think I am a Google search engine?” Brain said to me rather rudely.
“Pretty much,” I replied back to myself.
In a mumbling voice, “Google search my ass…”
“What?”
“There are two entries. One stating that mowing needs to be done in some sort of grid pattern. The other entry states something about blade height. Here is the audio,” Brain stated
“Wow, you can do audio?” I replied as my X-husband’s voice started to replay in my head.
“During the summer months, the blade is to be approximately blah, blah, blah. Notice neighbor X has applied this rule and blah, blah, blah, blah. However, Neighbor Y did not abide by this rule and their lawn has died and has brown spots. Now here is the interesting thing about brown spots, [blank for 2 minutes]. “
“What’s up with the several minutes of dead air? Nixon playing with scissors again?”
“Nope from the looks of the data feed, you slipped into a short coma. Now if you had simply chosen to ignore him, which is where the blahs appear, I can run a dialog simulation routine against it. I would use the topic and various blah, blah. Hey, you cannot ignore a conversion from your own brain. This is [blank]” Brain said furiously to no one.
“What’s up with the several minutes of dead air?” I repeated
“I need to talk with my union representative, I need to reassigned. I hear Sarah Palin needs a brain…”
Little did I know that the lawn maintenance knowledge has been handed down from father to since 1919. From the dawn of time, men hung out in backyard sheds and made whiskey. It was not that men really liked making whiskey; they just needed a reason to get away from their wives. So once Prohibition was in place, the men all got together and decided that they needed another outdoor activity to keep them out of the house and away from chores and children. Thus, lawns were invented.
At this point, I head towards the green menagerie of vegetation near the curb I like to call a lawn. After surveying my options, I decide to run the lawn mower parallel to the curb. Seemed like a good plan until the mower stopped working. Crap. The plug must have come undone. I run up the hill to the carport and check the plug…looks good. I run down the hill and checked each attachment of the extension cord…everything’s fine. I get back to the mower and stare at it. “It’s a lawn mower; it cannot speak,” mocks brain.
“Good, that means the paranoid/ delusional meds I’m taking are working.”
“Not really, but check the plug that goes into the lawn mower.”
“Oh, look at that.”
The above action was repeated about 3 or 4 times. Each time a different plug in spot had come undone. Add in various cord trappings by bushes, trees, a water pipe, and a dog, and you have woman running around frantically in her yard wrestling with an extension cord. It has been about 30 minutes, and I am still not finished. Did I mention the size of my lawn? It is about 110 feet wide by 6 feet deep. So it should take anyone with a gas mower, what, 5 minutes? In the middle of my antics, my 80 year old neighbor who has a lawn which resembles a carpet came over to say hello. And it went something like this.
“Hello dear. It is lovely to see you as always.” He is such flirt.
“Hi, Howard.”
“I see you are mowing your lawn. Such a fine woman shouldn’t be mowing her own yard. Maybe we can find you a nice man to help you.” And with that, he literally looked up and down the street. Just then Eric Idle jumped out of the bushes wearing a garter belt, bra and panties and mows my lawn with a toy lawn mower that blows bubbles.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Guardian Angels and Bathroom Gods
There are moments in my life when I can feel that some seraph is watching over me. For instance, there was a time in college when I went to bed in a state of drunkenness. If my dad is reading this, it was the only time I got drunk in college, I swear! OK, I cannot pinky swear on it. Alright, maybe that time in the boys dorm. Do you work for the CIA or what? Never during a school night. Stop looking at me that way! OK, never on a Wednesday night because that’s when I always seemed to have a night class. Can we get back to me slumbering after over indulging on the libations? At some point in the middle of the night, I started to vomit. This is usually a good way to purge the toxic concoction brewing in my stomach, but I was lying on my back and started choking. This is where my angelic guidance councilor decided that it was best for me to puke on my roommate in the bunk bed below instead of dying and gave me enough sense to turn my head. This is good because, I know my brothers, and they would have had “Died like Mama Cass” written on my tombstone. Now my angel thinks his big favor for me is done and spends his time in playing poker; so he can be an extra in the next Ocean’s 11 movie.
Many people have a vision of what their guardian angel looks like. Maybe their angel is Clarence, the warm and gentle soul from “It’s a Wonderful Life” or the beautiful cherub looking Roma Downey in “Touched by an Angel”. Nope. Mine happens to look like Dwayne Schneider from “Once Day at a Time”. Life would be fabulous if it was Tom Selleck in a tool belt, but no, I get a greasy haired weasel in a denim vest and white t-shirt. Go figure.
Flash forward ten years…
My company was getting ready to broadcast the CEO’s end of the year speech. So, what they do is set up TVs in designated areas and broadcast out to us minions. This is a great “Big Brother” idea except that you have to get there early to get a seat. So, I did just that. Well, it is morning, and I had just finished my usual glass of milk and cup of hot tea with my breakfast. I knew I wouldn’t last an hour, so I quickly ran down a hall to where I thought I had seen a drinking fountain. Which for any one that works in an office building knows where there is a drinking fountain up against the wall there are toilets within a 15 feet radius.
I dash madly into the bathroom and darted into the nearest stall. Sweet Jesus, relief from a full bladder is like the sweet sirens from heaven have descended upon you and are singing quietly in your ear. You are calm, quiet and smiling as your once distended bladder regains its original shape and size and the pain slowly dissipates. It was during this calm bliss that I noticed something. A pair of black dress shoes walked past my stall. Not just any black dress shoes mind you, a pair of black wing tips in about size women’s 11. Now in the 1990’s, I was a big fan of wearing Doc Martins with dresses. If it was good enough for Demi Moore and Meg Ryan with their prissy tomboy look, it was good enough for me. I admired the shoes for a full 2 seconds, and then something occurred to me. These shoes didn’t come with skinny clean shaven legs; they came with dress socks and professionally tailored dress slacks in a dark navy with a very light pin strip. OK, that is taking the tomboy look a little too far for me, but to each their own. If you want to be a woman and dress like Donald Trump; who am I to question your fashion sense. Just be warned, you will have your face blurred out in the Glamour magazines “Fashion Does and Don’ts” section. Fascinated with this new fashion trend, I literally watched the wing tips not walk into the stall next to me but stroll up to the far wall, and then the unspeakable happened the owner of these fine dress shoes began urinating.
At that moment, panic began to slowly seep into my body. I was ready to live my life out from within the bathroom stall and re-enact Howard Hughes last years at the Desert Inn in Las Vegas. As the wing tips finished their business and walked back across the floor towards me, I followed the foot steps with my eyes. The dress shoes paused for a moment as the owner pulled open the main bathroom door. I was a stall door away from being busted when I noticed something. I looked down at my shoes and was for the first time horrified by what I saw. These were fabulous red patent leather loafers with these cute tassels on them which I wore with a khaki skirt and a red blouse. I glanced back and forth between my adorable red flats and the large black dress shoes which stood before me. Slowly, I lifted my feet off the ground and began to re-enact the bathroom scene from “Witness” with that boy with those ginormous ears. The wing tips quietly proceeded out of the bathroom. In the middle of this act of desperation, I realized that I was doing a crouching tiger stance by placing my feet up to the toilet seat and hugging my legs. I was so horrified by my predicament, I couldn’t even finish going to the bathroom.
This is one of those moments in your life when you pray to God. And being a really bad Catholic, I gave God about 5 seconds. Nothing! Quietly, I whispered “Schneider?” Noda! Panic set in, and I started praying to any god or goddess that would listen. Zeus, Hades (I’m not picky when I am in a bind.), or any other god who had stepped foot on Mount Olympus. Zero from the incestuous deity crowd. So, I quickly jumped from Christianity, through Paganism, right to Druidism. I started praying to the bathroom stall god (It’s one of those lesser known gods.), so I decided to move up the food chain, as it where, to the bathroom door god. Then like a republican in a closet at the Watergate hotel, I quietly listened to hear if any more men’s shoes had entered. None. Any hallway noises to indicate movement towards the bathroom door? Silence. While still remaining crouched on the toilet, I slowly opened the stall door. Then like a gazelle, I sprung off of the toilet, out of the stall and opened the door to the hallway. I quickly looked both ways down the corridor, no one in sight, and sprinted down the hall like I was a Frenchman during the Nazi invasion. When I got to the end of the hallway, I turned to see if anyone had seen me. Schneider was shooting dice up against the wall with Roma Downey. He gave me the thumbs up.
Many people have a vision of what their guardian angel looks like. Maybe their angel is Clarence, the warm and gentle soul from “It’s a Wonderful Life” or the beautiful cherub looking Roma Downey in “Touched by an Angel”. Nope. Mine happens to look like Dwayne Schneider from “Once Day at a Time”. Life would be fabulous if it was Tom Selleck in a tool belt, but no, I get a greasy haired weasel in a denim vest and white t-shirt. Go figure.
Flash forward ten years…
My company was getting ready to broadcast the CEO’s end of the year speech. So, what they do is set up TVs in designated areas and broadcast out to us minions. This is a great “Big Brother” idea except that you have to get there early to get a seat. So, I did just that. Well, it is morning, and I had just finished my usual glass of milk and cup of hot tea with my breakfast. I knew I wouldn’t last an hour, so I quickly ran down a hall to where I thought I had seen a drinking fountain. Which for any one that works in an office building knows where there is a drinking fountain up against the wall there are toilets within a 15 feet radius.
I dash madly into the bathroom and darted into the nearest stall. Sweet Jesus, relief from a full bladder is like the sweet sirens from heaven have descended upon you and are singing quietly in your ear. You are calm, quiet and smiling as your once distended bladder regains its original shape and size and the pain slowly dissipates. It was during this calm bliss that I noticed something. A pair of black dress shoes walked past my stall. Not just any black dress shoes mind you, a pair of black wing tips in about size women’s 11. Now in the 1990’s, I was a big fan of wearing Doc Martins with dresses. If it was good enough for Demi Moore and Meg Ryan with their prissy tomboy look, it was good enough for me. I admired the shoes for a full 2 seconds, and then something occurred to me. These shoes didn’t come with skinny clean shaven legs; they came with dress socks and professionally tailored dress slacks in a dark navy with a very light pin strip. OK, that is taking the tomboy look a little too far for me, but to each their own. If you want to be a woman and dress like Donald Trump; who am I to question your fashion sense. Just be warned, you will have your face blurred out in the Glamour magazines “Fashion Does and Don’ts” section. Fascinated with this new fashion trend, I literally watched the wing tips not walk into the stall next to me but stroll up to the far wall, and then the unspeakable happened the owner of these fine dress shoes began urinating.
At that moment, panic began to slowly seep into my body. I was ready to live my life out from within the bathroom stall and re-enact Howard Hughes last years at the Desert Inn in Las Vegas. As the wing tips finished their business and walked back across the floor towards me, I followed the foot steps with my eyes. The dress shoes paused for a moment as the owner pulled open the main bathroom door. I was a stall door away from being busted when I noticed something. I looked down at my shoes and was for the first time horrified by what I saw. These were fabulous red patent leather loafers with these cute tassels on them which I wore with a khaki skirt and a red blouse. I glanced back and forth between my adorable red flats and the large black dress shoes which stood before me. Slowly, I lifted my feet off the ground and began to re-enact the bathroom scene from “Witness” with that boy with those ginormous ears. The wing tips quietly proceeded out of the bathroom. In the middle of this act of desperation, I realized that I was doing a crouching tiger stance by placing my feet up to the toilet seat and hugging my legs. I was so horrified by my predicament, I couldn’t even finish going to the bathroom.
This is one of those moments in your life when you pray to God. And being a really bad Catholic, I gave God about 5 seconds. Nothing! Quietly, I whispered “Schneider?” Noda! Panic set in, and I started praying to any god or goddess that would listen. Zeus, Hades (I’m not picky when I am in a bind.), or any other god who had stepped foot on Mount Olympus. Zero from the incestuous deity crowd. So, I quickly jumped from Christianity, through Paganism, right to Druidism. I started praying to the bathroom stall god (It’s one of those lesser known gods.), so I decided to move up the food chain, as it where, to the bathroom door god. Then like a republican in a closet at the Watergate hotel, I quietly listened to hear if any more men’s shoes had entered. None. Any hallway noises to indicate movement towards the bathroom door? Silence. While still remaining crouched on the toilet, I slowly opened the stall door. Then like a gazelle, I sprung off of the toilet, out of the stall and opened the door to the hallway. I quickly looked both ways down the corridor, no one in sight, and sprinted down the hall like I was a Frenchman during the Nazi invasion. When I got to the end of the hallway, I turned to see if anyone had seen me. Schneider was shooting dice up against the wall with Roma Downey. He gave me the thumbs up.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Email to Xhusband's Girlfriend
This is a recent email I sent Xhusband to give to his girlfriend for when she goes visiting with X to his mother’s house. Of course, names have been changed to protect the innocent, and I embellished to make it more interesting. But I really did send a similar email…background info…It’s my Xmother-in-law’s birthday, and we are going down to throw her a birthday party.
Yes, I know your question. If you are the Xdaughter-in-law, why in the hell are you going to the “Monster-in-law’s” birthday party? Well, you see it goes something like this. My child wants nothing to do with their father or grandmother. But out of family obligation and general nagging on my part, the child will go visit with the grandmother once in a while and only if I go along. Why? Because I protect the child from the grandmother’s verbal flatulence.
Email starts now…
Tell Wendy, the Xhusband’s girlfriend, if she comes; I'll teach her survival skills on dealing with your mother, Margaret.
Things never to do...
1. Load the dishwasher. No one ever does it properly, even her own children that she trained to load the dishwasher, so don’t even bother.
2. Take the opposite side in politics. Not unless you really like to debate issues or just want to hear her explain how stupid you are (politely, of course).
3. Throw away food even if it has green mold on it.
a. Expiration dates are for the weak minded. No one is going to tell Margaret when her food has gone bad.
b. You are throwing money away when you throw food away. What the hell are you thinking!
4. Cook food using her pots and pans. Always bring a pre-made dish that can be thrown in the oven or just go out to dinner. No mess in the kitchen makes for a happy Margaret.
5. Never bring anything with coconut or even eat it in front of her. Her late husband and her son love it, but too bad. Get it at someone else's house.
6. If you bake or cook, don't make it fancy. She doesn't appreciate it, and you have just wasted money and given her an excuse to complain. Just remember, Swanson makes it so you don’t have to!
7. When buying gifts, just stick to gift certificates. She will be happy which in turn makes you happy. Unless of course you plan on buying her something that is very expensive. This also comes with a hook. It has to be what she deems is expensive. For example, the crystal Waterford clock Xhusband bought her for her birthday a few years back. It sits on the mantel to be shown off to friends. Buying her expensive soap, hand creams, chocolates, coffee is not a good idea; she places no importance on fine milled lavender soap imported from France. In her mind, Dove is a good soap, so why would you want to spend over a dollar for a bar of soap just to get clean.
Here are some basic rules for Wendy to follow...
Rule 1. Bring stuff to do. If she knits, reads, scrapbooks, sharpens knives or makes shrunken heads, tell her to bring a travel bag of her hobby. She may not need it, but just in case, she can pull it out and use it to not listen to Margaret, but still be polite and be in the same room.
Rule 2. Drink lots of water, so Wendy will have to get up and go to the bathroom frequently. If she doesn’t have to go to the bathroom, just use it as an excuse to take a break. While I am in the bathroom, I usually sing a happy song in my head, (That annoying song “Walkin’ on Sunshine” usually does the trick.) and I just generally remind myself that I am a good person, and Monster is the nutter. If this doesn’t work, I bang my head on the marble countertop until there is internal bleeding.
Rule 3. Practice meditation while Margaret is mindlessly talking about a recent story she read in her local paper. Pick a happy place in one’s mind and just go there. All the while nodding one’s head and saying things like "I agree, oh really, that's interesting". This is where I walk on the beach, go to Paris, design a garden, or stand in that pit in the basement of the “Silence of the Lambs” movie. It drones out Mother-in-law’s voice, and all Wendy will hear is 'blah, blah, blah..."
Rule 4-10. "On the Job Training" is needed depending on what is happening at the moment. (eating dinner, shopping, helping her around the house, driving, etc) Just have the general understanding that you are a mindless idiot. If you adopt this attitude, things will run smoothly and no one will get hurt.
The Last Resort Rule. Claim to have a headache and go take a nap. While in the guest room, Wendy will have to put the alarm clock from 1958 (I’m not kidding.) in the dresser drawer to help block out the constant buzzing noise from the clock. I usually line the drawer with the 5 year old magazines to make it more sound proof. As for the grandfather clock which chimes every fifteen minutes, it usually drives me insane. But if you are using the Last Resort Rule, you have already been driven to insanity by the mother-in-law, and at this point, the constant ringing of the chimes is a welcome relief where the pain of it all reminds you that you are still alive. This thought may or may not be a comfort. It depends on how many hours you have left in the mother-in-law’s house.
Regards,
Xwife
Yes, I know your question. If you are the Xdaughter-in-law, why in the hell are you going to the “Monster-in-law’s” birthday party? Well, you see it goes something like this. My child wants nothing to do with their father or grandmother. But out of family obligation and general nagging on my part, the child will go visit with the grandmother once in a while and only if I go along. Why? Because I protect the child from the grandmother’s verbal flatulence.
Email starts now…
Tell Wendy, the Xhusband’s girlfriend, if she comes; I'll teach her survival skills on dealing with your mother, Margaret.
Things never to do...
1. Load the dishwasher. No one ever does it properly, even her own children that she trained to load the dishwasher, so don’t even bother.
2. Take the opposite side in politics. Not unless you really like to debate issues or just want to hear her explain how stupid you are (politely, of course).
3. Throw away food even if it has green mold on it.
a. Expiration dates are for the weak minded. No one is going to tell Margaret when her food has gone bad.
b. You are throwing money away when you throw food away. What the hell are you thinking!
4. Cook food using her pots and pans. Always bring a pre-made dish that can be thrown in the oven or just go out to dinner. No mess in the kitchen makes for a happy Margaret.
5. Never bring anything with coconut or even eat it in front of her. Her late husband and her son love it, but too bad. Get it at someone else's house.
6. If you bake or cook, don't make it fancy. She doesn't appreciate it, and you have just wasted money and given her an excuse to complain. Just remember, Swanson makes it so you don’t have to!
7. When buying gifts, just stick to gift certificates. She will be happy which in turn makes you happy. Unless of course you plan on buying her something that is very expensive. This also comes with a hook. It has to be what she deems is expensive. For example, the crystal Waterford clock Xhusband bought her for her birthday a few years back. It sits on the mantel to be shown off to friends. Buying her expensive soap, hand creams, chocolates, coffee is not a good idea; she places no importance on fine milled lavender soap imported from France. In her mind, Dove is a good soap, so why would you want to spend over a dollar for a bar of soap just to get clean.
Here are some basic rules for Wendy to follow...
Rule 1. Bring stuff to do. If she knits, reads, scrapbooks, sharpens knives or makes shrunken heads, tell her to bring a travel bag of her hobby. She may not need it, but just in case, she can pull it out and use it to not listen to Margaret, but still be polite and be in the same room.
Rule 2. Drink lots of water, so Wendy will have to get up and go to the bathroom frequently. If she doesn’t have to go to the bathroom, just use it as an excuse to take a break. While I am in the bathroom, I usually sing a happy song in my head, (That annoying song “Walkin’ on Sunshine” usually does the trick.) and I just generally remind myself that I am a good person, and Monster is the nutter. If this doesn’t work, I bang my head on the marble countertop until there is internal bleeding.
Rule 3. Practice meditation while Margaret is mindlessly talking about a recent story she read in her local paper. Pick a happy place in one’s mind and just go there. All the while nodding one’s head and saying things like "I agree, oh really, that's interesting". This is where I walk on the beach, go to Paris, design a garden, or stand in that pit in the basement of the “Silence of the Lambs” movie. It drones out Mother-in-law’s voice, and all Wendy will hear is 'blah, blah, blah..."
Rule 4-10. "On the Job Training" is needed depending on what is happening at the moment. (eating dinner, shopping, helping her around the house, driving, etc) Just have the general understanding that you are a mindless idiot. If you adopt this attitude, things will run smoothly and no one will get hurt.
The Last Resort Rule. Claim to have a headache and go take a nap. While in the guest room, Wendy will have to put the alarm clock from 1958 (I’m not kidding.) in the dresser drawer to help block out the constant buzzing noise from the clock. I usually line the drawer with the 5 year old magazines to make it more sound proof. As for the grandfather clock which chimes every fifteen minutes, it usually drives me insane. But if you are using the Last Resort Rule, you have already been driven to insanity by the mother-in-law, and at this point, the constant ringing of the chimes is a welcome relief where the pain of it all reminds you that you are still alive. This thought may or may not be a comfort. It depends on how many hours you have left in the mother-in-law’s house.
Regards,
Xwife
Monday, June 8, 2009
2 Hour Meeting
A 2 hour meeting is starting in about 10 minutes. I treat this meeting as I would an 8 hour road trip. I plan out what snacks and drinks I will need for this assembly of the grey matter. But 2 hours is a really long time for someone who is mildly ADHD. So, I must determine refreshments, activities, and maybe work in a bio-break if needed. All of this is necessary to get me though the meeting without my head slamming on the table from being driven into a coma induced by technical jargon and just general boredom.
Now that I have secured all the necessities, here are several things that I do to keep myself occupied during the snore fest so I don’t go running about the room causing trouble like a 4 year kid at an adult wine and cheese party.
Mental games:
- Determine the number of calories in a peanut butter cookie if I only ate the crunchy outside and not the soft inside.
- Calculate the last time I had sex without staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out when the dog needs her next flea pill. OK. That’s no fun…Make it into an algebra equation where X=last time had I sex in a phone booth. Factor in a location like downtown London; they have cooler phone booths. Then divide by environmental factors such as during a rain storm while not drinking hard liquor. “Oh, that only happens in those trashy romance novels that you read,” says Brain. “It’s a 2 hour meeting, and it’s my fantasy. Get out of my head.” I shout. “Sorry, I am your head. If I leave, you will start to resemble that wilting head of lettuce that has been hanging out in the vegetable crisper for two weeks.”
Time check: 1 hour and 55 minutes to go.
- Can I calculate in miles per hour how fast hair grows? My brain is rolling around my skull laughing hysterically. “Jerk.” I think to myself.
- When was the last time I flossed my teeth? “Oh geez, you should go back to the hair growth question.” Brain manages to say between burst of laughter.
Random Thoughts:
- Tom really needs a hair cut; he looks like Bozo the clown gone mad.
- How does the ink in a pen not spill out?
- This Chamomile tea is good.
Time check: 1 hour 45 minutes to go.
- Can I fire my Brain for bad management? “I heard that!” says Brain in a very pissy tone.
- Does Jarrod really get invited to every meeting? Or does he just wonder from meeting to meeting?
- Will I get to see Dateman soon? “Hey, stop smiling so much. The meeting people will think you’re not paying attention,” orders Brain. “No way, this is a much better thought then the architectural redesign of a database. Hummm.” “Oh for God sakes, snap out of it.” “You’re a prude,” I protest loudly to Brain.
- The meeting leader says the phrase ‘slice and dice the data’ and I think, “Oh, a salad would be good for dinner.” Brain sneers “Once again, you have miss the point of the conversation.”
- Is it hot in here? Oh no, here comes a falling sleep head bobble.
- Time for a Kegle exercise. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
- How come Lori can never complete a sentence, but at the end of each incomplete thought she says, “You know what I mean?” Brain screams at Lori, “No, I don’t know what you mean. You didn’t finish the sentence! You bubble-headed twit, but I do like her blouse. That is a great shade of periwinkle.”
- Can I subtly scratch my nose so people won’t think I am picking my nose?
Time check: 1 hour 35 minutes to go.
- “Humm, Dateman…Crap! Did you just dope slap the inside of my head?” “Pay attention this is important,” demands Brain. “Meeting Leader is going to repeat himself at least three times, besides I like my topic better.” “You cannot think about such things at work,” says Brain in disgust. “Oh yes I can, and when did you become a Puritan anyway?” I state firmly to myself.
- What will my next Facebook entry be?
- Jack is eating a Snickers bar. Yum, maybe I’ll have spaghetti for dinner. “What? How did you get from candy to Italian food?” “Well, nougat reminds me of.” “Please don’t,” pleads Brain, “I was there the first time and that entire process makes me nauseous. I think the right brain synapses are playing practical jokes again.”
- Just who buys Cynthia’s clothing? She must raid the closets of the old folk’s home and then have her 3 year old kid dress her. What the hell is on that sweater? Are those sea shells with different happy faces on them? And what is up with her hair? She looks like a cocker spaniel who licked an electrical outlet.
- BBQ Fritos would taste really good right now.
Time check: 1 hour 15 minutes to go. “Looking good…”
- Maybe my migraines are really being caused by a brain tumor? Make note to self to ask doctor. “That’s a stupid note to self. I’m not logging it,” says Brain. “Stop giving me migraines,” I yell back at Brain. “You see, I cannot work under these conditions. You are so snippy to me during these meetings.”“Am I PMS’ing?” “You cannot image the pressure I am under to run an entire body. You never say thank you or appreciate anything I do.” “It’s an emergency. I need chocolate!”
- I wonder if I can make it to the French Bakery during lunch?
- When is the new Harry Potter movie coming out? “I told you mid-July. You cannot remember anything,” says Brain snappishly. “Well, if you would stop the random thoughts,” I bark. “Oh, it’s entirely my fault, now is it? When are you going to be the grown-up.” “Bio-break.” I whisper to the person next to me and quickly walk out of the room before I have a break down on myself.
Information I took away from the meeting:
The meeting leader is demonstrating how he architected his project. And from his point of view, it is really good. Apparently, I should do the same thing. Because rumor has it my project is floundering and is about to crash and burn. So of course, he is so fabulous and has come to rescue me from myself. “You see what I am saying to you,” he says to me. I love this statement…that is when brain shouts…”Yes, I am not a freaking idiot.” But out of my mouth falls the words…”Oh absolutely, what a good idea.” Brain says…”You are such an ass kisser.” “No I am not, I just want him to shut up and stop repeating himself.”
Time check: 1 hour to go. “You can do it.”
General Meeting Etiquette:
- If you bring food, it has to be non-crunchy food.
- How to look like you are taking notes, but you are really writing your next blog entry.
- Always get a seat with quick convenient access to the door, so you can take a bio-break without walking in front of the projector.
- Don’t read a text message and then laugh out loud. Big Bossman will give you one of those “Do you want a pink slip?” looks.
Time check: 45 more minutes….”Pay attention. I can do this, right?” I chant to myself.
“OfficeGirl, you see what I am saying to you,” asks Meeting Leader. “Yes, I like new approach. The improvement to the process will stream line the output to be much more efficient for the end users.” I state as if I had a clue. I hear screaming in my head; it is Brain. Must get more chocolate to calm her down.
Now that I have secured all the necessities, here are several things that I do to keep myself occupied during the snore fest so I don’t go running about the room causing trouble like a 4 year kid at an adult wine and cheese party.
Mental games:
- Determine the number of calories in a peanut butter cookie if I only ate the crunchy outside and not the soft inside.
- Calculate the last time I had sex without staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out when the dog needs her next flea pill. OK. That’s no fun…Make it into an algebra equation where X=last time had I sex in a phone booth. Factor in a location like downtown London; they have cooler phone booths. Then divide by environmental factors such as during a rain storm while not drinking hard liquor. “Oh, that only happens in those trashy romance novels that you read,” says Brain. “It’s a 2 hour meeting, and it’s my fantasy. Get out of my head.” I shout. “Sorry, I am your head. If I leave, you will start to resemble that wilting head of lettuce that has been hanging out in the vegetable crisper for two weeks.”
Time check: 1 hour and 55 minutes to go.
- Can I calculate in miles per hour how fast hair grows? My brain is rolling around my skull laughing hysterically. “Jerk.” I think to myself.
- When was the last time I flossed my teeth? “Oh geez, you should go back to the hair growth question.” Brain manages to say between burst of laughter.
Random Thoughts:
- Tom really needs a hair cut; he looks like Bozo the clown gone mad.
- How does the ink in a pen not spill out?
- This Chamomile tea is good.
Time check: 1 hour 45 minutes to go.
- Can I fire my Brain for bad management? “I heard that!” says Brain in a very pissy tone.
- Does Jarrod really get invited to every meeting? Or does he just wonder from meeting to meeting?
- Will I get to see Dateman soon? “Hey, stop smiling so much. The meeting people will think you’re not paying attention,” orders Brain. “No way, this is a much better thought then the architectural redesign of a database. Hummm.” “Oh for God sakes, snap out of it.” “You’re a prude,” I protest loudly to Brain.
- The meeting leader says the phrase ‘slice and dice the data’ and I think, “Oh, a salad would be good for dinner.” Brain sneers “Once again, you have miss the point of the conversation.”
- Is it hot in here? Oh no, here comes a falling sleep head bobble.
- Time for a Kegle exercise. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
- How come Lori can never complete a sentence, but at the end of each incomplete thought she says, “You know what I mean?” Brain screams at Lori, “No, I don’t know what you mean. You didn’t finish the sentence! You bubble-headed twit, but I do like her blouse. That is a great shade of periwinkle.”
- Can I subtly scratch my nose so people won’t think I am picking my nose?
Time check: 1 hour 35 minutes to go.
- “Humm, Dateman…Crap! Did you just dope slap the inside of my head?” “Pay attention this is important,” demands Brain. “Meeting Leader is going to repeat himself at least three times, besides I like my topic better.” “You cannot think about such things at work,” says Brain in disgust. “Oh yes I can, and when did you become a Puritan anyway?” I state firmly to myself.
- What will my next Facebook entry be?
- Jack is eating a Snickers bar. Yum, maybe I’ll have spaghetti for dinner. “What? How did you get from candy to Italian food?” “Well, nougat reminds me of.” “Please don’t,” pleads Brain, “I was there the first time and that entire process makes me nauseous. I think the right brain synapses are playing practical jokes again.”
- Just who buys Cynthia’s clothing? She must raid the closets of the old folk’s home and then have her 3 year old kid dress her. What the hell is on that sweater? Are those sea shells with different happy faces on them? And what is up with her hair? She looks like a cocker spaniel who licked an electrical outlet.
- BBQ Fritos would taste really good right now.
Time check: 1 hour 15 minutes to go. “Looking good…”
- Maybe my migraines are really being caused by a brain tumor? Make note to self to ask doctor. “That’s a stupid note to self. I’m not logging it,” says Brain. “Stop giving me migraines,” I yell back at Brain. “You see, I cannot work under these conditions. You are so snippy to me during these meetings.”“Am I PMS’ing?” “You cannot image the pressure I am under to run an entire body. You never say thank you or appreciate anything I do.” “It’s an emergency. I need chocolate!”
- I wonder if I can make it to the French Bakery during lunch?
- When is the new Harry Potter movie coming out? “I told you mid-July. You cannot remember anything,” says Brain snappishly. “Well, if you would stop the random thoughts,” I bark. “Oh, it’s entirely my fault, now is it? When are you going to be the grown-up.” “Bio-break.” I whisper to the person next to me and quickly walk out of the room before I have a break down on myself.
Information I took away from the meeting:
The meeting leader is demonstrating how he architected his project. And from his point of view, it is really good. Apparently, I should do the same thing. Because rumor has it my project is floundering and is about to crash and burn. So of course, he is so fabulous and has come to rescue me from myself. “You see what I am saying to you,” he says to me. I love this statement…that is when brain shouts…”Yes, I am not a freaking idiot.” But out of my mouth falls the words…”Oh absolutely, what a good idea.” Brain says…”You are such an ass kisser.” “No I am not, I just want him to shut up and stop repeating himself.”
Time check: 1 hour to go. “You can do it.”
General Meeting Etiquette:
- If you bring food, it has to be non-crunchy food.
- How to look like you are taking notes, but you are really writing your next blog entry.
- Always get a seat with quick convenient access to the door, so you can take a bio-break without walking in front of the projector.
- Don’t read a text message and then laugh out loud. Big Bossman will give you one of those “Do you want a pink slip?” looks.
Time check: 45 more minutes….”Pay attention. I can do this, right?” I chant to myself.
“OfficeGirl, you see what I am saying to you,” asks Meeting Leader. “Yes, I like new approach. The improvement to the process will stream line the output to be much more efficient for the end users.” I state as if I had a clue. I hear screaming in my head; it is Brain. Must get more chocolate to calm her down.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Dress Shopping
Dress shopping has pretty much driven me into a deep state of depression. Medication may be needed by the time a dress is purchased. I am hoping for massive quantities of Thorazine where I can sit and drool while staring at the paint on the walls after this shopping event is complete. The dress is for an important date. Dateman is going to take me out for my birthday; there will be dinner and dancing. And yes, that is ballroom dancing, like the Foxtrot or the Waltz. [Small pause while my family and close friends collect themselves from falling on the ground with laughter at the thought of me doing a proper dance.] The story goes like this. I took ballet and tap dancing lessons as a child for one year. My mother and grandmother agreed I needed to gain some pose in my step. You see when I walked through a doorway; I would enviably run into the doorframe. Being graceful is not within my DNA pattern. I was a tall, thin, gangly girl growing up who was given about as much grace as Chevy Chase during a SNL skit. Therefore, I took to ballet like Vikings took to table manners. When it came time for the next year’s registration, the dance instructor kindly told my mother my talents were not in dance, and maybe I should take up an instrument where I would do less damage. You see, it is not good to do a pirouette and wipe out two or three other dancers in the process.
Mr. Date is fully aware of Dategirl’s lack of dancing skills from a previous date and has agreed to take her dancing for her birthday anyway. At this point, we might start to question Dateman’s judgment. Either, he is the sweetest man alive or a reincarnation of the Marquis De Sade. A firm rule has been decreed. Mr. Date leads without exception unless of course we find ourselves in a drunken stooper at a Stone Temple Pilot concert where we are standing two feet away from a mosh pit, and then he is quite happy to let me lead. I suppose it is a good rule. However, I do like to break it from time to time. Especially, when we are on a dance floor near tables or walls, I find it very hard to believe that he is not going to ram me into the waiter’s drink station to try and cripple me. This is usually where I come to a complete stop or try to quickly run in another direction. Thus, causing the following actions:
Leg tangling
Knee to the groin
Accidental head butting
All of which he frowns upon while dancing. The most amazing part of him teaching me to dance is that he doesn’t mind when I step on his feet. Probably, it is less painful then a trip to the hospital from a concussion caused by one of my Circus O’lay panic attacks. Maybe, I should be taking Paxil to ease my anxiety over dancing. Sidebar: Dateman has stated that I never need to worry about fulfilling “The girl with a stripper pole” fantasy for him. We discussed it, and I told him I would be happy to do it. However, I would have to wear a helmet and shin guards. Let’s visualize shall we? Humm… It doesn’t matter how sexy the bra and panties are when you are wearing a Hello Kitty bicycle helmet and an inflatable donut strapped on as a butt guard. The man has a good point.
So let us get back to what to wear? Let’s go shopping; Macy’s is always having a sale.
“Come On Down! Dategirl, you're the next contestant on The Price Is Right! What garment options are behind door number one? Johnny?”
The Hippy dresses: electric blue, orange and green splotches of color all on same dress. Bob, there is no cut to the dress, and it is as limp as a gay man’s handshake at a Rambo convention. Oh and just for fun, there is a 10 inch bright yellow daisy right were the crotch might be. It is perfect for the desperate over 40 divorcee.
The ‘Leave it to Beaver’ mom dress: this dress is sleeveless with a scoop neck and a form fitting bodice with a cute matching mini cardigan. Then at the waist, the dress flares out to a 95 degree angle from the torso making Dategirl look like a cross between June Cleaver and an ax murdering a ballet dancer.
“Those sound nice, Johnny. What else do we have for our reluctant cougar?”
The Prostitutes for God dress: these dresses are more confused then a transvestite at a paraphernalia sale at an adult book store. This dress could be worn by a nun where the length of the dress comes down to about a ¼ inch from the peri-menopausal swollen ankles only to show off a nice cluster of varicose veins. Cross that with a street walker where the top of the dress barely has enough material to cover one deflated, sagging boob let alone two of them. And forget about the arms, Bob, those flabby pieces of flesh are just out flapping in the wind for all to see.
The Multiple Personality dress: The tag on this dress states it can be worn as a dress or a skirt. Humm… Let’s see. It is brown broomstick skirt with a string attached at the top front. This is the ‘Please stay up as a dress’ device. So it can be warn as a really long skirt or a really short dress where both options make our ‘hopelessly 40” look like she is wearing a brown paper bag with rubber bands attached at the top to secure the garment.
Time is ticking and girl you need a dress. What are you going to do?
In a crazed frenzy, I began looking in every department in the store. In the suit section, I was hoping to maybe wear a sexy blouse with an A-framed skirt going for the sultry sophisticated look. All I found were lots of spinster Fema-natzi suits that seemed to scream, “This vagina is closed.” So in an act of desperation, I wondered around the lingerie department hoping to find a really pretty dress slip to wear because it covered more of me than the dresses I saw earlier. Apparently, this Macy’s has the corner market on Granny Panties to go with the Barbara Bush suit collection. I’ll keep that in mind if I decide to become Amish!
As luck would have it, Macy’s has a boutique line of really expensive clothing hidden in a back corner. The dresses were perfect: sexy not trampy and smart not frumpy. The actual retail price is...$128.00 F*$%&$! Crushed, I put the dress back on the rack. I started to walk out of the department store defeated. I had been in every department store in the mall and every side store except the Deb shop. It should be illegal for anyone over the age of 19 to make purchases in that store. Anyway…When out of the corner of my eye, I saw a very small rack that had a Sale sign above it. Yes I know. I have shopped enough at Talbots and J.Jills to know that the clothing on sale rack is still more than I can afford. Oh, look a t-shirt is on sale for $34.99. Could some body just shoot me? So, I flipped through the clothing in a mindless daze. And there it was. An Empire waist, scoop neck, cute short sleeve dress that when I held it up, it came to my knee. Perfect. It was in a big eggplant and black paisley print. My colors, yes! I go and try it on. I have to have this dress. Suddenly, Bob Barker comes out of nowhere and says “The actually retail price is…$38.99 sold to our first contestant in the rose print granny panties, a desperate housewife from North Carolina. Johnny, can you tell her what she has won?”
“Well, Bob, the empire waist lengthens her legs giving her a lean appearance. As an added bonus, the empire waist combined with the neckline makes her boobs look larger and perkier than they have looked BBF (Before Beast Feeding).” Dategirl screams uncontrollably while jumping up and down in the dressing room when looking down at her shoes, a pair of Clark mules; who are so tired, they can only manage a squeaky murmur for help. Dategirl sits on the floor, stares at her shoes/dog chew toy and quietly pops a Paxil. “All right shoe shopping, here I come with my two different sized feet!”
Mr. Date is fully aware of Dategirl’s lack of dancing skills from a previous date and has agreed to take her dancing for her birthday anyway. At this point, we might start to question Dateman’s judgment. Either, he is the sweetest man alive or a reincarnation of the Marquis De Sade. A firm rule has been decreed. Mr. Date leads without exception unless of course we find ourselves in a drunken stooper at a Stone Temple Pilot concert where we are standing two feet away from a mosh pit, and then he is quite happy to let me lead. I suppose it is a good rule. However, I do like to break it from time to time. Especially, when we are on a dance floor near tables or walls, I find it very hard to believe that he is not going to ram me into the waiter’s drink station to try and cripple me. This is usually where I come to a complete stop or try to quickly run in another direction. Thus, causing the following actions:
Leg tangling
Knee to the groin
Accidental head butting
All of which he frowns upon while dancing. The most amazing part of him teaching me to dance is that he doesn’t mind when I step on his feet. Probably, it is less painful then a trip to the hospital from a concussion caused by one of my Circus O’lay panic attacks. Maybe, I should be taking Paxil to ease my anxiety over dancing. Sidebar: Dateman has stated that I never need to worry about fulfilling “The girl with a stripper pole” fantasy for him. We discussed it, and I told him I would be happy to do it. However, I would have to wear a helmet and shin guards. Let’s visualize shall we? Humm… It doesn’t matter how sexy the bra and panties are when you are wearing a Hello Kitty bicycle helmet and an inflatable donut strapped on as a butt guard. The man has a good point.
So let us get back to what to wear? Let’s go shopping; Macy’s is always having a sale.
“Come On Down! Dategirl, you're the next contestant on The Price Is Right! What garment options are behind door number one? Johnny?”
The Hippy dresses: electric blue, orange and green splotches of color all on same dress. Bob, there is no cut to the dress, and it is as limp as a gay man’s handshake at a Rambo convention. Oh and just for fun, there is a 10 inch bright yellow daisy right were the crotch might be. It is perfect for the desperate over 40 divorcee.
The ‘Leave it to Beaver’ mom dress: this dress is sleeveless with a scoop neck and a form fitting bodice with a cute matching mini cardigan. Then at the waist, the dress flares out to a 95 degree angle from the torso making Dategirl look like a cross between June Cleaver and an ax murdering a ballet dancer.
“Those sound nice, Johnny. What else do we have for our reluctant cougar?”
The Prostitutes for God dress: these dresses are more confused then a transvestite at a paraphernalia sale at an adult book store. This dress could be worn by a nun where the length of the dress comes down to about a ¼ inch from the peri-menopausal swollen ankles only to show off a nice cluster of varicose veins. Cross that with a street walker where the top of the dress barely has enough material to cover one deflated, sagging boob let alone two of them. And forget about the arms, Bob, those flabby pieces of flesh are just out flapping in the wind for all to see.
The Multiple Personality dress: The tag on this dress states it can be worn as a dress or a skirt. Humm… Let’s see. It is brown broomstick skirt with a string attached at the top front. This is the ‘Please stay up as a dress’ device. So it can be warn as a really long skirt or a really short dress where both options make our ‘hopelessly 40” look like she is wearing a brown paper bag with rubber bands attached at the top to secure the garment.
Time is ticking and girl you need a dress. What are you going to do?
In a crazed frenzy, I began looking in every department in the store. In the suit section, I was hoping to maybe wear a sexy blouse with an A-framed skirt going for the sultry sophisticated look. All I found were lots of spinster Fema-natzi suits that seemed to scream, “This vagina is closed.” So in an act of desperation, I wondered around the lingerie department hoping to find a really pretty dress slip to wear because it covered more of me than the dresses I saw earlier. Apparently, this Macy’s has the corner market on Granny Panties to go with the Barbara Bush suit collection. I’ll keep that in mind if I decide to become Amish!
As luck would have it, Macy’s has a boutique line of really expensive clothing hidden in a back corner. The dresses were perfect: sexy not trampy and smart not frumpy. The actual retail price is...$128.00 F*$%&$! Crushed, I put the dress back on the rack. I started to walk out of the department store defeated. I had been in every department store in the mall and every side store except the Deb shop. It should be illegal for anyone over the age of 19 to make purchases in that store. Anyway…When out of the corner of my eye, I saw a very small rack that had a Sale sign above it. Yes I know. I have shopped enough at Talbots and J.Jills to know that the clothing on sale rack is still more than I can afford. Oh, look a t-shirt is on sale for $34.99. Could some body just shoot me? So, I flipped through the clothing in a mindless daze. And there it was. An Empire waist, scoop neck, cute short sleeve dress that when I held it up, it came to my knee. Perfect. It was in a big eggplant and black paisley print. My colors, yes! I go and try it on. I have to have this dress. Suddenly, Bob Barker comes out of nowhere and says “The actually retail price is…$38.99 sold to our first contestant in the rose print granny panties, a desperate housewife from North Carolina. Johnny, can you tell her what she has won?”
“Well, Bob, the empire waist lengthens her legs giving her a lean appearance. As an added bonus, the empire waist combined with the neckline makes her boobs look larger and perkier than they have looked BBF (Before Beast Feeding).” Dategirl screams uncontrollably while jumping up and down in the dressing room when looking down at her shoes, a pair of Clark mules; who are so tired, they can only manage a squeaky murmur for help. Dategirl sits on the floor, stares at her shoes/dog chew toy and quietly pops a Paxil. “All right shoe shopping, here I come with my two different sized feet!”
Friday, April 17, 2009
What about Sex and Dating?
After dating for a while, that whole sex thing seems to end up as the prancing circus elephant in the room. Since I am Catholic, the Pope advises me against premarital sex. Sidebar: How does a man who has never had sex and wears a dress designed by Liberace have the right to tell me when I can have sex? This would be why I am a “wayward” Catholic. I can understand the whole “thou shall not kill” commandment. It would be bad form to beat Xhusband about the head with a baseball bat until he collapses to the ground, then slice him open, disembowel him, throw his entrails on the ground and dance around them naked while under a full moon. Not that it has ever crossed my mind. I am just saying I can see were the Supreme Being would frown upon such a heinous act of butchery and paganism. Unless, X was a rat-bastard of course, and then Her Holiness would completely understand and maybe even suggest the proper outfit for such an activity. Girl, Stay focused! Where were we? Sex, church and sins. Oh yes, why is committing premarital sex given the same punishment under God as committing murder according to the Catholic school nuns anyway?
This is one of those areas where I am thinking if the founders of the church had access to an excel spreadsheet; things might have ended up differently. The sins could have been categorized, prioritized, and sorted. For arguments sake, let us break the premarital sex sin into two categories: First being ‘Pre first marriage and you should be a virgin’ sex sin. Second being ‘Post separation/divorce I haven’t had good sex for 3 years, and you seem like you have a pulse and are disease free’ sex sin.
“Dude, what in the hell are you thinking? I know you haven’t had sex for 3 years 5 months and 8 days, but you cannot change Catholic Dogma,” says a husky female voice.
“Who are you?”
“God”
“No shit! Really?”
“Yes.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“What flavor are the green Lifesavers supposed to be? I know the package says lime, but it just tastes like green to me.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“Oh, sorry.”
“According to Catholic Dogma, there is no divorce, so you would be committing adultery for the rest of your life. So my dating wonder, in the eyes of the Church, you will become Hester Prynne. Would you like that Scarlet letter tattooed on your chest now or just embroidered on your clothing?”
“Wow, any loops holes?”
“You could get your marriage annulled and bastardized your son or wait until X dies so you become a widow.”
“So if I participate in lustful desires of the flesh, I am to burn in hell with all the other damned souls collected since the dawn of time?”
“Pretty much, it’s eternal damnation!”
“I was married for 20 years to Xhusband. Can I get credit for time served?”
“Hum… how about 10 years of free sex sin credit, and the next time you make cheeseburgers, you toss one on the floor?”
“What?”
Everything is dark then suddenly the room comes into focus. The dog is barking at something outside. I am lying on the couch and must have fallen asleep. Well, if I plan on being an adulteress, I should have some standards at least. So, here are various things I have thought up before jumping blindly into bed with a new partner.
Would I be offended by any “kinky sex” asked of me by my new sex partner?
How would I go about finding evidence of odd sexual preferences?
Would I be able to state “things” which will absolutely not be tolerated?
What about my not so 20 year-old body being on display like a new pair of Jimmy Choo’s in a Macy’s window display?
Let us start with number 3 since it is easy, I hope. Emphatically, there will be no live animals including acting like an animal (CSI episode 167), golden showers, S&M, animal costumes (CSI episode 93), no dead people includes acting like your dead or foot sex. These are the deal breakers. There is fun sex, and there is ‘Damn, you are one sick MF and here is the address of Dorthea Dix mental hospital’ sex. I don’t care if I have to leave in the middle of the act completely naked with only a pillow case for a cover up. I am so out of there. Clearly, there are sexual acts far more disturbing then the items listed in the previous statement, but then I don’t know about them. I am happy to live my life in blissful ignorance. That is until CSI or Southpark does an episode on the topic, and it bores an unwelcome image into my brain. This causes me to look at my co-workers and neighbors with suspicion to determine if they go to conventions where they dress up in animal costumes and have sex orgies while wearing said costumes. I have my eye on Bob in accounting; he looks like the type to dress up as Randy the 6 foot raccoon chasing a purple squirrel with silver glitter for eye shadow. But I digress.
The pre-sex talk is necessary for full disclosure and to level set any expectations so there are no surprises which may cause coitus interruptus for either partner. You see here is the nightmare that plagues my dreams if likes and dislikes are not discussed previous to the act of intercourse (Mother would be so proud of my use of proper language). I am quietly making love to my partner. Exchanging soft kisses when he whispers, “Can I tie you up?” In my mind, I think he would use that nice silk scarf I was wearing earlier. What the heck? Where is the harm in that? This could be fun. Holy bondage, Batman! Sexdude, shackles me with handcuffs in less then 2.4 seconds to the bed post, zips a black leather mask over his head, tells me the safety word is “Wisconsin” all while holding a leather cattail, reaching for his pet hamster named Sniffles, and introducing me to his taxidermied cousin Jimmy who is pulled out from under the bed. STOP! ‘Stay the hell away from me you crazy ass bastard’ is the safety word I scream as I bolt up in bed from a dead sleep only to have my dog stare at me with that “Dude, take it easy,” look on her face.
So here are some pre-sex dating strategies to avoid the above sexual paranoid dream. You will need to search his bedroom or apartment/home for clues. It may take several tries to do a complete and through search, but don’t be dismayed. Your safety and well being are your number one priorities.
Future partner needs to be distracted during search:
1. Have partner take shower just before sex. It’s been a stressful day for him, and he needs to relax.
2. The trash is smelly and making you sick. Have him take it out.
3. Clog his toilet with tampons.
4. Set his balcony or desk on fire.
5. Dial 911, mumble into the phone and hang up only leaving your date’s address audible.
Where one can find valuable information:
1. Search his wallet for membership cards to paradise clubs, receipts from adult book stores, a slip of paper that says “Call 867-5309 when naughty”, or a condom which has metal spikes on it.
2. In the bedroom, search for porn magazines (the kind they don’t sell at the gas station), various sex toys, strange outfits including women’s undergarments and shoes, or camera equipment hidden on a shelf or inside an air vent.
3. In the living room, search the video library for porn and not just a sexual spoof on “Driving Miss Daisy”.
4. In the spare bedroom/basement/garage, determine if this room could be used as a sex dungeon where you might be kidnapped and kept for years on end with no contact with the outside world. Humm. Sidebar: let us ponder this for moment shall we? One would one have to wear the same outfit as Princess Leia when she was Jabba the Hutt’s sex slave. One wouldn’t have to bath a 90 lb dog who is afraid of water, figure out how to do calculations in Excel while your boss is screaming about budget cuts, or make dinner from a can of tuna and left over bean dip. One could just eat, sleep and have sex all while being chained to the wall. On a purely survivalist level, it does have some merit. HEY, Princess Leia! Stay on target. Quite right, we must press on; it would be in the best interest of the reader.
Question number 2 is a huge self image issue. Here are some of the things that might run through the mind of anyone in Dategirl’s situation. First and foremost are the boobs. They seem to be the first to go. It really doesn’t matter how old you are, once you breast feed, your breasts seem to sag 6 more inches. So if you have had 3 or 4 kids, those puppies are talking smack with your belly button. Somewhere along the line, your breasts get mad and start ignoring each other. On a normal day, this doesn’t seem important, but when you actually have to get naked in front of someone new when the lights are on, you really don’t want your boobs pointing in different directions especially if one tries to get away by jumping over your shoulder. Not the sexy Victoria’s Secret pose you want to impress the new guy.
What about those wayward hairs that start growing in strange places: the upper lip, the crazy one which comes screeching out of your cheek every once in while, the area between your belly button and bikini line (when you still where able to wear one) is filled with wild hairs like women racing to a shoe sale at Macy’s.
And who could forget those scars and moles that seemed to have collected on your body over the years. Liposcopic surgery is great for a speedy recovery; however after two or three of them, your body starts to look like a connect-the-dots puzzle. I have dreams of such things. A Sharpie is being used to connect all the scars and moles on my torso. After several moments, an image comes into focus. My partner screams “It’s a rabbit,” and dashes into his closet. He is digging through stuff in search of something tremendously important. He runs back to bed with a furry dog mask on his head. I wake up startled only to find my 90 lb. dog staring me in the face. Who states “Dude, I know it is 3AM. But, you left the toilet seat up again, and now, I really have to pee. By the way, your brown jersey tank dress would be perfect for a good disembowelment. Its wash and wear.”
This is one of those areas where I am thinking if the founders of the church had access to an excel spreadsheet; things might have ended up differently. The sins could have been categorized, prioritized, and sorted. For arguments sake, let us break the premarital sex sin into two categories: First being ‘Pre first marriage and you should be a virgin’ sex sin. Second being ‘Post separation/divorce I haven’t had good sex for 3 years, and you seem like you have a pulse and are disease free’ sex sin.
“Dude, what in the hell are you thinking? I know you haven’t had sex for 3 years 5 months and 8 days, but you cannot change Catholic Dogma,” says a husky female voice.
“Who are you?”
“God”
“No shit! Really?”
“Yes.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“What flavor are the green Lifesavers supposed to be? I know the package says lime, but it just tastes like green to me.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“Oh, sorry.”
“According to Catholic Dogma, there is no divorce, so you would be committing adultery for the rest of your life. So my dating wonder, in the eyes of the Church, you will become Hester Prynne. Would you like that Scarlet letter tattooed on your chest now or just embroidered on your clothing?”
“Wow, any loops holes?”
“You could get your marriage annulled and bastardized your son or wait until X dies so you become a widow.”
“So if I participate in lustful desires of the flesh, I am to burn in hell with all the other damned souls collected since the dawn of time?”
“Pretty much, it’s eternal damnation!”
“I was married for 20 years to Xhusband. Can I get credit for time served?”
“Hum… how about 10 years of free sex sin credit, and the next time you make cheeseburgers, you toss one on the floor?”
“What?”
Everything is dark then suddenly the room comes into focus. The dog is barking at something outside. I am lying on the couch and must have fallen asleep. Well, if I plan on being an adulteress, I should have some standards at least. So, here are various things I have thought up before jumping blindly into bed with a new partner.
Would I be offended by any “kinky sex” asked of me by my new sex partner?
How would I go about finding evidence of odd sexual preferences?
Would I be able to state “things” which will absolutely not be tolerated?
What about my not so 20 year-old body being on display like a new pair of Jimmy Choo’s in a Macy’s window display?
Let us start with number 3 since it is easy, I hope. Emphatically, there will be no live animals including acting like an animal (CSI episode 167), golden showers, S&M, animal costumes (CSI episode 93), no dead people includes acting like your dead or foot sex. These are the deal breakers. There is fun sex, and there is ‘Damn, you are one sick MF and here is the address of Dorthea Dix mental hospital’ sex. I don’t care if I have to leave in the middle of the act completely naked with only a pillow case for a cover up. I am so out of there. Clearly, there are sexual acts far more disturbing then the items listed in the previous statement, but then I don’t know about them. I am happy to live my life in blissful ignorance. That is until CSI or Southpark does an episode on the topic, and it bores an unwelcome image into my brain. This causes me to look at my co-workers and neighbors with suspicion to determine if they go to conventions where they dress up in animal costumes and have sex orgies while wearing said costumes. I have my eye on Bob in accounting; he looks like the type to dress up as Randy the 6 foot raccoon chasing a purple squirrel with silver glitter for eye shadow. But I digress.
The pre-sex talk is necessary for full disclosure and to level set any expectations so there are no surprises which may cause coitus interruptus for either partner. You see here is the nightmare that plagues my dreams if likes and dislikes are not discussed previous to the act of intercourse (Mother would be so proud of my use of proper language). I am quietly making love to my partner. Exchanging soft kisses when he whispers, “Can I tie you up?” In my mind, I think he would use that nice silk scarf I was wearing earlier. What the heck? Where is the harm in that? This could be fun. Holy bondage, Batman! Sexdude, shackles me with handcuffs in less then 2.4 seconds to the bed post, zips a black leather mask over his head, tells me the safety word is “Wisconsin” all while holding a leather cattail, reaching for his pet hamster named Sniffles, and introducing me to his taxidermied cousin Jimmy who is pulled out from under the bed. STOP! ‘Stay the hell away from me you crazy ass bastard’ is the safety word I scream as I bolt up in bed from a dead sleep only to have my dog stare at me with that “Dude, take it easy,” look on her face.
So here are some pre-sex dating strategies to avoid the above sexual paranoid dream. You will need to search his bedroom or apartment/home for clues. It may take several tries to do a complete and through search, but don’t be dismayed. Your safety and well being are your number one priorities.
Future partner needs to be distracted during search:
1. Have partner take shower just before sex. It’s been a stressful day for him, and he needs to relax.
2. The trash is smelly and making you sick. Have him take it out.
3. Clog his toilet with tampons.
4. Set his balcony or desk on fire.
5. Dial 911, mumble into the phone and hang up only leaving your date’s address audible.
Where one can find valuable information:
1. Search his wallet for membership cards to paradise clubs, receipts from adult book stores, a slip of paper that says “Call 867-5309 when naughty”, or a condom which has metal spikes on it.
2. In the bedroom, search for porn magazines (the kind they don’t sell at the gas station), various sex toys, strange outfits including women’s undergarments and shoes, or camera equipment hidden on a shelf or inside an air vent.
3. In the living room, search the video library for porn and not just a sexual spoof on “Driving Miss Daisy”.
4. In the spare bedroom/basement/garage, determine if this room could be used as a sex dungeon where you might be kidnapped and kept for years on end with no contact with the outside world. Humm. Sidebar: let us ponder this for moment shall we? One would one have to wear the same outfit as Princess Leia when she was Jabba the Hutt’s sex slave. One wouldn’t have to bath a 90 lb dog who is afraid of water, figure out how to do calculations in Excel while your boss is screaming about budget cuts, or make dinner from a can of tuna and left over bean dip. One could just eat, sleep and have sex all while being chained to the wall. On a purely survivalist level, it does have some merit. HEY, Princess Leia! Stay on target. Quite right, we must press on; it would be in the best interest of the reader.
Question number 2 is a huge self image issue. Here are some of the things that might run through the mind of anyone in Dategirl’s situation. First and foremost are the boobs. They seem to be the first to go. It really doesn’t matter how old you are, once you breast feed, your breasts seem to sag 6 more inches. So if you have had 3 or 4 kids, those puppies are talking smack with your belly button. Somewhere along the line, your breasts get mad and start ignoring each other. On a normal day, this doesn’t seem important, but when you actually have to get naked in front of someone new when the lights are on, you really don’t want your boobs pointing in different directions especially if one tries to get away by jumping over your shoulder. Not the sexy Victoria’s Secret pose you want to impress the new guy.
What about those wayward hairs that start growing in strange places: the upper lip, the crazy one which comes screeching out of your cheek every once in while, the area between your belly button and bikini line (when you still where able to wear one) is filled with wild hairs like women racing to a shoe sale at Macy’s.
And who could forget those scars and moles that seemed to have collected on your body over the years. Liposcopic surgery is great for a speedy recovery; however after two or three of them, your body starts to look like a connect-the-dots puzzle. I have dreams of such things. A Sharpie is being used to connect all the scars and moles on my torso. After several moments, an image comes into focus. My partner screams “It’s a rabbit,” and dashes into his closet. He is digging through stuff in search of something tremendously important. He runs back to bed with a furry dog mask on his head. I wake up startled only to find my 90 lb. dog staring me in the face. Who states “Dude, I know it is 3AM. But, you left the toilet seat up again, and now, I really have to pee. By the way, your brown jersey tank dress would be perfect for a good disembowelment. Its wash and wear.”
Friday, April 3, 2009
First Kiss
So, I have survived several phone calls, text messages, a few emails, and a couple of dates. But somewhere along the line that first kiss experience crops up and smacks you in the forehead. Usually, the “Walking faster than the date and jumping into the car before he gets there to only crack the driver’s side window” plan was working nicely for me. But at some point, the Saturn moons aligned with Mercury rising, and I got caught up in a conversation and ended up leaning up against my car talking with Mr. Date.
My dear reader, this is where it became problematic, because I clearly remember being a good 4, 5 maybe 6 feet away from Dateman. OK, maybe it was only a foot or he has ginormous rubber stretching arms, but somehow I was pulled towards him. Where was my can of mace? I have a red belt in Tae Kwon-Do. “Break his arm. Kick him in the privates,” said my brain. Nothing…I was being sucked into the Vortex.
The whole kiss thing started off rather enjoyable, nice soft lips, not too spitty, no tonsil checking, no smashing of teeth, no burping, and I didn’t feel like he was eating my face. Perfect! Then at some point my brain kicked into a major panic attack. “What are you doing? Don’t just stand there like a zombie, do something,” said brain. So my body responded in kind, and I put my hand up to the back of his head. “Nice move, Hot Lips” says brain. “But you have your car keys in your hand. I think you just stabbed him in the back of the head.” At this point, I completely panicked. “Shut down all systems before she becomes a homicidal manic,” shouts brain. So being ever so obedient, my body did a complete system shut down.
This is where the word awkward is appropriate; apparently Mr. Date didn’t get the shut down notice. So for 4 or 5 seconds which seemed like 10 hours, I stood there like a coma patient during the Gay Pride parade in San Francisco. Well, thank God, the kiss ended, and I was over that major disaster. Yeah, good luck with that thought. If I thought the first kiss was awkward, well, the after the first kiss dialog is enough to make Ghengis Kong wet his pants with nervousness.
I smiled nicely, and he said something which for the life of me I cannot remember because I think I went momentarily deaf. At some point, he said he would call me the next day. “Now is your chance,” said brain. “Say one of those smart, but sexy phrases we practiced earlier just incase this would happen.” Tick, tick, tick…”SAY SOMETHING,” brain screamed at me. Which I felt was very rude considering the complete system shut down command he had just given; now he wants me to speak. So in a small squeaky voice, I mutter the words “Thank you.”
“Get the hell out of there,” brain commands. I concurred and jumped into my car, and got the hell out of Dodge.
“Thank you? What the hell was that?”
“You said to say something, so I did.”
“We had practiced saying something sexy or sensuously funny. You could have said ‘That was nice’ or just did some kind of sexy ummm noise. But no, you respond as if you were returning books back to the library.”
“Well, at least he knows I am polite. I am such a loser,” I thought to myself as I banged my head against the steering wheel.
So like any other female, I grabbed my cell phone and called a girlfriend. After the phone call ended, I was driving down the highway when a thought bolted through my brain. It is the kind of thought which makes the entire world seem like it has stopped while you ponder the adverse effects of the thought…Is this a good time to bring up I was on a 4 lane highway going 65 miles per hour? No. OK, forget I mentioned it. Continue with life altering thought…
“You were sucking on a Cherry flavored Halls before this whole kiss thing started. Where Is Your Halls?” brain demanded. I looked in the rear view mirror and checked my mouth. Nothing!
“Did you swallow it before you got into the car?” asked brain.
“I don’t know,” I responded
“Did you chew it up while you were walking towards the car?”
“I DON’T KNOW.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? Try to remember.”
“OMG, did I give him my Halls in the middle of the kiss?”
“What! How could you do that?”
“You ordered a system shut down remember. I could have given him my social security number, my first born child, and the location of my secret chocolate stash.”
“Well Dategirl, you are in quite a pickle. If you swapped spitted him your Halls, he’s not going to call you. What are you going to do?”
“I am going to buy 12 cats, the entire catalog of Harlequin romance novels, a 10 year supply of Godiva chocolates, and cry for the rest of my life.”
“You’re allergic to cats.”
“Crap! Can I become a nun if I have a 17 year old child? My life is ruined,” I thought as I drove home in complete silence even brain was quiet.
Epilogue:
Mr. Date did call me the next day, and before the posting of this blog entry, he has stated for the record that I did not swap slit him my Halls.
My dear reader, this is where it became problematic, because I clearly remember being a good 4, 5 maybe 6 feet away from Dateman. OK, maybe it was only a foot or he has ginormous rubber stretching arms, but somehow I was pulled towards him. Where was my can of mace? I have a red belt in Tae Kwon-Do. “Break his arm. Kick him in the privates,” said my brain. Nothing…I was being sucked into the Vortex.
The whole kiss thing started off rather enjoyable, nice soft lips, not too spitty, no tonsil checking, no smashing of teeth, no burping, and I didn’t feel like he was eating my face. Perfect! Then at some point my brain kicked into a major panic attack. “What are you doing? Don’t just stand there like a zombie, do something,” said brain. So my body responded in kind, and I put my hand up to the back of his head. “Nice move, Hot Lips” says brain. “But you have your car keys in your hand. I think you just stabbed him in the back of the head.” At this point, I completely panicked. “Shut down all systems before she becomes a homicidal manic,” shouts brain. So being ever so obedient, my body did a complete system shut down.
This is where the word awkward is appropriate; apparently Mr. Date didn’t get the shut down notice. So for 4 or 5 seconds which seemed like 10 hours, I stood there like a coma patient during the Gay Pride parade in San Francisco. Well, thank God, the kiss ended, and I was over that major disaster. Yeah, good luck with that thought. If I thought the first kiss was awkward, well, the after the first kiss dialog is enough to make Ghengis Kong wet his pants with nervousness.
I smiled nicely, and he said something which for the life of me I cannot remember because I think I went momentarily deaf. At some point, he said he would call me the next day. “Now is your chance,” said brain. “Say one of those smart, but sexy phrases we practiced earlier just incase this would happen.” Tick, tick, tick…”SAY SOMETHING,” brain screamed at me. Which I felt was very rude considering the complete system shut down command he had just given; now he wants me to speak. So in a small squeaky voice, I mutter the words “Thank you.”
“Get the hell out of there,” brain commands. I concurred and jumped into my car, and got the hell out of Dodge.
“Thank you? What the hell was that?”
“You said to say something, so I did.”
“We had practiced saying something sexy or sensuously funny. You could have said ‘That was nice’ or just did some kind of sexy ummm noise. But no, you respond as if you were returning books back to the library.”
“Well, at least he knows I am polite. I am such a loser,” I thought to myself as I banged my head against the steering wheel.
So like any other female, I grabbed my cell phone and called a girlfriend. After the phone call ended, I was driving down the highway when a thought bolted through my brain. It is the kind of thought which makes the entire world seem like it has stopped while you ponder the adverse effects of the thought…Is this a good time to bring up I was on a 4 lane highway going 65 miles per hour? No. OK, forget I mentioned it. Continue with life altering thought…
“You were sucking on a Cherry flavored Halls before this whole kiss thing started. Where Is Your Halls?” brain demanded. I looked in the rear view mirror and checked my mouth. Nothing!
“Did you swallow it before you got into the car?” asked brain.
“I don’t know,” I responded
“Did you chew it up while you were walking towards the car?”
“I DON’T KNOW.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? Try to remember.”
“OMG, did I give him my Halls in the middle of the kiss?”
“What! How could you do that?”
“You ordered a system shut down remember. I could have given him my social security number, my first born child, and the location of my secret chocolate stash.”
“Well Dategirl, you are in quite a pickle. If you swapped spitted him your Halls, he’s not going to call you. What are you going to do?”
“I am going to buy 12 cats, the entire catalog of Harlequin romance novels, a 10 year supply of Godiva chocolates, and cry for the rest of my life.”
“You’re allergic to cats.”
“Crap! Can I become a nun if I have a 17 year old child? My life is ruined,” I thought as I drove home in complete silence even brain was quiet.
Epilogue:
Mr. Date did call me the next day, and before the posting of this blog entry, he has stated for the record that I did not swap slit him my Halls.
Friday, March 20, 2009
First Date
The entire ‘dating after 40’ thing is very stressful. The dating rules seemed to have changed over the past 25 years since I was last in the dating pool; I am completely confused and perplexed by what is now acceptable. Case in point: according to one of the books I read (It was not an entire book on dating, just a chapter in “How to divorce your husband and not come out looking like a nut case” kind of book.), it is perfectly acceptable to ask your date if they have any STDs. Don’t get me wrong, this is very good information to know, but I am not quite sure how one is to work the topic into a conversation. Maybe during the main course of a meal when there always seems to be a natural lull in the conversation, one is to slip the question past the date. “These carrots are delicious. Could you pass the salt, and do you have any nasty critters on your Johnson?”
I am not sure but I think my grandmother along with Emily Post would absolutely spin in their graves. My mother, who was a stickler for grammar, would have made some sort of comment like, “Use proper English, dear; it is called a penis. Please sit up straight, and what is wrong with your hair? Pull it back; I cannot see your face?”
Let’s take a step backwards and determine what one should wear to a date considering one didn’t have time to go shopping for any type of date clothing. So, we take a look at the cloths in Dategirl’s closet. Hummm…
- A stack of work in the yard/ paint pants and sweatshirts
- Several hangers of non descript mom pants which are generally worn to the grocery store, Home Depot and the vet’s office
- Work cloths. Oh, you mean the 27 shades of black or grey baggy in the butt pants that you own
- Oh, we cannot forget the mound of sweat pants used on those “bloating” days
Great! By the looks of this wardrobe, the only way Dategirl is ever going to get to first base is by sitting in a shopping cart being pulled by the baseball team’s mascot goat named Dixie.
Finally, I opted for the knee length black skirt, a tight white long sleeve t-shirt (accidentally bought the wrong size) and black knee high boots with big chunky heels which scream ‘I really would like to be sexy, but I have a casserole in the oven, kids to pick up by six, and a dog who has decided he likes to jump the fence to visit other dogs in the neighborhood.’ To top off the outfit, I throw on a leather jacket and a 34 foot long scarf and wrap it around myself until I am completely unrecognizable and look like the little brother in “The Christmas Story.”
Once you get over the “what to wear” hurdle, you have to meet the person and decide within .8 seconds if they look like a serial killer, and you need to turn and run. I decided to stay. What the heck, you only live once unless of course you are Sybil, and you get to lead 16 different lives at once. Not a bad option, but I don’t see how I can fit MPS in between carpool and cleaning up dog throw up.
We get seated at a table. Side note: if the date goes badly, I picked a restaurant with a back/side entrance. So Dategirl is ready for the first date. Maybe…
The waitress asks “Can I get you something to drink?” Yes. I think I am about to have a nervous breakdown before this date is over so could you just start bringing me whatever liquor you have? Alphabetical order would be easier to manage; I’ll start with Amaretto on the rocks. So now, food and drinks have been ordered. The small talk of “Did you find the restaurant OK?” “The weather sure is weathery today.” “What was your name again?” is finally over, and you are forced to stare at your date and come up with some cleaver conversation starter. Let’s see. Did I check CNN or Headline News today for easy topic starters? Nope. Hum. Dead air. Nice going. Mr. Date steps up to the plate and speaks. Oh, thank God for small favors.
Now during many first dates, the conversation resembles more of an interview process ranging in topics of medical, financial, mental, religious, political, and general life style. I have watched enough CSI, Criminal Minds and Bones episodes to identify prison tattoos, date rape drugs, various murder techniques, the above the mentioned serial killer or just plan rapists. It is also good to know that my many years of therapy have not gone to waste and have given me an astute awareness of several personally defects. So, I carefully listen to the answers Mr. Date gives to determine if he has the following behaviors: Control Freak, Wife Beater, All Round Loser, Passive-Aggressiveness, Pretentious Intellectual, Paranoid Delusional, Player, Mama’s Boy, Workaholic, or Spoiled Brat.
So, how is Dategirl’s evening progressing? You would think you could leave her alone for 5 minutes to answer a few personal questions. Such as “What type of music do you listen to?” This should be an easy question to answer. Well, let us just see how Dategirl answers this seemingly simple question shall we?
“What type of music do you like?” politely asks Mr. Date while sipping his cocktail.
“Well, that depends on what type of mood I am in or what I a doing,” replies Dategirl.
“OK?” Mr. Date responds with a somewhat puzzled look on his face.
“For Angry Chick music, I like Hole, Pink, Fiona Apple,” our heroine stops as she see the horrified look on her date’s face. She isn’t quite sure if it is the category or just the fact he has never heard of the artists, so she continues with her answer.
“For contemporary rock, I like Foo Fighters, Nickelback, blah, blah, blah….Pop rock: blah, blah, blah…Alternative Rock: ColdPlay, Modest Mouse, blah, blah…Punk: Elvis Costello, blah, blah…Folk rock: blah, blah, blah...”
More blank stares as he takes a large swallow from his drink. At this point, Crazy woman has totally lost control of the conversation and is just rambling. She notices the ‘WTF are you talking about’ look on her date’s face and quickly tries to do a Hail Mary play.
“I grew up listening to rock artists such as David Bowie, Jimi Hendrix, Queen, and Van Halen,” Disaster Dategirl states as she finally takes a breath of air.
“Led Zeppelin?” Datedude finally chimes in with a response.
“Yes, and of course, one cannot live without listening to the Beatles, Motown, a bit of Big Band, some Ragtime, and Frank Sinatra” she says as she wraps up her 20 minute dissertation.
“What music don’t you like?” he seems to hesitate as he asks.
“Blue Grass, Opera, and most County music,” she states emphatically within 2.5 seconds and responds politely with, “What type of music do you like?”
“Country,” he replies with a quiet smile. Crap. Date over, I am so screwed. Dategirl puts her foot in her mouth. Waitress, I think I am up to the T’s; I would like tequila after that complete verbal debacle.
“Oh, like the Dixie Chicks or Lyle Lovett?” she states with a ‘Please don’t think I am a complete pompous ass’ smile.
“No. I like blah, blah, Toby Keith, blah, blah, blah…Southern Rock: Eagles, blah, blah, blah…” He hesitated as he watched her face become a contorted pile of flesh.
Dategirl could hear herself listening to the group names and saying to herself, “Oh, please don’t say his name. If you say his name, it will mean the date is over, and there is never any hope for a second date which would be a shame because Dateman is tall and good looking. I mean, let’s be real about it. The country artist in question hasn’t had a hit since what the ‘90s? He was pretty much the Britney Spears of Country music. OK, kudos go out to his lead guitarist, that dude could make a guitar wail. But come on, what was up with the jet pilot head gear for a microphone? And those two toned geometric shirts? They would make the guys from ‘Queer Eye’ spin like a glitter ball at a disco…Don’t say it….
“And of course, I like Garth Brooks,” says Mr. Date with a bright smile.
Date over. Check please! ...and a Zima in a to-go cup.
I am not sure but I think my grandmother along with Emily Post would absolutely spin in their graves. My mother, who was a stickler for grammar, would have made some sort of comment like, “Use proper English, dear; it is called a penis. Please sit up straight, and what is wrong with your hair? Pull it back; I cannot see your face?”
Let’s take a step backwards and determine what one should wear to a date considering one didn’t have time to go shopping for any type of date clothing. So, we take a look at the cloths in Dategirl’s closet. Hummm…
- A stack of work in the yard/ paint pants and sweatshirts
- Several hangers of non descript mom pants which are generally worn to the grocery store, Home Depot and the vet’s office
- Work cloths. Oh, you mean the 27 shades of black or grey baggy in the butt pants that you own
- Oh, we cannot forget the mound of sweat pants used on those “bloating” days
Great! By the looks of this wardrobe, the only way Dategirl is ever going to get to first base is by sitting in a shopping cart being pulled by the baseball team’s mascot goat named Dixie.
Finally, I opted for the knee length black skirt, a tight white long sleeve t-shirt (accidentally bought the wrong size) and black knee high boots with big chunky heels which scream ‘I really would like to be sexy, but I have a casserole in the oven, kids to pick up by six, and a dog who has decided he likes to jump the fence to visit other dogs in the neighborhood.’ To top off the outfit, I throw on a leather jacket and a 34 foot long scarf and wrap it around myself until I am completely unrecognizable and look like the little brother in “The Christmas Story.”
Once you get over the “what to wear” hurdle, you have to meet the person and decide within .8 seconds if they look like a serial killer, and you need to turn and run. I decided to stay. What the heck, you only live once unless of course you are Sybil, and you get to lead 16 different lives at once. Not a bad option, but I don’t see how I can fit MPS in between carpool and cleaning up dog throw up.
We get seated at a table. Side note: if the date goes badly, I picked a restaurant with a back/side entrance. So Dategirl is ready for the first date. Maybe…
The waitress asks “Can I get you something to drink?” Yes. I think I am about to have a nervous breakdown before this date is over so could you just start bringing me whatever liquor you have? Alphabetical order would be easier to manage; I’ll start with Amaretto on the rocks. So now, food and drinks have been ordered. The small talk of “Did you find the restaurant OK?” “The weather sure is weathery today.” “What was your name again?” is finally over, and you are forced to stare at your date and come up with some cleaver conversation starter. Let’s see. Did I check CNN or Headline News today for easy topic starters? Nope. Hum. Dead air. Nice going. Mr. Date steps up to the plate and speaks. Oh, thank God for small favors.
Now during many first dates, the conversation resembles more of an interview process ranging in topics of medical, financial, mental, religious, political, and general life style. I have watched enough CSI, Criminal Minds and Bones episodes to identify prison tattoos, date rape drugs, various murder techniques, the above the mentioned serial killer or just plan rapists. It is also good to know that my many years of therapy have not gone to waste and have given me an astute awareness of several personally defects. So, I carefully listen to the answers Mr. Date gives to determine if he has the following behaviors: Control Freak, Wife Beater, All Round Loser, Passive-Aggressiveness, Pretentious Intellectual, Paranoid Delusional, Player, Mama’s Boy, Workaholic, or Spoiled Brat.
So, how is Dategirl’s evening progressing? You would think you could leave her alone for 5 minutes to answer a few personal questions. Such as “What type of music do you listen to?” This should be an easy question to answer. Well, let us just see how Dategirl answers this seemingly simple question shall we?
“What type of music do you like?” politely asks Mr. Date while sipping his cocktail.
“Well, that depends on what type of mood I am in or what I a doing,” replies Dategirl.
“OK?” Mr. Date responds with a somewhat puzzled look on his face.
“For Angry Chick music, I like Hole, Pink, Fiona Apple,” our heroine stops as she see the horrified look on her date’s face. She isn’t quite sure if it is the category or just the fact he has never heard of the artists, so she continues with her answer.
“For contemporary rock, I like Foo Fighters, Nickelback, blah, blah, blah….Pop rock: blah, blah, blah…Alternative Rock: ColdPlay, Modest Mouse, blah, blah…Punk: Elvis Costello, blah, blah…Folk rock: blah, blah, blah...”
More blank stares as he takes a large swallow from his drink. At this point, Crazy woman has totally lost control of the conversation and is just rambling. She notices the ‘WTF are you talking about’ look on her date’s face and quickly tries to do a Hail Mary play.
“I grew up listening to rock artists such as David Bowie, Jimi Hendrix, Queen, and Van Halen,” Disaster Dategirl states as she finally takes a breath of air.
“Led Zeppelin?” Datedude finally chimes in with a response.
“Yes, and of course, one cannot live without listening to the Beatles, Motown, a bit of Big Band, some Ragtime, and Frank Sinatra” she says as she wraps up her 20 minute dissertation.
“What music don’t you like?” he seems to hesitate as he asks.
“Blue Grass, Opera, and most County music,” she states emphatically within 2.5 seconds and responds politely with, “What type of music do you like?”
“Country,” he replies with a quiet smile. Crap. Date over, I am so screwed. Dategirl puts her foot in her mouth. Waitress, I think I am up to the T’s; I would like tequila after that complete verbal debacle.
“Oh, like the Dixie Chicks or Lyle Lovett?” she states with a ‘Please don’t think I am a complete pompous ass’ smile.
“No. I like blah, blah, Toby Keith, blah, blah, blah…Southern Rock: Eagles, blah, blah, blah…” He hesitated as he watched her face become a contorted pile of flesh.
Dategirl could hear herself listening to the group names and saying to herself, “Oh, please don’t say his name. If you say his name, it will mean the date is over, and there is never any hope for a second date which would be a shame because Dateman is tall and good looking. I mean, let’s be real about it. The country artist in question hasn’t had a hit since what the ‘90s? He was pretty much the Britney Spears of Country music. OK, kudos go out to his lead guitarist, that dude could make a guitar wail. But come on, what was up with the jet pilot head gear for a microphone? And those two toned geometric shirts? They would make the guys from ‘Queer Eye’ spin like a glitter ball at a disco…Don’t say it….
“And of course, I like Garth Brooks,” says Mr. Date with a bright smile.
Date over. Check please! ...and a Zima in a to-go cup.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Alignment Assignment
For an art class, I had to contemplate the word ‘Alignment’ as it would be used in art. I thought for quite a while and nothing came to mind. So I asked myself, “What is alignment?” Lining up in a straight line or pattern (Stonehenge) or having a common point of view or grouping (political parties). But what is alignment in art, poetry or writing? Nothing came to my pitifully vacant mind. I know drinking kills brain cells over time. I used to say while “tying one on” I was selectively pruning my grey matter, but during this assignment I now know which cells were killed off during that killer party at 2nd floor of Switlik dorm in the spring of ’86.
So, I will ramble a bit (the opposite of alignment), and we’ll see where this goes.
In contemplating alignment, the first thing I thought of was my hair. This would be where you tighten your seatbelt and press the “I believe” button. If I took one strand of my hair and created repeating points from beginning to end then I could align those points to various stars strewn across the universe. Take those individual points and multiple them by the thousands of hairs on my head or what seems like thousands according to the look of my bathroom floor. The results would show why my hair does crazy summer-salts, frizzes, and goes perfectly straight in one section (a black hole) all in the same day. You see, here is my theory. My head is in constant movement from talking, dodging bullets, and what not, along with the earth rotating around the sun, while the sun moves around the galaxy. I am not too sure what the Milky Way galaxy does within the universe (side bar: what kind of name is Milky Way for a galaxy anyway), but I am pretty sure it involves some type of rotational activity. And looking at the frizz of my hair and the 9 or 10 stray curls, it is fair to say the spinning has quite a substantial force.
Oh thank Hera, the queen of the heavens, the concept of art and alignment has finally been channeled to my hair through the great cosmos. OK fine, I goggled.
“The fundamental element of graphic arts is to determine the alignment of the picture or text upon the page in coordination with the other pictures or text blocks on the page. There is edge alignment and center alignment.” – stolen from some really smart art dude’s research paper posted on the web
So, I take this definition of alignment and look at my story/art journals. Is there alignment? Ah no, my journals pretty much look like chickens were set loose upon the pages with scraps of paper and a glue stick.
So, I will ramble a bit (the opposite of alignment), and we’ll see where this goes.
In contemplating alignment, the first thing I thought of was my hair. This would be where you tighten your seatbelt and press the “I believe” button. If I took one strand of my hair and created repeating points from beginning to end then I could align those points to various stars strewn across the universe. Take those individual points and multiple them by the thousands of hairs on my head or what seems like thousands according to the look of my bathroom floor. The results would show why my hair does crazy summer-salts, frizzes, and goes perfectly straight in one section (a black hole) all in the same day. You see, here is my theory. My head is in constant movement from talking, dodging bullets, and what not, along with the earth rotating around the sun, while the sun moves around the galaxy. I am not too sure what the Milky Way galaxy does within the universe (side bar: what kind of name is Milky Way for a galaxy anyway), but I am pretty sure it involves some type of rotational activity. And looking at the frizz of my hair and the 9 or 10 stray curls, it is fair to say the spinning has quite a substantial force.
Oh thank Hera, the queen of the heavens, the concept of art and alignment has finally been channeled to my hair through the great cosmos. OK fine, I goggled.
“The fundamental element of graphic arts is to determine the alignment of the picture or text upon the page in coordination with the other pictures or text blocks on the page. There is edge alignment and center alignment.” – stolen from some really smart art dude’s research paper posted on the web
So, I take this definition of alignment and look at my story/art journals. Is there alignment? Ah no, my journals pretty much look like chickens were set loose upon the pages with scraps of paper and a glue stick.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Clear Visibility
Pam knew for a long time her clairvoyance was a trait bestowed on her from her maternal grandmother. However, she wasn’t so sure it was a gift. It was a sunny spring morning, and she had been working hard in the garden. It was the first chance she had to clean up from the winter storm season. The sun was starting to break over the top of house; Pam knew it was near lunch time so she went inside to grab a bit to eat. Afterwards, she grabbed a blanket and took a nap on the patio glider.
Pam bolted straight up; she was out of breath and looking around her yard. A red car. She saw a red car running into another car. Someone was hurt. Who was hurt? She couldn't see. The bright red car, why was it going to fast? The vision faded away. Pam started to see her garden again, the irises had buds, and the little pink shamrock flowers were gently waving with the breeze. A tear rolled down her check as she whispered, “I hate this.” Pam wrapped the blanket tightly around her. She watched the tree limbs dance with one and other. She closed her eyes; she turned her face towards the sun and basked quietly in the afternoon’s warmth.
The visions made her feel impure and used. They had a life of their own which she couldn't control. It also came with the grim responsibility of convincing people they were in harms way, and that made her feel crazy and disconnected from the world. But for one moment with the sun warming her face and with the crisp noise of the wind in the background, Pam never felt more alive and connect to the world around her.
Pam’s body jerked; her feet hit the patio running as she yelled “Not Chris, please don’t let it be Chris.”
Pam bolted straight up; she was out of breath and looking around her yard. A red car. She saw a red car running into another car. Someone was hurt. Who was hurt? She couldn't see. The bright red car, why was it going to fast? The vision faded away. Pam started to see her garden again, the irises had buds, and the little pink shamrock flowers were gently waving with the breeze. A tear rolled down her check as she whispered, “I hate this.” Pam wrapped the blanket tightly around her. She watched the tree limbs dance with one and other. She closed her eyes; she turned her face towards the sun and basked quietly in the afternoon’s warmth.
The visions made her feel impure and used. They had a life of their own which she couldn't control. It also came with the grim responsibility of convincing people they were in harms way, and that made her feel crazy and disconnected from the world. But for one moment with the sun warming her face and with the crisp noise of the wind in the background, Pam never felt more alive and connect to the world around her.
Pam’s body jerked; her feet hit the patio running as she yelled “Not Chris, please don’t let it be Chris.”
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Thoughts on Dating after 20 Years of Marriage
I don't think some of my dating plans are going to work out for me. Doing the bar scene is not an option. Problem #1: the bar scene doesn’t get going until 10:30 or 11:00 which is way past my bedtime. Problem #2: Girls must dress to impress which means their private parts are hanging out while guys wear long pants, sleeved shirts and maybe a jacket if they are really trying hard. Absolutely not fare and down right chilly during the winter months. Problem #3: The Pickup game. Oh, just shoot me. I would rather be back at a 7th grade dance standing on the girls side of a crate papered cafeteria staring at my shoes praying for a fast dance song to come over the AP system. Don’t get me wrong, I have fond memories from 7th grade (staring at John Marrow from across the classroom. Sorry, I’m back…). I am just guessing being drawn and quartered would be less painful.
The next plan was to become a lesbian. My girlfriend’s husband said he really liked women and would highly recommend them. So I considered my options. We would have the same parts, so that would be check in the Pro column (nothing new to learn). I know several lesbians, and they are all quite nice normal interesting people. Check in the Pro column. Many seem have hips the size of small canoes. Check in the Con column. Many seem to dress and cut their hair like men, so what would be the point. I might as well date a man. Don’t get me wrong, if Hiedi Klum or Sandra Bullock were to announce they were single and lesbians, Dude, I am there.
The trophy wife plan seems to have some problems associated with it right from the start. Most rich single men are usually enjoying their golden retirement years. While this may not have been a problem for Anna Nicole Smith, dating someone who could have been in the same Boy Scout troop as my dad seems a bit warped and creepy. While there are plenty of 20 something trust fund babies out there, they just don't seem to be hanging out at the garden store or taking book art classes. Besides if I thought dating someone my dad's age was weird, dating someone my son's age is just down right repulsive and skanky (now there is a word I have not used since the 10th grade). So that leaves me with the rich 40 year olds who just happen to be single, I think I might have better luck being labeled a virgin.
The next plan was to become a lesbian. My girlfriend’s husband said he really liked women and would highly recommend them. So I considered my options. We would have the same parts, so that would be check in the Pro column (nothing new to learn). I know several lesbians, and they are all quite nice normal interesting people. Check in the Pro column. Many seem have hips the size of small canoes. Check in the Con column. Many seem to dress and cut their hair like men, so what would be the point. I might as well date a man. Don’t get me wrong, if Hiedi Klum or Sandra Bullock were to announce they were single and lesbians, Dude, I am there.
The trophy wife plan seems to have some problems associated with it right from the start. Most rich single men are usually enjoying their golden retirement years. While this may not have been a problem for Anna Nicole Smith, dating someone who could have been in the same Boy Scout troop as my dad seems a bit warped and creepy. While there are plenty of 20 something trust fund babies out there, they just don't seem to be hanging out at the garden store or taking book art classes. Besides if I thought dating someone my dad's age was weird, dating someone my son's age is just down right repulsive and skanky (now there is a word I have not used since the 10th grade). So that leaves me with the rich 40 year olds who just happen to be single, I think I might have better luck being labeled a virgin.
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