More 2005. God, I had a lot to say in 2005

Monday, February 28, 2005

Mental Warfare

There has been an unprecedented and rather evil move made by Bimbo:

She replaced my aerosol can of air freshener in the bathroom with some harmless looking spray that comes in a pump bottle. She can wear a genuine fur coat, but apparently she's very conscious of our environment. I'm sure she's not concerned about the extinction of certain animals since she only feeds on souls and my spirit.

So, I went to the bathroom and after almost completing my moronic pooping ritual, I grabbed for the air freshener. I picked up the spray pump bottle and eyed it suspiciously. What the fuck? I'm okay with her messing with everything else, but when you change my bathroom routine, you're only trying to magnify my anxiety.

I read the label. Cinnamon. Okay, I can deal with that. I sniffed at the nozzle. I don't know why. I guess I wanted to make sure she didn't replace the fresh cinnamon smell with poop scented water just to make me cry. No, it smelled like cinnamon. I was feeling a little better about the whole thing because the spray pump won't make any noise, right?

I aimed it in the general direction of the toilet and pressed. Instead of a fine mist of cinnamon scented spray, it spit in 4 different directions. The nozzle is defective. Because it chooses to spray in streams rather than a mist, the smell was very faint. I whimpered and pumped the nozzle about twenty times. Now our bathroom smells like cinnamon and looks like I lifted my leg and marked all the walls.

I made a bee line for her office and changed the settings on her computer. Her computer now thinks she is blind and will tell her, in the most creepy, robotic voice, every time she makes an error or performs any mundane function.

She freaked out. She came to my office first (I seem to be the guru for everything around here, apparently) and asked me if I knew why her computer was talking to her.

"That's not possible, Bimbo. That's simply not possible. Computers can't do that. What did you do?? WHAT DID YOU DO? You need to call Rod. Now. That's the weirdest thing I've ever heard of. That's fucking spooky."

She is in our conference room now (she won't go near her office), on the phone with my boss, trying to figure out how her computer got possessed. She sounds panicky and on the verge of a mental breakdown.

Don't fuck with my pooping procedure, goddammit.

Bonfire of the Sanities

This post is random and follows no particular order. It may cause seizures. I'm not responsible.

Part 1:

If any of you give a crap about reading what will loosely be called a "book" sometime before you start drawing social security, you will have to come and take my kids.

My daughter managed to get her head stuck in between my sofa and the wall twice this weekend. I was engrossed in writing. My son was in a state of slack jawed, drooling stupification (i.e. watching "Ed, Edd & Eddie", or whatever) and didn't notice her until she started violently kicking the coffee table. She wouldn't stop thrashing when he tried to help her, so he bellowed for me. I pulled her out. She is fine, but she had an imprint of the wall texture on her forehead for an hour.

Thirty minutes later, she did it again. She was looking for a grape that she dropped. In her defense, they were really good grapes.

She is a bright child but she's like me...we are determined to make our head fit in the strangest places.

Go ahead. You can even point that one out of the park.

2. I went to a bonfire with a friend of mine. He hangs out with his employees, for some odd reason. They are all two decades younger than him, but they're nice guys. I drank far too much and tried not to fall into the fire. He drank far too much and then convinced me to get on the four-wheeler with him. What kind of crazy bitch gets on the back of a four-wheeler, operated by a 300-lb, drunken logger from Wisconsin, to go traipsing through the Blair Witch forest at midnight? Me. Only me.

3. I have lost 10 of the pounds that I gained after I had surgery. I started taking that shit that Anna Nicole blathers on about. What they fail to mention is that it can cause some intestinal issues. Basically, everything you eat stays long enough to say hello to your stomach and ask how the ulcers are doing and then it has to run.

Yes, I'm losing weight, but only because I'm in the bathroom every twenty minutes. After leaving that chamber of vile and unspeakable horrors, I have no appetite for at least 4 hours. But it's working, so I'll suffer through the chafing. I'll worry when my hair starts falling out in patches or I start acting like Anna Nicole.

I'd rather be bald.

4. The lady who was playing receptionist for us got a real job, so she is gone. I will miss her horribly. Bimbo apparently feels this is to her advantage. There is one less person in the office who wants her dead, so she is positively glowing. She came in today wearing a fur coat. It is 60 degrees outside. I have been unable to speak for the last hour.

5. I was walking to the fax machine and my boss came out of Bimbo's office. As we came face to face, I watched helplessly as he popped a chocolate in his mouth.

Yes, from that box.

I stood there in his way and watched him chew. It was like some horrible slow motion nightmare. As his brow started to furrow in confusion (because I was standing there, gaping at him like he had just shoved a warm turd in his mouth), I came to my senses. I squeaked, "I have diarrhea!", and ran to my office. Yes, my office.

I'm so fucking cool. Don't you wish you could be me?

Friday, February 25, 2005

Open Season on Bimbos

Okay, so I just found out that Bimbo is Backstabbing Bimbo.

Let me recap some of her finer moments for you before I continue:

  • When she dropped off her resume with my boss, she left a head shot with it. Read that again if you need to. We have an insurance agency. She dropped of her Glamour Shot WITH HER RESUME. Christ. That alone makes her eligible for forced sterilization.
  • She has asked me the following questions:
  1. "Can you drive to Hawaii?" I told her that, yes, you can, but you have to replace your windshield wipers, first. She nodded and walked out.
  2. "If you don't have sex for seven years does that automatically make you a virgin, again?" I just laughed about this one. I thought she was joking. I was wrong.
  3. "Do you think that William Shatner had to go to a police academy to be on that show, TJ Hooker?" No, Bimbo, he just has to know how to fly a spaceship.
  4. I can never be serious during any sort of office meeting. On one particular occasion, I blurted out, "Jello!", during the meeting. There is a story behind it, but that's for another day. I mumbled something about having Tourettes and hid behind my office memo. Bimbo looked at me for a minute and then interrupted the meeting again to ask, "Do you really have Tourettes?" We have worked together every day for months. I called her a retard and we continued the meeting. She thinks it's funny when I call her a retard. God, I hate her.
  • She has asked every female in the office to help her catch her Ken doll husband cheating. She offers to supply the wigs for such endeavors.
  • While normal people were dreaming about being doctors and shit when we were little, Bimbo had one ambition and she's damned proud of it: to own a real Rolex. I screamed at her to get the fuck out of my office when she brought one to work (one of her friends had it for sale and she got her grubby hands on it for a day) and waved it under everyone's nose. I was summarily chastised by my boss because she tattled like a fucking toddler and told him I was "mean" to her.
There are numerous other things, but you get the idea.
I felt sorry for her at first until I realized that garnering sympathy is how she reels you in. She then somehow manages to get everyone to do her work for her because they think she's such an insipid twit. She is a very stupid person, but she has the survival instincts of a barracuda. She is manipulative and opportunistic and I'm disturbed by her existence. She fucks with my feng shui, people.
Now, my boss loves me. The man adores me and I adore him. We have a wonderful and platonic relationship. Bimbo came into our little family and has somehow managed to sleaze her way into his good graces. Even though every person who works here has individually gone to him and begged to be allowed to cut her head off, he continues to keep her here. (Incidentally, one of the other people who works here is my boss' brother, Hoyt. His pleas for her demise fell on deaf ears. Hoyt went from his brothers office into Bimbos office and curtly informed her that if she ever steps over the threshold of his office door again, he will set her on fire and then extinguish her with the liquid from her implants. She gives him a very wide berth.)
So, you get the picture here, right? No one can stand her, but she has her pointy little rat nose shoved so far up my boss' ass that he genuinely thinks she has good intentions. I have bent over backward to be a 'team player' because he asked me to and, well, I love him.
We just hired a new woman, Deirdre. She recently moved here from California and she's wickedly sharp. I like her immensely.
An hour ago she called me into her office. I sat and listened, dumbfounded, as she told me about her conversation with Bimbo yesterday. Bimbo feels as though she has recruited Deirdre to her side and Dee is smart enough to know better than to team up with the stupid one.
Bimbo has been actively trying to run me off. She told Dee this: "I know I could run this office by myself."
At first I laughed. She can't dress herself, much less do my job. Then I got angry. How dare her? I have saved her ass numerous times (and I do mean saved it. Some of the shit she has done would have resulted in the loss of her license, had she been caught) and I have made it all these months without doing what I secretly wish to do every day: pull her head off and send it to a lab. Seriously. Someone needs to study her brain.
So, I did what any mature, calm woman would do. I took her box of Valentines chocolates off of her desk, went in the bathroom, dipped each one into the toilet, waited for them to dry and then put them back in the box. As I type, she is talking on the phone and popping them into her mouth at 3 minute intervals. She has eaten four so far. I gleefully cackle every time she eats one and she looks at me all puzzled. I just say, "Oh, don't mind me. It's the Tourettes."

Thursday, February 24, 2005

Because Rob Said I Should

I'm re-posting the deleted story. That's right...I changed my mind. I have a vagina and it's my God given right to do so.

I let two people read this. The reviews were mixed.

I can't make everyone happy, so I'll just do what I always do...obsess over it for days on end and then seek validation from everyone I know. Then decide that they're just being nice and obsess some more. I'll be okay in two to two and a half weeks.

Here. Vultures.


My company is coming out with a new product next month and they will be focusing on the Memphis market in all of the advertising promotions. I'm quite certain this is only because the people here drive like old people fuck when they're drunk on paregoric...

*sigh* Slow and sloppy, people. Catch up.

To celebrate and educate, they had a shindig last night for our region. Guess where they had it?

Graceland. Yes, Graceland.

Now, I was all excited because I figured I'd get an opportunity to do two things I love and one thing that I have never done:

1. Drink free
2. People watch
3. Sneak into the bathroom where Elvis overdosed and just sit on the toilet. And smile. Then leave an upper decker and run cackling out into the hallway where I would summarily get my ass kicked by a couple of underpaid security people. I have aspirations.

Unfortunately, the Graceland mansion doesn't exactly rent out the rooms for a bunch of boring insurance people to mingle and fret about what their lives have become, so we had to do it at the car museum. Apparently, Elvis had a thing for cars.

I don't know much about the man. Sue me.

I have been here seven years and have managed to avoid Graceland, so I was actually somewhat relieved. That, and getting my ass kicked by a guy with a nightstick isn't all that appeal...wait. Rowwr...Oh. Sorry. But, how cool would it be to say you got KICKED OUT OF GRACELAND???

Well, it wasn't in the cards. I would have to be content to try to find someone to hump in the backseat of one of the cars and get busted that way.

We got there and I immediately started getting "the look". Women are such crotchety sluts, sometimes. I have boobs that are like planets orbiting around my chest. I don't wear low cut shirts or draw attention to them in public. I try to make them as inconspicuous as possible. (Shut up, Tami) My co-worker noticed it, as well.

It started with the lady at the front desk. She curtly informed me that I needed to sign a release form (I may be on national TV! I knew I'd get my 15 minutes of fame. I just always thought it would be on the news) and she handed me two blue raffle tickets.

"Oooooh, are we raffling off the pink Caddy? I want the pink one."

I beamed at her and her eyebrows mated as she frowned at me.

"No, those are your drink tickets." She then eyed my chest in a very disapproving manner and went back to her book, "How To Be A Raging Bitch". I wished pubic lice on her and turned around.

I was face to face with an Elvis impersonator.

He stared at my chest. I stared at his crotch. It looked like he had stuffed a puppy in there. Then, with a sneer and the obligatory, "Thankyaveramush", he was gone.

My co-worker, Dee, and I made a beeline for the bar with our magic tickets. I approached the bartender and put one down. "Vodka and tonic, stat!" Every time I tipped him, he did the 'thankyaveramush' thing. I told him the tips would stop if he didn't cut it out. He was good natured, so I decided to hang out with him.

I surveyed the room. You have never seen so many comb-overs in your life. And why do they always cater with barbecue? We live IN MEMPHIS. We can eat that shit all day long, every day. Cater with something we don't ever get, like monkey brains and chocolate ants. I don't eat at these things, anyway, so watching everyone else try to catch the monkeys would be a hoot. If I were a monkey and I lived in a region where my brains were a delicacy, I would move. I would pack up my bananas and ticks, grab my little monkey children, and move. Stupid monkeys.

As the promotional gig started, the chords to, "2001: A Space Odyssey", began. I laughed and everyone turned around to stare at me. I turned my back on them and said to the bartender, "It's insurance. You would think we're launching a fucking shuttle full of cancer cures and Aryan embryos." It was then explained to me that Elvis' shows started with the same music. Whatever. Unless he's coming back from the dead to gyrate his hips for a bunch of insurance people, enough with the fucking music.

I then decided that I was being bitchy, so I moved toward some of the other agents. They were all talking shop. The women were all wearing blazers and had sensible haircuts.

I moved back to the bar.

I looked at the bartender. He looked at me. "You know I was supposed to marry Jon Bon Jovi, don't you?" He sagely nodded and poured me another drink.

As I was taking my first sip, one of the guest speakers began. In his first sentence, he said he wanted to penetrate a certain market. I snarfed my drink and giggled. I meandered over to my group. This speaker said "penetrate" no less than twenty times during his speech. I looked around, and every time he said it, people would fidget. Some people would cross their legs, some would take a drink, some would look at anything but him. I was fascinated and a little drunk, by now. I think my boss was getting frustrated with me for having a sense of humor, but I couldn't help it. Say it..."penetrate". Tell me that doesn't make you want to fidget?


I wandered around, looking at the various cars and eyeballing potential humping partners. It was then that Jeopardy! started. Yes, insurance Jeopardy, folks. Who says insurance seminars are boring?? Pshaw!

They gave each team bicycle horns. The MC referred to these as the "honky honk horns".

We are in Memphis.

The room is at least 50% black.

Again, everyone turned around to stare at me when I hee hawed like a dipshit. I went back to the bar and my good buddy, Steve, the bartender.

I watched grown people cheat and lie during insurance Jeopardy! to win such fabulous prizes as a car care kit, a $50 gift certificate to Red Lobster and movie tickets. These people were ruthless. I was pretty sure that during Final Jeopardy! the woman that looked like a giant banana (all yellow. Every item of clothing and her accessories) was going to claw an opposing players eyes out and then kill the MC.

I was riveted.

Alas, disaster was averted when they declared the answer wrong and gave everyone multiple choice. Pussies.

I went to pee, had a conversation with a large, black woman about her bowel movements and then resumed my place at the bar just in time to see them start the "YMCA".

No, I'm sorry, the YCA. Our new product is YCA.

Some clever marketing person decided that we should wrap up with our version of the hit song, "YMCA". They had their bastard lyrics up on the projector and four of our corporate people up front in their assigned Village People attire. Jaunty leather caps and hardhats, I shit you not.

I was first disgusted that so few people knew how to do the YMCA. I was then thrown into leg crossing, bladder busting gales of hysterics when I saw my boss and my co-workers trying desperately to outdo the table across the aisle. They had the most earnest looks on their faces as they shook their hips, bellowed out the amended lyrics and made the best C's they could. There was a current of rage in the room. These people may be boring, but they're competitive, and if you stole a customer from Arty Plunkett, he would remember it for eons.

As the meeting broke up and we moved to the parking lot, I stopped and looked around:

The defeated and resigned looks on most of the faces was sad and comical. This was the highlight of their whole frigging year and, sonofabitch, it was over.

I have to start carrying a camcorder.


I got a guestbook. How this is any different than comments is beyond me, but all the cool kids are doing it and I'm a sucker for peer pressure.

Wednesday, February 23, 2005

I'm Okay And You're Just Fucking Crazy, Part 2

Speaking of picking your nose...I almost forgot this guy in my list of terrible dates.

Norman - I call him that because every Norman I've ever met had a nose picking problem and flaky skin. One Norman in particular came to mind when I met this guy...

The Norman that rode my bus in junior high was my personal hero. Not because he was cool, but because he was so disgusting and weird that he got his ass kicked on a daily basis on that bus. Grade school kids, girls, boys...there was no discrimination when it came to tormenting Norman, and he asked for it. He kept the other kids distracted so that they didn't zero in on me and stomp my face in. I would scurry to the back of the bus and pray that he wouldn't be sick that day. I had issues.

Anyway, he wore these corduroy pants every single day. He would habitually pick his nose or just wipe it with his hand and then wipe his hand on his pants. They were brown (the pants, not the boogers). It was like a Norman Mucus Map. I still get ill thinking about it.

So, this guy (the date) reminded me of Norman and his mucus collage. I had seen one very grainy picture, taken from a distance, and that was it. He seemed very nice and gentlemanly, so I agreed to meet him for a drink. I am my own worst enemy on most days.

At the time, my hair was fairly short and it looked horrible. I managed to find the only gay man in the free world who could not cut hair and I told him to do whatever he thought would look good. Apparently, he thought making me look like a bull-dyke truckdriver was the way to go.

I had sent Norman recent pictures (because I do not believe in hiding myself and sending a photo taken from space or one of me in high school) so that he would be prepared for the horror and he seemed fine with it. Please store that away in your mental rolodex for later...

He walked into the bar and I immediately ordered a shot. He looked like he had been living in the basement of his grandmothers house for his entire adult life. Visualize with me, here...he was about 5'2, greasy brunette comb over speckled with dandruff, pasty skin, bad teeth, beady little eyes and he promptly introduced himself to my tits. I retched, swallowed, and blamed it on the shot.

He sat down & jammed his index finger up one nostril. With a sigh, he began rooting. I had another shot halfway to my mouth and I stopped in mid air. My lips were pursed in anticipation of the shotglass and my eyes were bugging out of my head. I'm sure that between the two of us, we made quite the pretty little picture of fucked up.

He began to speak in Nasal. If you don't know what that is, put a finger up your nose and try to talk normally. There, that's Nasal.

Him: "Wow. Nat's really snort." Root, root.

Me: "What? I...I...I..." I stopped trying at that point. I closed my mouth with an audible click.

Him: "Nore hair. Snort." He hooked his finger and I saw his knuckle cause his nostril to bulge even further. I cringed in anticipation of whatever nugget he was readying for extraction.

Me: "Oh. My hair. Yeah. Short. Do you live with your grandmother, by any chance?"

Him: "No. I nave my nown condo. Ins sweet."

Me: "Uh huh. Sweet."

The entire time this is taking place, I am staring at him in naked horror. I could not believe the man was picking his nose like it was as natural as scratching your chin. What was more disturbing was that he was so enthusiastic about it. I was morbidly fascinated and equally repulsed.

Then I had a terrifying thought...what if he tried to touch me at some point? I could see myself doing the scatman dance, hopping around in circles, spewing gibberish and eventually running shrieking from the building. I am a girl who takes preventative measures so I started furiously scratching my head. I would pause long enough to order another shot and then dig into my scalp, again.

Him: "Wants wrong? Why are nu scratching?"

Me: "Lice. My daughter gave it to me. I'm having a hard time getting rid of it."

It was his turn to look horrified. He leaned back and away from me.

After several uncomfortable minutes and the two of us making spectacles of ourselves (him rooting, me scratching), he stood and announced that he had an early day the next day. He reached across me for a cocktail napkin and I uttered one high, breathless squeak before I realized what he was doing. He deposited his hard earned blob into the napkin, balled it up and put it on the bar. I couldn't take my eyes off the offending ball of paper and filth. I kept imagining the booger trying to free itself and oozing across the bar toward my unsuspecting arm (all to the theme of Jaws) while I was making nice with freak boy.

I was not going to let that happen. I kept my eyes on the napkin while he was saying his goodbyes.

Him: "Well, it was nice to .. err.. meet you. I'll call you, okay?"

Me: "Uh huh. You, too, Norman."

Him: "My name is Mike."

Me: "Suuuure it is."

He called me a few months later, out of the blue.

Him: "Nas your hair grown out, nyet?"

Me: "Who is this?"

Him: "Mike. I net you a cumple nof months nago. Nyour hair was too snort for me then."

Me: "You've got to be fucking kidding me. Tell me you have a finger up your nose right now? You do, don't you?"

Him: (silence)

Me: "That's what I thought. You'll be proud. . . you have officially convinced me that I'm better off licking pussies. Have a great day. Asshole."

Tuesday, February 22, 2005

There's A Gay, Presidential Orgy In The Bottom Of My Purse

I don't know what that title is all about. Well, I do, but I can't explain it.

Random things pop into my head and they're funny to me. When I try to relay the funny to someone else, they always end up chuckling politely and then looking at me like I've been sitting there picking my nose. This is followed by an uncomfortable silence. The silence continues until I get up, mumble something about gophers, and leave. You can see why I might keep these thoughts to myself.

1. I came to work today and there was a monkey hanging on my chair. He has on red boxers with hearts on them and there is a hole in the back of them for his cute little monkey tail. He has velcro hands and feet. He is now hanging around my neck and resting comfortably on my boobs. You know that people in your office love you when they randomly bequeath monkeys to you. I guess someone felt bad for murdering my last monkey. (Well, I call it murder because it was stress related and I don't stress myself out. I threw it at my boss and it hit its head on the doorframe. Stuffed monkey brains went everywhere. I have not been right since)

2. My right shoe is clicking for no reason. We are in a carpeted office, so it's obviously something in the mysterious inner-shoe workings. I am now barefoot with a gigolo monkey hanging around my neck. That's right, people. Nothing but a professional attitude, here.

3. I wish I lived closer to home. Not so I could take a nap or eat lunch there or any of that. I want to go home to poop. I hate doing it in my office because it's a ridiculously long process. Here is what I do:

  • I pick the bathroom. We have 2 in our building and they both sit in the middle of 2 other offices. I choose the one with the least amount of ears on the other side of the walls.
  • Walk by the bathroom several times. Wait until the person who could potentially hear me pooping gets a phone call. Bolt into the bathroom.
  • Sit down and pee. Reach behind me, flush and then count to 3. When the sounds of the toilet start to dissipate, turn on the water. This is all in an effort to pretend that I've just peed and I'm now washing my hands, when in reality, I'm turning purple trying to hurry. This never works, so I'm hoping that everyone in the office thinks that it takes me twelve times as long as a normal person to wash my hands. That water is not being turned off until I've finished.
  • Slowly roll the toilet roll so that no one knows I'm using more paper. In the event that it makes noise, take some of the paper and pretend to blow my nose. You know, in case someone has their ear pressed to the door, trying to hear me poop.
  • Flush again and cough alot. I don't know why.
  • Stand up and quietly adjust stockings and whatnot. The water is still running. Grab the spray and begin the most difficult part of the process: applying enough pressure to the spray to emit some of the scent without fully engaging the trigger and thereby notifying everyone in the office that I have just sprayed scent of some sort. You should see me doing this. It's painful to watch, I'm sure.
  • Actually wash my hands and then berate myself in the mirror for having such a stupid hang up regarding pooping.
  • Emerge from the bathroom and quickly shut the door behind me so that none of the air freshener gets out. It needs to do its job.
  • Blush furiously and run to my office. Shut the door and cry.
  • Noticeably cringe if anyone goes into the bathroom within half an hour.
If there is a single person in this office who doesn't know when I'm pooping, every single time, they are a fucking moron.
4. My purse has a little over thirty dollars in change on the bottom of it. It weighs 8 pounds. People will comment on it when they move it for whatever reason, and when they do, two things pop into my head:
  • The time that two of my girlfriends and I went out. I was driving us home and we were all pretty lit. They had been especially catty that night and I was reaching my boiling point with their vapid bullshit. Ten minutes before we arrived at one girls house, I opened up a can of verbal whoop ass. Things escalated from there. I got out of my car after we stopped and our argument continued on the front lawn. In a moment of blinding rage, I swung my purse like a lasso and released it in the general direction of one girls head. It missed her by mere centimeters and coins went everywhere. Three grown women ended up crying and crawling around on a wet lawn, at 4 am, in club attire, looking for my money. The following day, the fortunate girl (whose head I had missed) had a garage sale. She called me to tell me that some white trash woman had wandered around her yard for an hour, grinning from tooth to tooth, picking up change. She probably made $25 off of me. Alcohol is the devil.
  • The thought of all those faces on the coins. Hence, the title of this entry.
I can't help it.

Monday, February 21, 2005

Demons and ... Well, More Demons

I went Friday night to see the movie, " Constantine", with my friend, Rob.

Rob and I like the same movies and the same music. He is a lot of fun and smells really good. If we were having wild monkey sex, it would be a superb partnership. As it is, we are not having any sort of sex. There goes the theory that men and women can't be friends without being physical. I'm sorry to disappoint you all.

I'm actually sorry for me, as well. I miss wild monkey sex. Hell, while we're on the subject, I'm tired of playing with my own boobs. I mostly just mush them together and try to see what they would look like if they were one big boob.

You all know I'm weird, so don't act like it surprises you.

So, the movie is incredible. Seriously. I command you to see it in the theater because the special effects are great and Keanu Reeves took an acting course or something. He was halfway decent in his role as the demon deporter. My legs and stomach were sore the following day (again, no sex, sorry) and I could only figure that I had been that keyed up during the movie. It was that good. If you see it and you don't think it's great, you are not cool. I'm just being straightforward with you because I care about you and someone had to say it.

We went for drinks afterwards and I met Steve. Steve is the epitome of a geek. He's 51, never married, no children and he just retired from some IT position. He had no hair on his arms. I found that very strange. So, while Rob was mentally undressing the stunning Asian woman across the bar, Steve and I chatted. He just came back from a vacation to Australia. When he busted out the palm pilot to show me pictures, I clapped my hands and exclaimed, "Sweet! I love geeks! You're always prepared!" After I oohed and ahhed over the pictures of a the koala bear and I correctly identified the wombat in one photo (Steve was enormously impressed. I have all kinds of useless shit floating around in my how to identify a wombat, just so you know) Rob and I left.

Saturday afternoon while I was shaving my legs (it had been awhile. I went through two blades and my tub now looks like someone sheared a fucking Yeti in there), my phone rang. It was Frank, another friend. We made plans for him and his daughter to come out on Sunday and have dinner with me and my kids.

Frank is a single dad. He is twenty-five, a Marine, incredibly sweet and an all around wonderful guy. His daughter, Isabelle, is three. I find it strange that Frank is still single. I have never met his daughter until Sunday. Now I know why Frank is single.

I met them at their car. He opened the back door and I squealed in delight. There was this adorable red-headed, blue eyed creature peering shyly at me from beneath a pastel pink hoodie. He picked her up and I told her it was nice to meet her. I had no idea, at the time, that beneath that innocent, big-eyed, chubby cheeked exterior, there was a demon gleefully cackling at my foolish assumptions of toddler sweetness.

He brought her inside and put her down. She timidly wandered around while my (now enraptured) daughter followed her through the house.

We were all quickly being put under her spell. My son was the only one who seemed able to resist the evil. I imagine this is because he is smarter than the rest of us.

She declared that she had to go potty and Frank took her to the bathroom. I called my daughter over and asked her to pull some of her toys out so that Isabelle could find something to play with. "This is her first time to be here so she'll probably be shy for the rest of the night. Don't be upset if she's not feeling very playful, okay?"

Yeah. Okay. Whatever. I have shitty instincts.

Isabelle and Frank were in the bathroom for an unusually long time. I assumed she was having issues. In hindsight, I'm sure she was in there sucking some more of Franks soul out of him so he would be docile for the rest of the evening.

When she emerged from the bathroom, she began issuing orders. She either showed up possessed, or my toilet is a direct portal to the bowels of Hell. Either way, the kid that came out of there made me very badly want to drop kick her within 10 minutes. Frank seemed oblivious to her actions. I was amazed. She was running my poor, sweet daughter around like a puppet. When every toy in the house had been deposited into the middle of the living room floor, Izzy (as her father calls her. I kept calling her Ozzy because it was more fucking fitting), declared very loudly that she didn't like my daughter and nothing she had was good enough to play with. When I saw the crushed look on my daughters face, I called her into the kitchen. I knelt down to speak with her and looked into her troubled blue eyes.

"Virginia, when you were three, you sometimes said things you didn't mean. Ignore her. She's obviously channeling a general in Satans army, so try to stay out of striking distance and don't look directly into her eyes. Capiche?" She just nodded at me and went back to the living room with a cookie. When Ozzy demanded one, I told her Virginia got the last one and then laughed internally. Little asshole.

A few moments later, she told my son that she didn't like him. He looked at her, looked at her dad, said, "I'm heartbroken", and went back to his game. My son is the coolest kid alive.

She shrieked. She spit. She ignored me when I told her to stop jumping on my bed, couch, chairs, coffee table, daughter. She finally got a cookie and smeared it all over my sofa. She declared her dislike of me and my entire family numerous times. The feeling was mutual.

I generally enjoy children. I especially enjoy watching my daughter interact with other children. Believe me when I say that this was not a child. There were no childlike qualities about her. She was sheer and unadulterated malice with a sippy cup.

Some time later, my daughter came into the kitchen and wearily asked me, "Mom, can we watch a movie?" I thought this a splendid idea. We all needed a break. I was on my seventh beer and contemplating giving my kids one. We put a movie on and my daughter directed Ozzy to the coffee table. It is wide enough for 2 adults to sit along side each other comfortably and is my daughters favorite place to sit when watching a movie. I watched for any outward signs of trouble and the demon leered at me. She then became engrossed in Shrek. The feeling of relief in the room was palpable. Frank was still catatonic.

I was in the kitchen cooking dinner when I looked up and saw my daughter on her hands and knees, head hanging. Frank muttered, "I think we have a problem", and I ran for her. The breathless, high pitched scream had just begun to descend enough to be audible to human ears when I scooped her into my arms. I assumed she had fallen. We are a graceful bunch. She gasped, "She pushedmeandsaidIcouldn'tsitthereandIhitmybooooooooobie!", before she dissolved into tears again. I gently pulled her shirt up and immediately saw the angry, red welt that was forming on her breastbone. She had landed on a hard, plastic toy and I was contemplating shoving it up Ozzy's ass. I glared at her while I comforted my daughter.

"Why did you push her?" (Translation: If I could, I would throw you down on the same toy, you little fucksnot) Silence.

"Is there not enough room for both of you? It looks to me like there is." (Translation: And if I have my way, my daughter will be sitting there, enjoying a box of cookies while you look on in misery, you little stain) More silence and the barest hint of a smile.

I then turned to Frank. "Are you just going to let her get away with that?" (Translation: Your daughter needs to be crying harder than mine and if you don't do it, I will, goddammit) I was quickly moving from angry to livid. He had watched the whole thing and was still just standing there like a stunned cow. My anger seemed to shake him a little and he started toward Ozzy. She began howling and I felt marginally better. He picked her up, deposited her on the sofa and walked away. She was looking at me. I stuck my tongue out at her.

After calming my daughter and feeding her dinner, I started yawning. I gave my son the googly eyes and he started doing the same thing. Virginia even picked up on it and followed suit.

It was retarded. The three of us were yawning, stretching and making a huge production out of saying things like, "Boy, I'm tired!", and, "Gee, it's getting late!" We could not have been any more obvious or spastic.

Two extremely long hours later, I am putting my shoes on to walk them out to their car. Ozzy has already demanded I remain indoors. I gave her a dirty look and put my jacket on. We walked out to their car and after he strapped her in, she said, "You go back inside right now!" I ignored her and turned to him.

We exchanged the usual pleasantries and I said something about Ozzy being a very sassy little girl. He just nodded and said, "Yeah. She should sleep well tonight."

"Oh, she sleeps? Interesting. I didn't think they needed rest."

He looked at me strangely and went to get into his car. He said, "We'll have to do this again", and shut the door.

As I was walking back to my house, I muttered, "Yeah, we'll do this again when her fucking home freezes over, my man."

Wednesday, February 16, 2005

The Adventures of Captain Buttplug

I was talking to a friend last night about the new internet dating site for people with mental illnesses and I started thinking about my 7-year career with a personals site.

No, that is not a typo. I have had one for almost a decade. I am living proof that sometimes that shit just doesn't work. Either that, or "you're just not girlfriend material" isn't some sort of crapola line to get out of buying me anything for Valentines Day.

I figured that in the spirit of giving, I would relive some of those "dates" and share them with you. Why? Because I'm all about people laughing at my expense. A lot of these people qualified for the new 'medicated people' site, but I'm sure they're in denial. Names have been changed to protect me from being murdered by one of these whackjobs. So, without further ado, I give you:

I'm Okay and You're Just Fucking Crazy

Mr. Brownstone - this guy seemed relatively normal until we went out. He invited me to meet a bunch of his friends and I was fine with that. What he failed to mention is that his friends are all a bunch of drug addicted losers. We went to an apartment in the ghetto of Memphis and as soon as I walked in, I turned around and walked back out. There were various drugs laid out like cocktail peanuts on the coffee table and some shady looking guy smoking something out of a test tube in the corner. If you smoke anything out of a test tube, I'm going to just assume that you will steal my purse, bludgeon me to death with a heavy object, and wear my clothes to your next alley gathering. I don't want to be associated with you or anyone you know by name. Fuck a bunch of that.
I walked home, at 10pm, through one of the worst parts of Memphis. How I'm here and not having relations with a donkey in Tijuana is beyond me.
Victor/Victoria- on our first date, we met up with some of his friends at a restaurant. It was the middle of summer. I wore shorts, a lacy white shirt with a tank underneath, and sandals. We sat down with his friends and everyone is making small talk. Somewhere in the conversation, I mentioned to the girl across from me that I was in the process of finding another job. At this point, the date leans over and says, "You know, you probably shouldn't dress so slutty when you go to your job interviews. Your potential boss might get the wrong idea." The girl across the table choked on her food when I replied, very loudly, "Oh, no, I dress very conservatively for interviews. I always get the job I want, though. My blowjobs are primo." He couldn't understand why I wouldn't go out with him again.
Mangina - he was gorgeous, intelligent and the biggest pussy I've ever met. He cried about everything. I'm all for a man being sensitive, but when you cry on our first date, you're not for me. I dated him for two more weeks thinking that maybe he'd just been having an especially hormonal day when we went to see, "Dr. Doolittle". He cried every day. I took him two boxes of tissues and told him that I couldn't see him anymore. The water works were still in full force when I left.
Dirk Diggler - he mentioned his dick and it's enormous girth at least 3 times during our first dinner. I told him I had a matching vagina. "Seriously, you could park a car in there. I could smuggle an entire family and their dog out of Cuba. The thing is huge. Is that a problem?" I never heard from him again.
Captain Buttplug - I've told this story more times than I can count. It's my most bizarre encounter, yet. He first sent bogus pictures. When I went to meet him for drinks, a very unfortunate looking fellow emerged from the car. I decided to try to get to know him, anyway. Everyone has their insecurities, right? (I have since figured out that he just didn't want me to leave any actual photos of him on the computer. That would make it too easy for the police after my bloody, lifeless, naked & violated body was found in a landfill somewhere)
We go inside and my ass hadn't even hit the seat before he had a drink in front of me. He was sipping iced tea. I asked why and he said that he had a meeting the following morning.
Whatever. Lightweight.
We make small talk for a few minutes and he makes sure to order me a new drink whenever mine is about half gone. I realized that he was trying to get me drunk.
I was amused. My ancestry consists of: Cherokee Indian, Irish & Scottish. I was born drunk, for shits sake.
I continue drinking and he keeps telling me what a big, important job he has. Approximately 20 minutes into the conversation, he tells me that he thinks it would be really 'neat' if I went in the bathroom, took my bra off and came back to the table. I laughed and then did that uncomfortable tapering off laugh as I began to realize that he was serious. "AHAHAHAHAA. AHA. ha. ahaa....oh." I told him I couldn't be responsible for what might happen if I set these puppies loose and I frantically waved for the cocktail server. I asked for a double.
He gets bolder by the minute and I'm sucking on my drinks like the only oxygen in the room is at the bottom of that glass. Then he sailed right past the state line from, "Kind of Perverted, Tennessee", to, "FreakyDeaky, Arkansas". (All people from Arkansas are strange in one way or another. It's not my fault, so don't try to blame me or say I'm wrong. I'm right. Trust me on this)
FreakyDeaky: "Have you ever worn a butt plug?"
Me: "A what? Butt plug? Is that something for incontinence? I don't have that problem. Well, sometimes when I sneeze, I pee a little, but as far as what comes out of my..."
FD: "No, no. An anal plug. It's used for sexual pleasure."
Me: "Oh. I think I'll go take my bra off, now."
FD: (dreamy look in his eye like he's talking about his first dog or something equally NORMAL) "Yeah, it's really a turn on to wear one when you go out. If you wear it all day it can cause the most amazing sensations."
Me: (to cocktail) "Could I have another double, please? Actually, bring two. Yes, two. Keep 'em coming."
FD: "I wore one tonight." (at this point, he places his hand over mine)
Me: (snatching my hand back) "Jesus! Don't scare me like that! I have a thing about touching. Oh, I didn't tell you? Yeah, it's a phobia. I can't stand to be touched. At all. Ever. They have to put me under to get my teeth cleaned. Really. I need another drink. Wow. Great weather we're having, eh?"
FD: "This isn't going anywhere, is it? You're not going home with me?"
Me: "Dear God, what in the hell gave you the impression that going home with you was even on my agenda?"
At this point, he stood up, threw a dollar bill on the table and walked out the door. Now, keep in mind, I had balked about meeting him that night because I was broke. I don't like assuming anything, so I planned on going dutch. He insisted that he would treat if I would just meet him. I had not one dollar to my name. I had no cell phone, no credit cards, check, nada. Zip. (I had only been in town for a couple of weeks) As I'm looking at the hostess and thinking I can take her, the guy at the table adjacent to me leans over.
Guy: "Hey, I'm not trying to be nosy, but did that guy just stiff you?"
Me: (shuddering) "Please don't use the word 'stiff' when referring to him. Or anal. Please, Jesus. But, yes, he walked out."
Guy: "What a prick. Well, come join us and I'll pick up your tab."
Me: "Do you prefer me to spit or swallow?"
Not really, you assholes. I just thanked him profusely and made a new friend.
The following day, I got an email from Buttplug. It said, verbatim:
"That's what I get for going out with a young, dumb unedjucated waitress."

Monday, February 14, 2005

Doodlebugs for Tami

I was out at the dropzone getting drunk and watching other people skydiving. I couldn't jump that day because I had landed on my ass the weekend before and injured my back and my tailbone. Yes, I landed on my ass. My legs apparently revolted and shot straight out in front of me at the last minute.

The last thing I remember is watching one of my jumpmasters cut away and pull his reserve parachute.

A few hours later, I woke up in the trailer, wrapped up in a parachute. I had deep cuts all over my hands & arms and one on my face. I stood up and immediately fell back down. I couldn't feel my left leg from the knee to the thigh. I was dragging it behind me like Quasimodo and bleating for someone to help me. I was still shitfaced.

I found them all drinking and bullshitting by a bonfire. I was met with applause and laughter. I spewed obscenities and demanded to know who had done what to my leg (I was the victim of various hazing activities, so I assumed this was all part of some elaborate prank gone wrong). Each of them told a part of the story.

My jumpmaster had released his main parachute and gone off course. This was in Midland, Texas, where the only things that grow are tumbleweed, cactus and mesquite. He landed across the highway in a giant field of the shit. I witnessed this and thought it would be a good idea to play Girl Fucking Wonder and save his main parachute, which had floated about a half mile away when he cut it loose. I attempted to climb the barbed wire fence and managed to rip my shirt in half. Undeterred, I pulled the shirt off and went careening through the minefield on the other side. (At this point I peered underneath the canopy in which I was wrapped and muttered, "Fuck." More laughter.) I was hopping. I was dancing. I was singing. I was 3/4 of the way through a bottle of Tres Generaciones. I got to the canopy and picked it off the cactus. I then folded it, wrapped it around me like a cape and started flapping my way back to the dropzone.

They came to look for me when they saw me drop out of sight. I was flapping and singing and then I wasn't there. They found me lying on the ground, crying and playing with the doodlebugs. I was carried back to the hangar where two large mesquite thorns were pulled from my knee. I shrieked and passed out like a little bitch while this was happening (mesquite thorns apparently contain some sort of mild poison, and that had caused the numbness in my leg).

"Yes, sir, I can't come to work today. Well, I was helping an old lady with her groceries and I twisted my ankle trying to avoid stepping on her miniature poodle."

That was my story and I stuck to it.

Chocolate Covered Cyanide

I did a list. I have no explanation for this. It seemed appropriate.

Things I Miss About Having A Boyfriend:

1. Sex
2. I have to kill my own bugs. I hate bugs.
3. Having a nice, warm stomach to shimmy my ass up against. My butt gets really cold.
4. Car questions. I know a lot about cars, but I have no idea what a timing belt or chain (whatever) is. Everytime I wonder about it, I imagine myself opening my hood and the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland popping up, looking at his pocket watch and shrieking, "I'm late! I'm late! For a very important date!" Don't you wish you could be in my head for five minutes?
5. All his friends. I love to host a bunch of obnoxious men. Honestly. I should have been a Hooters girl.
6. Sharing a beer with someone. My daughter doesn't like the taste of beer and my son prefers Jager. Communists.
7. Cooking something other than macaroni & cheese and chicken nuggets.
8. Holy shit. That's all I can think of. THAT'S IT. Wow. I've been single for a long time.

Well, Happy Valentines Day. I was a little bit bummed out and then I got the most ridiculously beautiful flowers delivered to my office.

And guess what?.......

I didn't have to sleep with anyone to get them. I am loved for my mind!


Friday, February 11, 2005

Snicker the Licker

I was at work yesterday when my cell phone rang. It was my sister-in-law. I answered it because she never calls me when I'm working unless it's really important.

"Crystal...are you expecting company from Texas?"

"Well, unless the president of the Matthew McConaughey fan club finally decided to make good on his threat, then, no. What's up?"

"Well, I'm not at work, but my sister just called me. There's some lady in the apartment office asking for directions to your place and she has Texas tags."

I immediately hear sirens and bells and shit in my head, along with a sultry female voice saying, "We are now at DEFCON 5. Danger. We are now at DEFCON 5."

I mentioned before that my son had been missing for 10 years. His father took him. That story, in itself, is a saga. That man and his she-beast are two of the most evil (and unattractive, incidentally) creatures I have ever encountered. I will expand on that at a later date, but this...troll...did things to me for the five years I was with him that still, to this day, make the hair stand up on the back of my neck. He is a terrible person and I guess Satan saw opportunity because he paired him up with the She-Beast and they had two bundles of evil themselves. My son was their babysitter and I know that it irks her every day that she doesn't have him there to watch her demon spawn so that she can round up more raw meat for them or make sacrifices to the Ugly God or whatever she does.

The father (we'll call him Sorry-Sack-of-Shit, Good-for-Nothing, Conniving, Abusive, Spineless, Lying, Manipulative Dickhead...or just 'Dickhead,' for short) called last week and while talking to Devon, asked about school. My son mentioned that he's excited about football next year and then Dickhead asked if that meant that he wanted to stay with me (Duh. I'm the coolest Mom on earth. Who wouldn't want to be my kid??). Devon answered in the affirmative and said that he was really happy here. I excused myself and went to my bedroom. I shut the door, jumped up on the bed and did the Happy Dance, all the while screaming, "That's right! Who's your momma?! That actually applies here! Holy shit! I rock!"

So, I imagine that Dickhead was a wee bit upset about this. It means less on his tax return, after all. And he might have to actually - gasp! - keep a job and pay for a real babysitter instead of sucking the life and spirit out of Devon and making sure that he's twelve going on forty.

I would not be surprised if Dickhead and She-Beast stole a car and drove here to try to snatch him back and go on the run again. Actually, I anticipate it. I relish the thought of putting my foot in She-Beast's ass, nevermind. Her ass is gargantuan and I just had an image of me with my foot stuck in there, flailing on my back while she runs to and fro, bleating like a wounded buffalo.

I'll just run her over. My car is hoopty, anyway.

So I snatched my keys, ran back to my boss' office, gave him the auctioneer's version of what was happening and bolted out the door. I broke the sound barrier getting home (and I passed a cop. I had already decided that if he tried to pull me over, I was doing a Smokey and The Bandit. They say, "Hell hath no fury like that of a woman scorned." I say that's a crock. Hell hath no fury like that of a woman protecting her children. Trip a little kid in front of the kid's mother. No matter how docile and sweet she is, she will pull your sinuses out through your asshole, mark my words) and found my son in one piece and oblivious to the events unfolding.

I later ascertained that Dickhead's parents had come into town to surprise both my son & me. They are two of the sweetest people in existence and I used to wonder how in the world they could have had such an awful child. Then I watched The Omen, and all my questions were answered. We went to dinner last night and Grandma busted out a photo album that had pictures of me when I was seventeen.

The horror.

My eyebrows make me look like I'm wearing a ferret as a headband and my glasses...sweet Jesus...I have seen smaller satellites.

As soon as I get a new bulb for my scanner (donations being accepted) I will share the repugnantness (I don't know, but if it isn't, it damned well should be) with you all.

(Edit: Sweet Christ, I title a story and then don't even make mention of the critter that inspired it. On the way to dinner, the grandparents' poodle, Snicker, stood in my lap and slurped at my face like it was roast beef. I threatened Snicker and told him I would stuff him in my cleavage and he would go the way of a zillion objects before him into that vast, empty wasteland. His reply was to cram his tongue up my right nostril. Why do old people like ratty, nervous dogs whose eyes are constantly running?)

Wednesday, February 09, 2005


I almost forgot...

The funniest conversation I had all evening was with the Bimbo. I've mentioned her several times. She got a trillion dollars when a wall fell on her husband and killed him. I don't feel bad about thinking that's funny as hell because he was apparently abusive to both her and her child.

She now just works to have something to do and to make sure that the limits of my sanity are tested on a daily basis. Up until last night I was certain that she had the mental capacity of a brain damaged cocker spaniel. She has now become my favorite person. Let me tell you why...

She's not just unabashedly stupid, she's fucking nuts. Whacko. Crazy as a shithouse rat.

As we were leaving the car museum last night, it became glaringly obvious that she was drunk. My conscience got the better of me and I offered to drive her car and take her home. I was a little drunk, too, but she has the coordination of Katherine Hepburn on black ice when she's sober, so I wasn't taking any chances. I'm all about saving lives, people.

As we're driving, she starts telling me about her new asshole husband. He is a living Ken doll and it cracks me up every time he oozes through the door.

Anyway, Bimbo thinks Ken is cheating on her. This makes me feel bad and I reach deep, deep, deep, get the idea....down and find some sympathetic platitude. This is how it went:

Me: "That sucks, Bimbo. You're.....pretty. I can't imagine why he would do that. Do you suck in bed?"

I'm not very good at the art of conversation. Some of you know this.

Bimbo: "No, but I'm not doing anything kinky. Nothing goes in my butt and I don't like the way pee tastes."

Me: (speechless)

Bimbo: "I'm going to catch him, though. I've followed him several times and put a tape recorder in his car (at this point she starts gesturing wildly. I rolled the window down and stuck my head out to avoid losing an eye to her Racecar Red fingernails). I even have the spy sunglasses! You know, the ones with the little mirrors on them so you can see people behind you!"

Me: "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! What did you do?? Order a spy kit??"

Her: "Yes."

Me: "Oh. Well, aren't you worried he'll catch you following him?"

Her: "No. I have a whole bunch of wigs. I borrow my sister's car and I change wigs at every stoplight so he can't recognize me."

Me: (unable to breathe and trying not to drive off the road)

Her: "I heard one of those tapes and I know he's picking up hookers."

Me: (trying to control myself) "How? Oh, God, please tell me how."

Her: "I heard one on the tape. She asked him...well...(lowers voice)..if he wanted to see her pussy."

Me: (hearing her just fine) "Asked him what?"

Her: (still whispering) "If he wanted to see her pussy."

Me: "What? Her what?"


Me: "Damn, Bimbo, calm down. A girl's gotta make a living. So, if you know that, why are you still with him?"

Her: "For revenge. I'm waiting to catch him redhanded and then I'm going to .. I don't know. Get some kind of revenge."

Me: "I think you should let him catch you fucking the Mexican gardeners. Make sure one has it in your ass and the other is peeing on you."

Her: "Nah. I figured I'd just divorce him, take everything he has, including his dignity, balls and perfect damned hair and then leave him in ruins to wallow in his middle-aged misery."

Me: (dumbfounded) "Damn, girl. That's cold. You ain't right."

Her: "Can you recommend any particular place to buy a trenchcoat?"

I have been following her around all day like a puppy, waiting patiently for her to start shitting the funny again.

Elvis and His Anaconda Have Left The Building

I deleted this story for a few reasons...

1. It sucked. This was just one of those nights where it was a, "you had to be there", kind of thing. No one else seemed to find the MC calling bicycle horns, "honky honk horns", in a room full of black people (oh, and I forgot the mention that not one black person was selected for the jeopardy game. They REALLY WERE honky honk horns) nearly as scandalous and funny as I did.
2. It came off as mean spirited and was never intended to be that way. I really did have a great time. I tease about insurance people being boring, but I was the one standing in the corner inhaling vodka & tonics while they did the, "YMCA". I have social anxiety. It was just disconcerting to be the "whipper snapper" in the room at the tender age of thirty-one.
3. I kept waffling over whether or not to delete it...and then someone I trust implicitly said the story made them "squirm". That sealed its fate.
4. That is all. In closing:

  • The Elvis impersonator really did look like he had an anaconda sleeping in the crotch of his underwear. It was horrific.
  • One of my favorite people in the world is my boss. I'm one of the lucky ones. He's like a brother to me and he puts up with, and sometimes even laughs at, my spastic behavior.
  • I really do think it would be incredibly cool to get thrown out of Graceland.
  • I meant what I said about the monkeys. I mean, sonofabitch...they want to EAT YOUR BRAINS. Get the hell out, already.

For Ed...

I have read this over and over and I can't think of any way to embellish it. This is a story I wrote a few months ago. This is for you, specifically, Ed. Thank you for your words. They mean so much to me...

The first drop zone I jumped at was at a tiny little airport in between Midland & Odessa, Texas. I was the only female skydiver, so I was treated like a little sister by all my jumpmasters. I got wedgies, noogies and all that other fun shit, but the thing I got most of all was constant cockblocking.

We had a stream of weekend students and most of them were guys my age. If one of them dared show an interest in me, or vice versa, they were given "advice." Your jumpmaster is basically responsible for your safety and your life and you want him to like you. A lot. These guys listened raptly to this "advice" and then avoided me like I had herpes. When I would try talking to my JMs about this, they would give me the big-eyed, "Why, we don't know what you're talking about, princess!!" look. I masturbated constantly that summer.

One Saturday afternoon, a group of five guys had come to jump. They had all been bred on some island somewhere, because every one of them fell between really attractive and mouthwatering. Either that, or I was so horny from my dry spell that I could have found redeeming qualities in Steve Buscemi, provided he had a dick. Anyway, we're all sitting in one of the hangars waiting for the wind to die down a little and just bullshitting. I'm surrounded by men. Twelve total. Five students, three regular jumpers and four jumpmasters. I'm a trembling, jerky ball of horn. I'm doing my best to flirt surreptitiously with 1 through 5, assembly line style. I'd flirt with one until he was nervously glancing at one of the JMs, and then I'd move on to the next. The JMs would never dole out their advice in front of me, so I actually had a chance of securing a hook up while everyone was present. I'm grinning like a retard and thoroughly enjoying the looks of frustration on my JMs' faces. I thought about poking out my tongue at them. It probably would have been safer to try and buttfuck a wolverine at that point.

I get nervous before jumps. Its like first date jitters—terrible butterflies and that sick-on you get right before you go over the rise of a rollercoaster. We had all been drinking the night before and I was a wee bit hungover, to boot. I was flirting, but I was also thinking about our jump. My stomach started to react. I felt the first of the gas bubbles.

No problem.

We are outside, it's windy and there are 12 men. No one will even think it was me. I wait until it builds so that it can be one long fart and not a series of small ones. As the gas is in mid-build, it decides it has somewhere to be and we're going to get this show on the road. I'm sitting in a metal chair.

Unable to control it, I ripped the longest, loudest fart I have ever experienced. It went on for what felt like hours. Conversation came to a complete halt. Everyone starts looking around trying to pinpoint the source of the noise. Because it lasted 23 goddamned minutes, they had plenty of time to zero in on me. My face being an alarming shade of scarlet probably helped out, as well. I have never mentally and physically tried so hard to clench my own asshole as I did that day.

As the tsunami was about to end, a straggler caught up. I felt it and I immediately crossed my legs. I couldn't have looked any more fucking spastic. The leg crossing maneuver was a failure. I shit. Only a little, but enough to know that if I didn't run to the trailer and get to some toilet paper, I was going to have a wet spot on the seat of my pants. We sat there in silence for about 30 seconds and I fervently prayed for an elephant to actually run out from under one of the chairs. I was not cool. I was so far removed from cool. When no elephant appeared, I ran like hell. I ran straight to my car and left.

I came back the following weekend. Skydiving is my passion, I would probably never see those boys again, and I wanted to get the razzing over with. I figured they wouldn't be too hard on me since I so effectively cockblocked myself. Not a word was ever said about it. However, stitched to my frap hat, in bold green letters, was my new nickname. Everyone had one on theirs. Mine just happened to be "Buzzsaw."

Monday, February 07, 2005

Girl meets boobs. I'm the one with the very small person nestled securely in my cleavage.  Posted by Hello

Don't Blame Me, Blame Society!

Just a few things...

1. I scared the shit out of some kid on the way home today. It wasn't intentional.

I was driving and in a pretty good mood. I was talking to my car about how evil it is and telling it that it should just stop fucking with me, already. I was looking at it today and some of its evil has manifested in a sneer. When I had the wreck, the hood bowed up quite a bit on the passengers side. If you look at the car from the front, it looks like it's sneering. Asshole car.

So, it's pissing down rain and I turn on my windshield wipers. They're jacked up, too. The rubber is coming off, so on every arc, it looks like the wipers are trailing little black tails. I have about a 3-inch-wide strip of windshield through which I can see clearly. I know that I'm pathetic and that's okay. But my car is malicious and I refuse to buy anything else for it until it stops tormenting me.

I'm giggling about the wipers having tails and making fun of the car when I heard the first few chords of "Killing In The Name." I turned it up and merged into traffic on the highway. I'm raging against the machine and screaming, "Fuck you! I won't do what you tell me! Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!" and gripping the steering wheel. I'm grinning like a psycho because I have it in my head that this song is about my car and that, in some weird way, it was fate that it came on when it did. I need medication that hasn't been developed yet, and I know that, too.

I look over as I'm doing the head nod thing (you know..nod your head, just do it really, really enthusiastically to the beat of whatever music) and see this kid in a minivan next to me. My first thought is, "Wow. His face is plastered to that glass. Why don't they have him in a seatbelt?" My second thought is, "Oh, shit. This kid is looking at me like I'm certifiably nuts. Kids are so perceptive." His eyes were as big as saucers and his mouth was a perfect "O". I slowed down so that they would pull ahead and thus narrowly avoided being mentioned in a therapy session someday.

I hope.

2. I came home today and I was standing in the kitchen, looking through my mail and absent-mindedly listening to my 12-year-old son talk about the game he was playing on his PS2. Some nice boy that lives on the property had temporarily swapped games with him. I was very pleased with this development.

My son is scary smart and a very old soul. His is an amazing story, but suffice to say that he was missing from my life for over 10 years while his father ran from place to place ensuring that he would never a normal childhood and that I wouldn't be able to track him down. I have had him back in my custody for seven months. I am constantly amazed that a child who suffered a decade of physical and emotional abuse at the hands of his father's slutwhorefuckbag girlfriend has turned out to be such a tender, sweet, thoughtful and respectful kid. He is incredible. He also cracks me up on a consistent basis. He is a natural comedian. It is very difficult for him to identify with his peers, however, so I was understandably relieved that he seemed to have finally made a friend.

Anyway, he's going on about the game and how cool it is. It's called, "Need For Speed: Underground," or something to that effect. Now, I am a game geek, but I prefer the horror genre. I know, I know. Sometimes I disturb my damned self. I have played the previous versions of "Need For Speed," and they were very cool.

He turns back to the TV and as I'm cursing under my breath about the latest medical bill ($12,000? Can I have my fucking gall bladder back, now? I think it would be less painful to pass the two marble sized stones, you extortionist assclowns) I hear him say, "I'm walking into this pizza parlor with a knife. I'm thinking they may get the wrong idea."

Now, this is not something you expect to hear coming out of anyone's mouth, much less your child's. I put the mail down and sat down behind him. In the span of the next few seconds, his character in the game had mercilessly mowed down four pizza parlor employees (with a gun—I guess the knife was too "hands on") and screamed such things as, "Fuck you, man! Don't blame me, blame society!" (no, I'm not kidding),and "That's right, bitch! That's right! Well, fuck you, then!"

After I picked my jaw up off of the floor, I faced a dilemma.

Now, I have had several heated arguments with other parents about censorship and my children. I don't try to raise yours, so leave me be with how I raise mine. My parents never censored anything around me. Life was very black and white. I heard profanity, I watched R-rated movies and my mother personally dropped me off at an AC/DC concert when I was fifteen. She also took me to get my head shaved when I was fourteen and she even paid extra for the red lightning bolt I wanted dyed on one side of my head. I didn't have any dates. Ever. I know this comes as a shock to you all.

My mother was all about freedom of expression. She is not a hippie by any means. She has never smoked pot or given a blowjob. You will not take God's name in vain in front of her, but she and my father both believed that personal choices and the freedom to make them and subsequently face the consequences of those choices was crucial to character. They knew that they were incredible enough parents not to have to worry about me one day killing my neighbors and eating them or robbing Apanathu at the local Quickie-Mart for crack money. That is not to say that I was a perfect kid, but I think I turned out pretty okay.

I chose to employ this method with my children, to a lesser degree. My daughter's father refuses to allow her to watch anything but Barney all goddamned day and, because he is her father, I respect his wishes and censor her TV forays. In my opinion, if anyone ends up being a drug addict or a serial killer, it will be my daughter. I mean, have you seen some of that shit on Barney?

My son, on the other hand...I try to give him as much personal room as possible. I buy him the horrible pants that are 12 sizes too big and I let him choose his music without asking a lot of questions. I listened to WASP constantly and I never once ended up in the middle of a pentagram with goat's blood smeared on my face. He is a damned fine kid and he has never been able to express himself or have any sort of opinion. He is respectful and kind and I refuse to cage his spirit.

But holy hell. This was one of the most violent, F-bomb-dropping games I have ever seen. It was funny to me, in a twisted way, but I'm an adult. I walked away and commented on it. I asked him if the other kid's mother knew what kind of game it was. He said that, yes, he was sure she did. That made me feel marginally better. Maybe I'm being a little paranoid. It's a game, right? If my kid is so influenced by a game that he feels the need to hold up a pizza parlor in real life, then I didn't do my job as a parent. It's that simple.

I was feeling better about it when he piped up, again.

"Mom, do you know that you can pick up prostitutes in this game?" I gave him the crazy eyes and he said, "Yeah, I got one, but I kicked her out and stole her money. She was a drug addict, though, so I think I was doing a good thing for society."

Now, in hindsight, I know he was playing with me. He was trying to be funny. I'm sure he wishes he had kept his mouth shut after I made him take the game back and get his (almost pacifistic by comparison) normal, profanity-free copy of Mortal Kombat back.

3. I am still miserably sick with whatever germs my nephew transferred to me. I made it a point to groan, snort, mutter and cough every time my boss got near my office today. He never once came in.

Thursday, February 03, 2005

Point Breakdown

I had a dream last night that Keanu Reeves and I were going skydiving at some random guys house. Yes, his house. He just happened to have a runway and a plane outside. Doesn't everyone?

I have no idea why my brain chose Keanu Reeves. I don't think he's all that attractive and his acting makes me want to rip my own arm off and beat him to death with it. I think it may have something to do with that ridiculous skydiving scene in the movie, "Point Break", but I'm not sure. (You know ... the one where they freefall from the fucking MOON. No freefall is that long unless you're wearing an oxygen tank and you're super bad ass. I don't think Patrick Swayze is bad ass. His hair is too perfect)

I would love to pick apart a human brain and have holographs pop up and explain exactly what that part of the brain does. I mean, there have been some amazing studies on the human brain, but they don't really know, do they? How can they know? Brains aren't labeled with things like, "This part controls your erection" and "Keanu Reeves is in here just waiting to go skydiving with you tonight". On second thought, I don't think I would like to pick apart a human brain. That sounds gross and I have a hard enough time touching raw chicken.

So, Keanu and I are hanging out and eating grilled hotdogs, waiting for everyone else to gear up so we can go jump. I put on all my gear and then a few minutes later, I look down and realize I'm naked. Now, normally I would make the best of it and hop on Keanu's face, but for some reason, I've been having these 'naked at inappropriate times' dreams a lot lately. The night before I tried to wait tables in the buff. You try serving a table of six and not having a nervous breakdown when you lean across to pass one of the drinks and your tit lands in their queso. Again, instead of making the best of it and finding the nearest chip attached to a hot man, I wigged out in the dream and ran off, crying.

Keanu doesn't seem to notice that I'm naked (I knew I didn't like him) so I quietly slink off and find my clothes. I come back out and as everyone is getting ready to board the plane, I see that I am once again naked. I really don't want to miss this jump so I ask the pilot to hang on and I go in search of clothes that don't dissolve. I find them, go back and as I'm getting on the plane they once again disappear. I decide at that point that if no one else cares then neither do I and I had a hell of a time freefalling for 3 or 4 minutes. Patrick Swayze was there with every strand of hair in place.

Dreams are strange and mysterious. The Dream Doctor says that the 'naked in public' thing is all about insecurity and a feeling of vulnerability. I disagree. I think it just means that I really want to skydive naked.

Wednesday, February 02, 2005

Embracing My Fear Of Rejection

God and I have always had a strange relationship.

(This is an amazingly long entry, so grab a snack or read in shifts, whatever you need to do. I have a lot to say today.)

I have never been an atheist. I have always known that there is someone greater than me and he does have a sense of humor. Whenever I pray, I always get what I ask for. Let me give you a small example (okay, it's not small, but screw it. It will keep you from feeding the beast that is corporate America for fifteen minutes and I'm okay with that):

Six years ago, I was frigid. Seriously. I couldn't stand for a man to touch me or even attempt to do so. I would go on dates weekly and they always ended like this: me in tears, him looking at me like I had just called his mother a dirty slut and the two of us never speaking again. Now, this all stemmed from my relationship with a man who did a Houdini on me. We were together for two and a half years and we were house hunting. He came home one day and told me he was being transferred to Idaho for three months and that he thought it would be a great opportunity for me to visit my parents in Memphis. I came here, he went to Idaho and I never heard from him again. I hope he gets ass raped with the winner of the Mutant Potato Trophy, but, whatever. Fuck him and his spuds.

So I was naturally intimacy-phobic. I have never had this problem before and it bothered me a great deal. I decided that, rather than hurt anyone else's feelings, I would just be celibate until this all worked itself out.

A year later, I went from frigid to hornycockseekingbeastmonster in the span of one day. The night before, I prayed for something kind of specific. I asked God to please just let me have the one person who would love me unconditionally, need me and make me feel special and wanted. This abrupt change in libido was not surprising to me. As I've said, God has always answered my prayers, but he does so in his own quirky way.

I had just started a new job as a bartender at the Tennessee/Mississippi version of Roadhouse. The relief bartender was skinny, charismatic, eccentric, had no car and lived with his mother. I had to have him. I told him that night that I wanted nothing between us except a thin sheen of sweat and he obliged. That night I found out that his charisma was only present when he was being paid to be entertaining and that he had some serious moody, bipolar issues.

Meet Jesse. He will be appearing occasionally, much to my dismay.

Two weeks later, I found out I was pregnant with my daughter. I know what you're thinking. "Two weeks? But, Crystal, it's not like a cartoon flag that said "Congratulations!" popped out of your pussy!" No, it didn't. But I thought about a couple of things after the one encounter with Captain Prozac. I had been celibate for a year. I probably had enough eggs stored away to re-populate China. Furthermore, I have been as regular as clockwork since I was 11 years old and went shrieking through the house, lamenting to my mother that I didn't want to enter the world of adult women. If I'm so much as one day late, I know there is a problem.

So, to sum up, I got what I asked for. My daughter loves me unconditionally and needs me for everything. When she runs to me, squealing with delight, and throws her arms around me, I feel loved. When she proudly presents me with the latest of her artwork that will adorn the refrigerator and proclaims, "I made that 'specially for you, Mommy, because I love you this much," while stretching her little arms as far as they will go, I feel special. God has a sense of humor, but it's a kind one, I think. He will always give us what we need and not necessarily what we want, because sometimes what we want is not healthy.

Now, I am not the type of person to attend church every Sunday and spread THE WORD. I don't do that. God & I have a personal, private relationship and I thought it was working out okay. I have turned my back on him once in my life and I am still more or less eyeballing him out of the corner of my eye. I felt as though he had misled me and I was angry. I was floundering in my life and had never found my "niche." That is the one prayer he never answered and I was pissed. I acted like a spoiled brat and took my toys home.

A few months ago, I started asking again. I begged. I actually got on my knees and cried.

I'm an insurance agent. I make enough to keep a roof over my head and feed my kids, but I felt like I was missing something. This is not who I am or what I'm supposed to be doing, and I know it. I know the world needs insurance agents, but I'm just a fill-in until someone wakes up one day and decides they have a burning desire to be screamed at about increased premiums and unpaid claims. I have always known there is something I was supposed to be doing, something important, and I could not see what it was.

Shortly after my temper tantrum, my best friend and I were having one of our daily chats about life, love, men, our kids and boogers. I don't remember what we were talking about but at one point she stopped me and said: "Crystal, if you don't write this down...if you don't write a book about your life, I will never speak to you again and I'll also take those curtains back." She reads the stuff I write occasionally and doesn't get my humor at all, but she's supportive and critical, which I appreciate. I thought that she, like a few before her, was just being nice. Then I remembered that she's never nice to anyone, and I realized she was serious. She continued on about how even if it just helped one person it would be worth it and blah, blah, blah. Now, I love those fucking curtains. They are green and sheer and they match my sofa. I'm not much on interior design and I knew that if I were turned loose in a department store, I would inevitably come home with some pattern that made whoever looked at it sterile. I just couldn't take that chance. I went home, uncorked a bottle of wine (because all notable writers have to be addicted to something—I'm working on it) and wrote for hours. I then got caught up in life and the legions of Satan spawn that seem to gravitate toward me (you know who you are and I WANT MY PANTIES BACK) and the first seven chapters sit there, forlorn and untouched.

Of course, I started getting snippy with God during our chats. "Why aren't you showing me? What am I supposed to be doing? What path?? I know you have tsunamis and poverty and all that to deal with, but if you could just speak through my TV or leave a flyer on my door, that would be great. It's such a small thing. WHERE ARE YOU?"

I subsequently met three people who would become very important and influential in my life. They are all three intelligent, funny, inspiring and honest. Two of them are fantastic writers and one of them doesn't write enough for me to be sure, though I'm sure she would be. I mostly talk her ear off via the phone. I have oral diarrhea with my close friends and written diarrhea at all times.

Brian is ... I can't begin to describe him. He is the quintessential Southern gentleman. He is gentle, poetic and hilarious, and I imagine him on the veranda of some palatial estate with a cane and a glass of bourbon. He has an infectious laugh and a sadness in him that permeates everything he does. I love him immensely and I feel fortunate to know him.

Joe and I started off in a strange manner. He made a very rude comment about one of my posts on another forum and I asked him about it. It puzzled me because it seemed unwarranted. He had been having one of those days where you just feel like lashing out at someone, anyone, and I happened to be the chosen target. We laugh about it now. I have found him to be a mind- boggling writer when it comes to social affairs and the economy and he is the kind of person who will say something uproariously funny and never know it. He is gifted and amazing and I'm astounded that he's not married with babies. Further proof that women are fucking crazy. He is another person that I love and consider a dear friend.

Tami has always been a supporter of my writing. We developed an impromptu friendship when she rescued me from the Dulles airport in Virginia. I am eternally grateful. She calls me a hooker and makes me laugh and reminds me that not all women are out to get me. She constantly compliments me and makes me feel wonderful. I love her and, to steal a line from an old friend of mine, we would make a scorching couple in a parallel universe.

All of these people have inspired me to write. After I was unceremoniously cast out of the other forum I was writing on, I stopped recording my thoughts at all. They weren't having that. Some have needled me patiently, some have called me a moron for not using what I have, but the end result is the same: I started this blog, and here we are.

Still, I was harassing God.

A couple of weeks ago, I had a wreck. After finding out that I had no liability coverage, I of course had to have several conversations with the other company's claims adjuster. Somewhere in the conversations, a new friendship was born. He offered me a fabulous deal (paying 1/3 of the damage to her car) and now calls to check on me periodically. We discuss everything from God to my children and he is genuinely interested. I now have several wonderful friends. I am blessed. Let me tell you what has happened in the last 24 hours and maybe you won't find it as eerie as I do, but it is nonetheless interesting, I think. . .

I dragged my ass into work yesterday and turned my office light on. I have the only office without a window. Now, for the most part, I run this place. I also have seniority due to the length of time I've been here. The bimbo across the hall has been here for six months, has fucked up more policies than I care to count and I'm constantly running around behind her with a pooper scooper. She is a waste of DNA. She has a window. This is how people become workplace mass murderers, I tell you. A window, or lack thereof. I'm digressing, again...

I sat down and turned my computer on. I went through the motions, but when I opened my Outlook, I just sat there and stared. I had all these new comments on this blog and I was floored. I know that some of you saw my writing on the other forum, but there were NEW PEOPLE. AND A BLACK PERSON. I HAVE A BLACK FAN. DO YOU HEAR THAT, DANIELLE STEELE??? Stick that in your hat and smoke it!! Hah!

Joe and I talked again, later in the day, about me writing and I finally made a decision. For better or worse, I was finally going to do it. To hell with rejection, to hell with criticism, I'm doing it for me. If I get paid a schmabillion dollars, super, but that's not the point.

I was wandering through the office, trying to figure out how I would open and it hit me. This is the (tentative) first line...

"When I was fifteen, I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy."

I saw it in my head, in print, and I sat down and relived that experience. I went home and decided that I would start this weekend when I have some peace and quiet. Both my children are doing things with family members, so I will have the house to myself.

My phone rang last night and it was my Mom. I figured she accidentally changed her ringtone to "Back That Ass Up" again and I wasn't disappointed. Then she hit me upside the head with this:

"How old is Trent today? Sixteen?"

I lost all feeling in my hands and I passed the phone off to my son. He twice asked me what was wrong as I wandered into the bathroom. I stood in there and just looked at myself in the mirror. How could I have forgotten? How? Just that afternoon I had been thinking about him. What was wrong with me?

I placed him for adoption when I was fifteen and yesterday was his 16th birthday. The milestone in any teenager's life, and I fucking forgot. I meant to send him something, anything, and I FORGOT.

I went to bed, depressed. I felt like the world's biggest sack of shit. All this time God was answering me...he was showing me through the people who love me what I needed to do, what I'm supposed to be doing. I was so busy with all the other crap that I ignored him and I didn't see how fortunate I am to have what I have right this moment. I wanted more and he had been telling me for months how to get it, if I had the balls to act and not just talk.

I made the decision to start the book with the telling of the hardest thing I've ever done in my life and I made that decision, unknowingly, on his birthday. I'm not sure what that means, but I think it means something.

This morning the claims adjuster called me. He asked about my family and my job, as usual, and then asked how I was doing. I told him about my son's birthday yesterday and how I had forgotten. He then said, "You placed a child for adoption? Tell me." So I did. Right before he lost his signal (he was driving to Armpit, Mississippi, to meet with a family who now have no home because the El Camino they lived in was totaled. I'm an awful person sometimes, I know), he said this to me:

"Crystal, you should write a book. Do you know how many women alone you could inspire?"

His phone chose that moment to bail. I sat at my desk and, although I don't think I'm an inspiration to anyone, I was more resolved than ever.

So...thank you Brian, Joe, Tami, Trent, Andre, Tracie and everyone who had nice things to say about my writing. I haven't seen the surface of my desk in a week or more and if I get fired, I'll just consider it more time to regale you all with this junk. Stay tuned and hold on. This could be a bumpy ride and I'm sure I'll come out in one piece. Hell, I may have extra pieces when this is all done. Oh, and when I'm fabulously wealthy, I want you to all live with me on my private island where we will frolic naked and live on love.

But you all have to refer to me as, "Mistress Crystal".

Tuesday, February 01, 2005

Mashed Bananas

I was reading through some of the comments and I wanted to say a few things:

First, thank you all for the feedback. It goes a long way toward steering my day in a positive direction. Even the creepy UPS guy who stares at me like he wants to beat me with his clipboard can't phase me.

Secondly, I assure you that I'm not racist, but I'm most definitely honest. If I didn't find humor in the living situation I'm in, I would set my building on fire and roast weenies. I can't do it any other way since one of the local shitbags stole my grill.

Thirdly...well, I won't touch the NASCAR thing. My whole family watches that crap and I make fun of them at every available opportunity. I won't pretend to even halfway understand it.

Lastly, I have TMJ. Our secretary just spent 20 minutes in the doorway of my office, snorting laughter as I tried to eat my morning banana. It was like watching the worlds worst blowjob. I have a small, Madonna-like gap between my front teeth. I finally got disgusted with her and the process and slowly mashed the banana through it. It was sad. Yuck it up, people. I am practically McGyver.

EDIT: Today, the secretary brought me Jell-O. She placed it on my desk and I did the tennis match thing with my head. I looked at her, the Jell-O, back to her, the Jell-O, etc. She started giggling and then it dawned on me. Fucker.

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