To Do: 1. Get Hobby, 2. Floss

Steph's Brothers

2007-09-14T07:42:00.000-07:00

I became friends with Stephanie because she is a gentle and warm person. She is caring and considerate and always has a smile on her face. Also, she lives with her four incredibly hot brothers. Stephanie spends most of her time at home taking care of her brothers. They show their appreciation by opening stubborn jar lids and leaving toilet seats up.

I love going to Stephanie's house. I try to get there just before her brothers get home from work. I never have enough time to remove their bedroom doors from the hinges but, I can usually remove all the towels from the bathrooms before they get home. The words, "Steph, where are the f*cking towels?" are magical. I am always happy to bring a freshly folded towel into the steamy bathroom.

Walking into Stephanie's house, the aroma of Hamburger Helper is overpowering. Stephanie is a culinary genius. She can turn a box of noodles and a flavor packet into a meal by just adding water.

Her brothers are hard working men and sometimes, her home smells like sweat. Stephanie relies on air freshener to make her home smell less offensive. The result is usually a nauseating combination of vanilla or cinnamon and work boots.

Last night, I walked through Stephanie's back door and was assaulted by the smell of old lady. I crinkled my nose and looked around to see where the elderly woman was hiding. Stephanie was glowing with pride over her latest purchase. She ordered a case of scented candles from a catalog. The old lady scented candle was her favorite.

Smiling, she put the box of assorted candles in front of me. I closed my eyes and sniffed each candle. I liked the one that smelled like sex the best but, the one that smelled like wino was nice too.

As we scattered the candles tastefully throughout the house, I casually asked when the boys would be home. Stephanie informed me that she was tired of cleaning up after grown men and had kicked her brothers out. Maintaining my cool, I asked if she had lost her f*cking mind and demanded to know why she would foolishly jeopardize our friendship.

Stephanie ignored my hysterics and asked if I'd like some Hamburger Helper. I can't eat Hamburger Helper if I'm not surrounded by four delicious men. I thanked her and declined. I wished her all the best with her smelly candles and left abruptly.

I'll miss Stephanie. It's hard to find a good friend with four attractive brothers.

Mist 1

The Cure

2007-09-07T06:21:00.000-07:00

Last night, Sue (my blindingly beautiful but, one chromosome over being severely retarded friend) needed to talk to me. She always turns to me when she is exploring personal growth because I am a very supportive person. Also, I use small words when I talk.

Since her boyfriend started his court ordered community service project, she's been feeling like she doesn't make a difference in the world. She wants to get more involved but, doesn't know where to start. I was happy to help her become a better person because I'm pretty sure that by default, that makes me a better person.

I know a lot about community involvement. Growing up, Dad was an activist. He was always boycotting something. We ate Hershey's chocolate because the Nestle company had an unsavory relationship with Ethiopia. We didn't have GE appliances due to their leading role in production of nuclear weapons. Dad drank shade grown coffee before it was stylish. He coordinated bands of Hippies who participated in relief efforts in Cuba and Mexico. He collected children's picture books for the students at Southern colleges and universities.

I asked Sue questions in order to find a cause where she could add value. She swears too much to work with children. She hates nature. Sue prefers to be surrounded by a lot of people and likes the color pink. In a moment of brilliance, I suggested that she participate in the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure.

She twisted her face in thought and said, "I never really got into The Cure. Is there another band that I could race for?"

I told her that I'd look into it but, until then, the best service she could do for the community was to keep using reliable birth control.

Mist 1

F*ck Shui

2007-08-29T13:32:00.000-07:00

To everyone who sent me an email asking if I'm okay, I am alive. It's just that I've been busy. I blame do-it-yourself design shows and slutty shorts.

I manage my household finances by wearing slutty shorts and high heels. It's not classy but, it's economical. Rather than remitting payments in a timely fashion, I prefer to greet the utility trucks while wearing slutty shorts. Usually, I find that the utility company employees have no plans to interrupt my service. Rather, they are simply making a routine customer service visit to stare at my camel toe.

I have been particularly successful with my cable provider. I have no less than 20 home design channels. I sat in front of the television for three days learning how to transform my patio into an outdoor oasis for under $0.15 using materials from my trash. I was inspired.

I am too lazy to hang curtains in my bedroom. Sometimes, I would like a little privacy. Because I am practically a genius, I went to Lowe's paint department and had the paint guy match the color of my skin perfectly. Now, I can walk around naked in my bedroom without worrying about my neighbor who has started parking outside my bedroom window. I'm thinking about painting polka dots all over the room in the same shade as my nipples.

My freshly painted walls seemed bare. I purchased a large mirror in a green wooden frame and went home, ready to make decorating magic. Hanging a mirror is not as easy as it looks on TV. On design shows, mirrors are always hung tastefully over a piece of furniture far, far from the bed. No one ever hangs a mirror on the wall next to the bed. I noted how a mirror next to the bed changed the theme of my bedroom from Tranquil Retreat to Amateur Porn Paradise. I was not satisfied.

Defeated, I sat on the couch and watched several more hours of do-it-yourself decor, hoping to see a show for people who like to watch themselves in bed. I learned how to apply an "antique" finish, which would make the mirror an interesting focal point but, still in poor taste. Covering the frame with fabric would be a simple and fun Saturday project but, would not class my bedroom up in the slightest.

Then, as if possessed by shabby chic-ness, I salvaged an old chair with a new coat of paint and recovered the seat with a scrap of leftover fabric in a kicky color. I put casters on the chair and wheeled it into my bedroom. I rested the mirror on the chair and rolled it about the room to find all the best angles.

I had conquered my design challenge. It seems that a mirror next to the bed is slutty but, placing the mirror on a "vintage" rolling chair, is eclectic.

Mist 1

Purse Impressions

2007-08-08T06:08:00.000-07:00

I try to be the best friend that I can be. I am a giving and caring person. As a friend, I rarely drink the last beer in the fridge. If I borrow a bracelet, generally, I return it to it's owner (unless it looks better on me, which I cannot help, it is just meant to be).

When I shop with my friends, I am truthful. I never lie about how much (or little) a pair of jeans flatters the a$$. I encourage my friends to buy stuff that will look great on me so that I can borrow it. My friends can count on me because I am fair and thoughtful. When it comes to shopping, I am practically the best friend that anyone has ever known.

It should serve as no surprise that my friends highly value my opinion when dating someone new. Last weekend, Karon met a new man. James and Karon went out for dinner and later, for drinks. Karon called me from the restroom of the bar. She was having a great time. James was interesting and respectful and attractive but, something was not quite right. I agreed to show up at the bar and check him out for myself. First date ambushes are one of my specialties.

A first date ambush is a lot like a first date. I show up late, order a few cocktails and talk about myself. The biggest difference is that I don't bother to put on mascara. I try to keep the focus on my friend and mascara would be a distraction. Another major difference between a first date and a first date ambush is that I don't stick my tongue down the guy's throat. Sometimes, that part doesn't go as well as I had intended.

I showed up at the bar and quickly found Karon and James. I hadn't even taken a seat when I knew what was wrong with him. I walked over to the table and James, the perfect gentleman, stood up and shook my hand. He offered me a seat. He pulled out the chair and made a space for me by removing his man purse. I stayed for a cocktail and made polite small talk about the weather and the presidential debates and about whether or not my hair is too red. I avoided making conversation about fashion as I knew that I was not above discussing his purse. When I finished my drink, I politely excused myself and left the two of them to finish their date.

The next day, Karon came over with a bottle of wine to review the evening with me. Everything had gone well but, she didn't feel any chemistry. "What am I going to tell him to get out of a second date?" she asked me.

"Tell him his shoes didn't match his damn purse," I responded.

I wish that she would consider dating him another time. I'm dying to know what he keeps in him man purse.

Mist 1

No Love, Courtney

2007-08-01T06:52:00.000-07:00

When Whitney Houston's irrational behavior and unkempt appearance were captured by the paparazzi, Courtney Love appeared like a rehab angel. She pledged her emotional support to Whitney as she cleaned herself up and rid herself of Bobby Brown. More recently, Courtney approached Brittney Spears, offering to stand by her side during her darkest days.

I needed Courtney Love's support in the last few days. I am not ashamed to admit that I had a serious bug problem. I thought if anyone could understand the chaos that bugs create, it would be Courtney. She's dealt with bugs. She's overcome them. I went through Hell because of bugs. Still, Courtney never called. Maybe she only comes to the rescue of people with names ending in "ney." I see no other explanation. Surely, I picked off enough of my own skin over the last week to merit a call.

Obsessive-compulsive tendencies aside, I blame the cat and his fleas for the skin picking. Before the fleas, everything was so right between the two of us. It was much like a marriage, he was getting fat and we shared a bed without sex.

I nearly lost everything because of the fleas. I feverishly paced the pet aisle of the grocery store, scratching and twitching, looking for a product that promised to cause permanent scarring of the lungs if inhaled. In local pet stores, I attracted the attention of Homeland Security by purchasing large quantities of poisonous fogger bombs intended for professional use. I borrowed money from friends and family to support my need for flea treatments. When the money was gone, I did things that I'm not proud of for flea collars.

Despite the haze of toxic chemicals in my home, I felt the presence of fleas for days. I was convinced that they had become resistant to commercial pesticides and had adapted, becoming ever quicker and invisible. The only thing worse than a bug problem is an imaginary bug problem.

Imaginary bugs can make time stand still. Hours, maybe even days passed as I pursued invisible parasites. New freckles from my recent sunburn came to life with astounding flea-like realism and burrowed under several layers of skin. It is exceedingly difficult remove a freckle. Freckles are also incredibly resilient to suffocation and will not emerge from the skin even when covered in a dab of clear nail polish.

It's been a difficult journey but, I think that the bugs are behind me. I have been bug-free for 72 hours, no thanks to Courtney Love.

Mist 1

Change of Pace

2007-07-25T06:48:00.000-07:00

Lately, I just haven't been into this blog. I think we're growing apart. Maybe we need to try something new. Tell me, is there something you'd like to see here? A burning question? Is there a post that you'd like a follow up to?

This blog is temporarily in your hands.

Mist 1

Pants and Entertaining

2007-07-24T09:36:00.000-07:00

I'm sleepy from entertaining into the early morning hours. After all that entertaining, I was exhausted and a little sticky. When I woke up this morning, I thought about writing a post but, I could not resist the ease and convenience of morning entertainment. Good entertainment, day or night, makes me retarded and unable to write.

Removing my pants always helps me think.

I prefer not to wear pants when I am home alone. I stand in front of the fridge without my pants and eat pickles. I talk on the phone without my pants on. Sometimes, I just sit there and do nothing without my pants on. Everything that I do with pants, is better without pants.

I like to entertain without being burdened by pants. However, the etiquette for not wearing pants while home alone is very different from not wearing pants at home while entertaining.

During the entertainment, I would rather not stand in front of the fridge, eating pickles with no pants on. If I am eating pickles, it's a pretty good clue that I am not being entertained enough.

I will not answer my phone if it rings while I am being entertained. It's rude to talk on the phone without pants when engaging in entertainment. Anyone foolish enough to answer the phone while I am entertaining, will find that all entertainment will abruptly cease. When the phone call has ended, I may not feel like entertaining any more. Occasionally, I can be persuaded.

For a change of pace, I like to lie on my back without my pants and do nothing but enjoy the entertainment and the view. Sometimes, I'll even take a moment to entertain myself.

Mist 1

Wine Dog

2007-07-23T06:22:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, I stay up late and watch infomercials. They make me see how much easier my life could be and just how backwards I am. The plastic containers in my cupboards are an unsightly mess. I cannot reach items on my highest shelves without endangering life and limb on my ordinary step stool. I don't own a single thing that folds and stores flat under my bed.

I especially like the infomercials for stain removing products. I sit on the couch eagerly anticipating how the infomercial hosts will test the limits of the product next. I cheer along with the studio audience as mustard and grape juice and cow's blood and coffee are poured onto a carpet swatch. There is no way that any product can possibly handle a stain like that, I think to myself. It will take a time elapsed video of the stain being lifted from the carpet fibers to make me a believer.

The infomercial hosts will double the offer and throw in a travel size bottle. They will try to seduce me by throwing in a set of kitchen knives that can cut a penny in half and a certificate of authenticity, suitable for framing. I am not swayed by these offers. It's the testimonials of the people who now live stain-free that sway me. I want to be one of them. I think that I could tell a damn convincing testimonial.

My knowledge of common household stains is based on what I've learned from watching infomercials. I have found that the best way to handle clothing splattered with blood is incineration. Ink stains on my couch cushions virtually disappear when the cushion is flipped over. DNA stains in the bedroom all but vanish when the lights are off.

However, I have created a stubborn stain that I can't get out. In my arsenal of stain fighting agents, there doesn't seem to be a single product designed to remove red wine from white dog fur.

I've heard that white wine is supposed to remove red wine stains, so I opened a bottle of Chardonnay. After using the entire bottle, I can confidently say that white wine does not remove red wine stains.

I can also confidently say that dogs do not like Chardonnay. He's going to have one Hell of a hangover when he wakes up.

Mist 1

Upside Down

2007-07-20T06:09:00.000-07:00

I'm not here today. I'm here.

I am weak now. Please, let me rest.

Mist 1

Inner Ear/Alien Spawn

2007-07-18T06:53:00.000-07:00

Double ear infection + Vertigo = No post today.

Mist 1

Amoxicillin Wars

2007-07-17T06:09:00.000-07:00

My ears are tired of not being recognized on my face. For years, they have been in the shadows of my wide almond eyes and delicate nose and my pouty lips. My ears have issued a statement warning me that middle ear infections will rage in both ears accompanied by fever and chills until I listen to their demands. They have threatened to rain down a pain worse than any swimmer's ear I have ever had in my life. I refuse to negotiate with my ears. They have control over my equilibrium and have threatened to upset it. They have breeched the canals. I have Amoxicillin for ten days and I have wine for the next several hours. I will stay the course.

Where did I go wrong with my ears? I did the best I could with them, but there were two of them and I was young and foolish. I spoiled them and sheltered them those tiny little bones. My ears always loved the drums and I encouraged them. Maybe, I loved them too much. I was proud of my earlobes, my family has always had fine ears. At night, I vainly stroked them with Q-Tips, which I never, ever stuck into the ear canal.

I think the problems started when I had them pierced. The man used a piercing gun. I saw a show on TV about how the gun is too violent and can scar young ears. I should have found a place that used a needle. I can feel the tiny bit of scar tissue near the hole. My ears will never forgive me. Now, I'm too sensitive to wear earrings. When I do, it is only for a few hours and, even then, the holes itch and burn in ways that only other holes in the body can relate to. I made them go through the trauma of the gun for nothing. Earrings are really all an ear has to look forward to. No one notices ears unless you are wearing earrings. People never comment on the fullness of an earlobe or the delicate swirling of cartilage.

My ears have started making noises like Rice Krispies cereal. They are demanding hoop earrings. I have five holes between my two ears. Every time I refuse a hoop, my ears threaten to pierce a part of my body. The nose and nipples sympathize with my ears and have formed an alliance. The situation in my ears is volatile, pulling out now would be disastrous. I will keep fighting the good fight with antibiotics and wine.

Mist 1

You Can Do It, Chris

2007-07-16T12:31:00.000-07:00

My fifth grade teacher taught me that the mind is a source of energy. If I learned how to harness this energy through visualization exercises, I would be able to pass the fifth grade on the first try. I could do anything if I took the time to visualize myself doing it first.

She instructed us to picture ourselves as calm, confident, and mature boys and girls who were ready for success. With my eyes closed, I saw myself recording answers on a bubble sheet, clearly and completely, without leaving stray marks. Children who do not receive this kind of instruction, never learn the correct way to fill in the bubbles. They mark them with an X and sometimes, a check mark. It's a safe assumption that children like this don't pass the fifth grade on their first try. Without knowledge of visualization techniques, they grow up to believe that they can't do anything.

Chris, the bartender at the pub I went to last night, never learned about the power of self-imagery. He didn't take the time to picture himself pouring a perfect Paulaner with a slice of orange or a tall Crown and Coke. Lisa and I visualized our drinks arriving but, there is only so much the mind can do without telekinesis.

Lisa channeled her energy into searching her purse for nothing in particular. She pulled out a book about the human aura and read the back cover. She stared just past my head with her head tilted to one side and her eyes slightly crossed. I sat perfectly still. She said that my aura looked like it wanted a beer. She is a seer. Chris slipped off into the kitchen. I took a picture of my shoes. Lisa clicked her nails.

I began to visualize myself someplace else; someplace without Chris. I could think of plenty of places without Chris. Lisa had the same thought. She excused herself to the restroom, conveniently available without Chris.

I walked a few steps away from the table and was visualizing myself finding my keys in my purse when I felt someone standing over me. Chris threw his hands up and said that our drinks were poured and at the end of the bar. I explained to Chris that it is customary to place a beverage in front of the person who ordered it.

Chris raised his voice, "I can't pour a beer back into a keg and I can't pour the Crown and Coke back either."

"Sure you can, Chris. You can do anything if you put your mind to it. I believe in you."

Mist 1

Is it Monday?

2007-07-16T06:26:00.000-07:00

It's been an impossibly long weekend and I can't keep my eyes open long enough to write a post. So, I'm sleeping in today. I'll write something when I wake up. Please, dim the lights and feed the cat on your way out.

Mist 1

Back In My Skin...Mostly

2007-07-13T06:28:00.000-07:00

I have a rash and I smell like fish. It was a great vacation. The last time that I had a rash and smelled like fish, it wasn't such a good time. This, was totally different. Totally.

It turns out that I am very, very good at vacationing. I would venture to say that I am almost like a professional vacationer. I don't take it seriously enough to be a professional, but that's what makes me so good at it. On a scale of one to five with one being Sucks at Vacationing and five being Remarkably Comfortable With Housekeeping Finding Me in Compromising Positions, I would have to give myself a five.

I find the ocean to be incredibly therapeutic. The rising and falling tide romance me. The warm water soothes me. The crashing waves remind me to be humble, I am a mite here on Earth and much, much larger things surround me. Mostly, I find the ocean to be a really good place to be completely drunk and mostly naked. This is in stark contrast to the rest of my life in which I am mostly drunk and completely naked.

For the last week, each morning, I strolled the beach of Sanibel, Florida. By the rosy sunrise, I scoured the sandy beach for my bikini top and my room key. From the position of the sun, I calculated the number of hours before the poolside bar opened. I showered, rinsing sand from parts of me that looked remarkably like the seafood that I had consumed the night before and dragged myself to my bed. I slept. It was bliss.

By late morning, I found myself at the pool. I nestled my towel and sunglasses and magazines and beverages with umbrellas between the drinkers and the tanorexics. It is a thin line between the two groups. Drinkers who pass out in the sun, rapidly find themselves the envy of the tanorexics. We formed a strong bond. The drinkers admired my ability to drink and the tanorexics admired my tan. I miss them sorely already.

The American Cancer Society stood watch, poolside. Their awareness personnel are a bit like the United Nations peace keeping forces. Their presence did not go unnoticed and we appreciated their vast knowledge on what was a melanoma and what was most likely a laceration or bruise or hickey. They handed out samples of sunscreen to those who requested one but, they were ordered to stand down and watch us slowly bake ourselves into our own preconceived notions of the perfect shade of gold.

By the second day, the skin on my forehead had a new texture and I began to think that maybe I should invest in a floppy hat. But, on the third day, when my forehead peeled and revealed new skin, baby soft and in a brand new shade, I decided that I my skin is an incredible, mysterious organ, best left to it's own devices. Plus, my hair doesn't always look it's best in a floppy hat. As I type this, I am sitting in a flaky mound of my own shoulder and back and bridge of my nose dander. I cannot stop peeling myself. It is disgusting and gratifying all at the same time. I cannot stop picking at my shoulders. I think that peeling negates all of the daiquiri and fried crab cake calories that I consumed over the last six days. Surely, I have shed five pounds of skin and surely, I consumed five pounds of fried calamari. The ocean has a way of taking and giving.

Next week, if I can remember, I will write about how I was attacked by an inflatable whale or how I narrowly escaped death by angry mobs of cheap airline travelers but, for now, I am content to be back to blogging.

I Mist y'all. It's good to be back.

Mist 1

Pop Quiz

2007-07-06T06:59:00.000-07:00

Multiple choice:

I am

a.) In rehab.
b.) On vacation.
c.) Incarcerated.

See you in:
a.) 28 days.
b.) A week.
c.) 25 to life.

Mist 1

Independence

2007-07-05T06:07:00.000-07:00

Everyone has a relative who passes out naked in the yard or falls into the pool. In my family, I am that relative.

Jamie's embarrassing relative is her cousin Trish. Last night, Trish had an Independence Day party. Not only was it the 4th of July, but this week the State Board of Pardons and Paroles decided that her ex-boyfriend should serve the duration of his sentence behind bars. Trish thought that the two should be celebrated as the ultimate expression of her Independence as a single American woman.

We stopped at a convenience store to buy Trish a gift. I found a card that I felt summed up my sentiments nicely. The front read, "Congratulations on your break up..." and the inside message was, "I still think we should have drowned him in the river like we did them puppies when we was kids." Jamie bought her carton of cigarettes. We didn't mean to smoke a pack of her cigarettes but, it was a long drive. Jamie cleverly filled the space in the carton with wadded up receipts and crap that she found in the backseat of her car. She neatly resealed the carton with gum. Jamie should have been a surgeon.

We followed the trail of shotgun shells to Trish's house. The front lawn was tastefully landscaped with dirt. Trish threw open the door and we all screamed and hugged. Jamie handed Trish the carton of cigarettes. Trish smiled for a second and then said, "it feels light." She hollered, "Lil' Man, git the Hell up off that floor and git these girls a beer." Moments later, Lil' Man, her six year old son delivered two ice cold beers. I asked him if he'd light my cigarette. Jamie frowned at me, so I told him to light one for his momma too and hurry the Hell up. I told Trish that I thought it was really creative how she had used sheets as curtains. I wondered if she had curtains or vertical blinds on her bed.

Trish went into the kitchen and returned with her special drunken watermelon. I don't like watermelon, but Trish adds so much liquor that I couldn't detect even a hint of fruit. We decided to finish the watermelon while floating in the pool. With the watermelon bobbing in the water, we drifted on our rafts in the pool. Lil' Man did a cannonball and pool water splashed over us and the melon. Trish, showing tremendous restraint, threatened to hold Lil' Man under the water 'til he turned blue again and then calmly told us not to worry about the water splashing on the fruit. She hadn't used chlorine in the pool, so we didn't have to worry about all those chemicals. I decided that this was not the appropriate time to ask for a show of hands who had peed in the pool.

Trish rested her head on her piece of the watermelon and dozed peacefully in the dirt. Lil' Man lovingly brushed the ants from her face. Trish is peaceful when she is sleeping but, she is an entirely different person when abruptly awakened by the sound of fireworks. It must have triggered some kind of Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome response. The way she woke up reminded me of the time that I tried to give my cat a bath. Her her was matted from watermelon juice and liquor, her claws sliced at the air, and she hissed menacingly. Quickly, Lil' Man handed Trish her shotgun. Where Trish lives, everyone is a gun owner. Jamie and I hadn't even had the good sense to bring a switchblade or brass knuckles.

We decided that this was a good time to leave.

Mist 1

Tuck

2007-07-04T06:50:00.000-07:00

Last night, I told Lisa to get Tuck fixed. "I am tired of looking at his dangly pink balls all the time," I said. They are too big and too dangly and too pink. It seems more like she has a pair of pet balls with a dog attached than a pet dog with his balls still attached.

Tuck sat up and looked at me. He tilted his head to the side. I thought that look meant, "Lemme smell your butt again," but in hindsight, I know that it meant, "My doggie balls are as meaningful to me as your precious flip flops. Maybe next time you'll think twice before you talk about deez nutz."

This is no way to celebrate the 4th of July. You all go on. Enjoy yourselves. I'll just sit here with what's left of my flip flops.

Good thing I bought them in yellow too.

Mist 1

Finding Stuff

2007-07-03T06:14:00.000-07:00

Yesterday morning, I woke up with a disturbing thought. I never buried my guinea pig after she died a few weeks ago. I couldn't even remember what I did with her little albino corpse.

I checked all of the standard places that one might keep a dead guinea pig. I found a harness of sorts under my bed, but there was no guinea pig. I did not find a guinea pig between the cushions of my couch but, I did find $0.76.

I took a different approach in my search. Detectives on TV always find bodies folded up and wrapped in rugs in the trunks of cars. I Although I know that only victims of heinous crimes end up in trunks, I still checked my car. I did not find Wiggy.

I was wasting my time. I needed to think like me to find my dead pet. I went back inside collected all my handbags. I poured their contents on the floor. I decided to sort the contents into categories; animal, mineral, cosmetic, flammable, and sexual. I sifted through the pile. I found lip gloss (cosmetic), packets of Splenda (flammable), old chewing gum (mineral), and dental floss (cosmetic/sexual). There was nothing in the animal pile.

The kitchen was the next logical place to look. I peered into the garbage disposal. When I was a kid, Mom told me that rats crawl up garbage disposals. As a precaution, I ran the disposal for a few seconds. No rats. No guinea pig. In the freezer, the ice maker was full and, I found my spare mailbox key. I couldn't resist the urge to see if it would stick to my tongue. It did. I opened the fridge and observed that the light still worked and that I was running low on pickles. I opened a vegetable drawer and in horror, I found Wiggy's body, wrapped in plastic. She was cold and stiff and much browner than I had remembered.

I retched over the sink and unceremoniously put Wiggy in the freezer. I called the cat nanny and told him what I had found. We decided that we would bury her in the park immediately. I changed into a short red dress because I have always wanted to wear a slutty red dress to a funeral. I wore black shoes out of respect. When the cat nanny arrived, I made him get the body out of the freezer. He pulled out the plastic bag and inspected Wiggy's decaying frame. "Why do you have a potato in the freezer?" he asked.

We searched for hours. We did not find Wiggy.

I can only conclude that Wiggy was the albino guinea pig Messiah. I live on the sacred site of a rodent resurrection. She has risen.

Mist 1

Mist 1

Wildlife

2007-07-02T06:20:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, I watch porn. I like the dialog and the intricacies of the plot and the shoes that the girls wear in interesting positions.

Until recently, I was ignorant to the bestiality genre of pornography. Fortunately, Avitable has opened my eyes to a whole new world; a freakishly horrific, and probably illegal new world.

When Av shared his porn collection with me, I expected an artsy film, something that juxtaposed the allure of midgets with the complex anatomy of horses. Instead, he surprised me with a nauseating flick involving a man wearing animal print and a snake. After watching it once (and once again in slow motion), I knew that I would never be the same. I thought I could handle seeing a snake make tender, passionate love to a man. Unfortunately, I was not prepared to see the man make tender, passionate love (in several disturbing , passionate ways) to the snake. I had lived my entire life without ever considering that snakes have vaginas.

My therapist recommends that I limit my contact with Av, but did not say anything about contact with snakes.

Mist 1

PS: Melodyann told me not to write about fat people on her blog today. Have you ever noticed how hard it is not to write about fat people when someone tells you not to write about fat people? Me too.

PPS: At Av's suggestion, here's the link. If you are at work and want to keep your job, maybe you should wait until you get home to click this link. If you don't like your job, what are you waiting for?

Over Draft Beer Protection

2007-06-29T06:27:00.000-07:00

I went to the bank yesterday. I had to actually get out of my car and physically walk into the facility and wait in line with old people and non-account holders. As I waited for the one employee who knew how to handle my transaction, I had plenty of time to think.

I like the bank. I don't know why I don't go there more often. They have a water cooler that has both hot and cold water with corresponding red and blue spouts. They actually have lollipops inside the bank. I thought that was a myth, like how doctor's are supposed to have lollipops. My doctor doesn't have lollipops, but I don't complain because he is pretty loose with the drug samples. I had four lollipops while I sat and waited for my name to be called. I liked the green and yellow flavored ones best. The purple tasted like kid's cold medicine and the flavor of the red lollipops reminded me of huffing gold paint. Not that I've tried gold. Bronze is pretty good though.

My bank has a lot in common with a bar. I get carded at the counter. I get VIP status which includes free hot or cold water. They know me by name. Sometimes, I lose interest at the bar and likewise, at the bank. At the end of my visit, I get an itemized statement. Most similarly, when I walk out, I either feel really good or like I'm going to puke.

I wish that my favorite bar would merge with my bank. That would make my experience even better. Tellers would dance seductively on the counter while helping me refinance my bar tab. I would steal the lighters dangling from the counter by a chain as the banktender accessed my account and served me a cocktail.

I would be admitted to the VIP section based on my previous tip history. A good tip rating would secure preferential treatment. No more of my precious time would be wasted standing in front of staff members performing other duties as signs reading, "Next Barteller Please" would be clearly posted.

Occasionally, there would even be clerical errors in my favor and I would get an extra shot.

Of course, the business hours need to be addressed.

Mist 1

On the Clock

2007-06-28T06:58:00.000-07:00

Last night, the girls and I went speed dating. I thought that I would be a natural at speed dating. On average, my relationships last around 28 minutes.

The first 12 minutes are excellent. I bat my eyelashes, coquettishly make sure that my g-string is showing ever so slightly, talk about myself, have a drink, play with a stray curl, suck the pimento out an olive seductively, talk about myself some more, and excuse myself to the restroom to reapply my lip gloss and practice the look that I do that says, "I am incredibly interested in everything you have to say and I swear I am not thinking about what I am going to wear with the turquoise canvas platforms with the cork heel that I just bought, which was the reason that I was late in the first place. Plus, they were on sale."

The remaining 16 minutes of my relationships are divided between sticking my tongue down his throat and trying to remember his name. If things go well, I might talk about myself a little bit more and give him that look that I do that says, "I am incredibly interested in everything you have to say, however we will not be going home together tonight. I'm sorry, what kind of car did you say you drive?"

Speed dating only allows five minutes to get to know someone. That's just enough time for introductions and to squeeze out a courteous, "it's not you, it's me" or "we can still be friends." At the end of the evening, we compared notes. We learned a lot about how to date in five minutes.

Courtney: Learned that it is hard to fake a career in real estate when face to face with a Realtor, but that faking an accent helps smooth things over.

Joelle: Learned that even if dressed conservatively, she can still leave the bar with a really, really attractive soccer player. She is about to learn that even if I promise not to leave her car in the parking lot over night, I am lying.

Karon: Learned that when she sees her ex-boyfriend's truck in the parking lot, it's a pretty good clue that he's close by.

I learned that telling men that I came for the speed and not so much for the dating, while picking imaginary bugs off my skin, isn't a good opening line.

I thought it was pretty good.

Mist 1

100

2007-06-27T06:41:00.000-07:00

I am not perfect. I used to spend a lot of time thinking about perfection. I have always liked the number 100. I had theories on numerology and physics and astrology and nutrition that would lead to 100 and therefore perfection. I drank 100-proof vodka, I hovered around 100 pounds (in my clothes), and I checked the locks on my doors 100 times a day. Once, I shared those thoughts with my therapist, who responded, "I think it's time we thought about commitment." I thought we were moving too fast. I was not ready to be committed anywhere. Instead, she gave me a book on mindfulness and perfection.

The book informed me that perfection was perfectly impossible. Confused, I pondered this thought. At first, I took it to mean that I was already impossibly perfect and it's damn hard to improve on that. Then, I thought that perhaps it meant that it wasn't possible to polish a turd. Now, I just spend a lot of time working of self-improvement.

I work so hard on self-improvement that it looks effortless. That is part of the beauty of it all. I am constantly working and yet, I make it appear as though I am effortlessly wasting away my time here on Earth drinking and shoe shopping. That would be a false assumption. Clearly, I am a much deeper being. Take yesterday for example.

Yesterday, I learned how to make coffee. I own a single serving French press and I make coffee in it once a month because coffee is like crack to me and Lord knows that I don't need anything that makes me any more hyper. I made my first pot of coffee yesterday. I used a filter. I estimated the amount of coffee. I filled the reservoir past the fill line and had to mop up the water that spilled out of the overflow spout in the rear of the machine. Still, I pursued. Ten minutes later, I had coffee. It was hot and it was strong and it was good. I drank four cups because I like hazelnut CoffeeMate and it is 25 calories a serving and 100 calories is perfect.

Satisfied with my achievement, I volunteered to walk Jamie's chihuahua, Ozzie. I walked Ozzie 89 nearly perfect steps before he took a sh*t. Prepared with a plastic bag, I picked up the tiny perfect dog crap. We walked an additional 11 steps before I picked Oz up, so as not to disturb the perfection of the entire situation. Carrying Oz and a plastic bag stolen from the produce section, I was the picture of a perfectly responsible dog walker.

At the end of my day, I reviewed all that I had accomplished. I made coffee. I picked up crap. It was a perfect day.

I called Mom to tell her about my success. Mom is always happy to about my strides toward self-improvement. I told her about the coffee and about how responsible I was in dealing with the crap.

Mom sighed, "it sounds like you're ready for marriage," she said.

I know Dad likes coffee, but I never knew that he had a bowel problem.

Mist 1

My Left Eye

2007-06-26T06:00:00.000-07:00

I keep four things of value in my car. There is a bottle of perfume in the glove box so that I don't smell like a bar when I get to the bar. I think it covers up the smell nicely, if only for a minute. I keep flossers in easy reach because I abhor stuff in between my teeth. I have a tweezer in the car for those pesky stray brows that pop up in between threading appointments and for that one hair on my chin that will not die (I blame the pill because, clearly, I am much too adorable to be growing a chin hair without the influence of hormones). Most importantly, I keep a lighter in my car. I use my lighter to sterilize the tweezers to prevent any hideous eye infection which could render me blind or horribly disfigured.

I have learned a valuable lesson. Apparently, over the weekend, it was very, very hot here in the Dirty South. I left my car parked in full sun while I escaped to the lake. Yesterday, when I got in the car, I noticed my tweezers were on the driver's seat. Fragments of green plastic were scattered throughout the vehicle. Because I completed a correspondence course in forensics and also, sometimes I watch crime shows on A & E, I was able to put the clues together. My lighter exploded in the heat, sending my tweezers sailing out of their place in the pocket in the driver's side door. I am fortunate that no one was hurt.

I was in the right place at the right time. I'm not sure where I was or what time it was when I got there, but I narrowly avoided tragedy. I could have died. Even worse, I could have been maimed.

From the trajectory path of the tweezers, I was able to determine that I would have possibly lost my left eye. I am predominantly left eyed and this would have been disastrous for me. I rely on my left eye when I am drunk and I see two of everything. I simply close the offending right eye and all of a sudden, the world is back to normal. My left eye is the eye of reason.

Still, I think I would be sexy in an eye patch. I will not remove the matches from my car. There may or may not be bottle rockets in the trunk.

Mist 1

Stages of Grief

2007-06-25T06:08:00.000-07:00

I deal with grief in my own way. I know that I'm supposed to deal with denial and anger and bargaining before I even begin to encroach on acceptance. I am not one to deal with things according to a predetermined grief schedule. Rather, I prefer to deal with my grief about
Wiggy's passing in my own way.

Denial. I poked Wiggy's stiffened corpse several times. Surely, she wasn't dead. I looked at the cat. He was fine. I had not neglected to feed either one of them. Still, I couldn't help but poke her body a few more times to make sure that she was dead and not merely experiencing a bout of temporary rigor mortis. When I had assured myself that Wiggy was completely dead and not just doing that rodent dead routine, I moved on to my next stage of grief.

Disgust. I retched at the thought of having to pick up Wiggy's dead rodent body and bag it. I paced the floor as I decided whether I would keep the pig in my freezer or the fridge. I keep my vodka in the freezer and I would hate to sully it's delectable goodness with a dead rodent. However, I keep my pickles in the fridge and I would hate to sully their salty goodness with a dead rodent.

Bargaining. I promised that I would give Wiggy more organic vegetables if she would just live for another few months. I would never forget her vitamins. I would be a better rodent owner if only the rodent G*d would grant me a little more time.

Vodka. The vodka phase of my grieving process lasted quite a long time. The first day of vodka was a sad day. I cried and mourned the loss of my pet. The second day, I removed my clothing. By the third day of the vodka stage, I had forgotten not only the name of my former pet, but my own as well.

Nudity. The nudity stage and the vodka stage of grieving went hand in hand. I found it quite easy to remove all clothing while deep in my vodka phase. It is hard to be naked and to grieve at the same time as being naked on the lake is generally a joyous occasion.

Hangover. This stage of grief is the briefest stage for me. I am still awaiting this phase to fully hit. This phase necessitates the end of the vodka phase, which is still in full pour for me.

Apparently, all those months of therapy have helped. Judging from my bedroom floor, I have succinctly passed through the bikini, lubricant, red wine, and candle phases. I have to pass out now. Thanks for all your kind words about Wiggy. I think I'll pull through this nicely.

Mist 1

PS: A grief more real than my own...please show a little love. Visit Avitable to show a little more love.

Empty Cage Syndrome

2007-06-21T06:10:00.000-07:00

I used to live with a geriatric albino guinea pig.

Now, I live with an empty cage.

Maybe later, I'll think of something funny to write about this. Not tonight. I'm going to the lake so that I don't have to see the cage for a few days. I'll be back Monday.

R.I.P. Wiggy. You were some pig.

Mist 1

'Stache Stash

2007-06-20T06:22:00.000-07:00

I have the utmost respect for a good mustache. One day, I will probably grow one of my own. I hope that day is far, far away. Today, I'm going to do something new to demonstrate my reverence of the 'stache.

Rather than write about myself here, as I do five days a week, I have decided to write about myself somewhere else for a day. Change is good.

Click here to ride Burt Reynold's Mustache with me.

Mist 1

PS: I am enamored with Mr. Dali, but I'm afraid that I would have to decline an invitation to ride his 'stache. It looks dangerous.

$0.32

2007-06-19T06:43:00.000-07:00

I met Jamie for cocktails yesterday. I owed her a round of drinks for telling her neighbor stop calling my number. She told him that I had died a horrible death and his calls were only adding to the tremendous grief of my next of kin who were keeping my phone in the event that I want to contact them from The Beyond.

Before arriving at the bar, I stopped at the grocery store to pick up a salad. I had to have something to eat, because I am really, really b*tchy when I haven't eaten and it takes Jamie forever to order a cocktail. I didn't want to have to kill her and drink her blood from her skull while demanding Ketel One and extra olives from the petrified bar staff.

I chose the spinach salad with little grape tomatoes. I love those tiny tomatoes so much that I was able to overlook the hardboiled egg that was in the plastic container. I do not eat ova, because, it's just not natural. I selected a little packet of balsamic vinaigrette to go with my salad. The store even provided a handy packet of salt, pepper, a paper napkin and a plastic fork. The cashier rang up my salad and then scanned the packet of salad dressing. It was $0.32. At the time, that seemed like a ridiculous expense to me. When you buy a salad to go, it seems to me that the dressing ought to be free. I smiled as warmly as I could at the cashier and said, "Honey, you must be new." I told her about the free dressing with a to go salad store policy (that I had just invented).

The cashier coolly asked, "Ma'am, when you buy a head of lettuce, do you expect a free bottle of your favorite dressing? Do you expect a cheese plate when you buy a case of wine?"

Damn, my affinity for wine. Clearly, she wasn't new.

Mist 1

Who Shot John, GA

2007-06-18T06:44:00.000-07:00

I live in the city. I like my urban lifestyle. I lock my doors even when I am home. I think about leaving them unlocked when I take a shower because I saw a really hot porn about a woman who had a naughty encounter with 34 sexy men when she left her door unlocked while showering. Still, I err on the side of caution. The chances are too great that all 34 of the men that would burst through my door wouldn't be hot.

Every once in awhile, I have reason to travel outside of the metro area. Last weekend, I was invited to a pool party requiring me to drive for an hour on unpaved roads to Who Shot John, GA, a sleepy country town. I stepped out of the car and breathed the fresh country air. I lit a cigarette and changed out of my heels into flip flops.

The picture above is what I almost stepped when I got out of the car. In my neighborhood, if you have something like this in your yard, the neighbors call the police. In Who Shot John, GA, an animal carcass in the yard is customary. In fact, it is expected. When you live in Who Shot John, you had better have a half decomposed animal carcass complete with flies or your neighbors will think that you think that you are better than them. No one wants to look like a city slicker when you live in the sticks.

I have no idea what kind of animal I photographed. I compared the teeth to the photos of my host's children and although I never saw the children, they appeared to have very different bite patterns. I wondered if it was the hostess because she was no where to be found. Her husband kept mentioning that she was passed out in bed, but still, I was suspicious. Clearly, it had been there for awhile and I decided not to ask too many questions, lest I be the next in line to rot on his property.

I also had no idea what kind of animal the skeletal foot I found near the pool belonged to. I saw the dog pick it up in her mouth. She trotted around with the bony metatarsals hanging from her chops. Every once in awhile on the evening news, there will be a story about a body that was discovered because a dog came trotting home with a femur in it's mouth. I like stories like this. The reporter always interviews the dog owner, who inevitably only has a smattering of teeth. Looking directly into the camera, the dog owner will be asked to speak about his reactions upon discovering a human femur in his dog's mouth. The man will say something like, "well, you just never expect something like this."

I thought about calling 911 when I saw the dog with the foot bones in her mouth. I wanted the local news to come out and interview me. I would relish the opportunity to stand in front of the camera and say, "well, when you live out here in Who Shot John, you sorta expect to find dead bodies and stuff." Then, I would probably plug my blog and give a shot out to all my peeps.

Gawd, I want to be on the evening news.

Mist 1

Herbalist

2007-06-15T06:20:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I wrote about my affinity for eating animals. I wasn't always like this.

Once, I was much more in touch with the Universe. I was dating an herbalist (of sorts). He believed in the awesome powers of botany and loved all of G*d's furry creatures. He wore hemp jewelry and abhorred people who wore fur and leather. He bought unbleached toilet paper. He had a magic stone that he rubbed under his arms in an attempt to neutralize his natural pungent body odor, which was reminiscent of cat urine.

He began to encourage me to adopt some of his natural ways. I grew accustomed to drinking my water at room temperature. I cut refined sugars out of my diet. I bought cruelty free hair and body products. I even started taking the pill because I don't want to have the weight of contributing unnecessary latex to landfills.

Together, we gave up red meat. Then, we cut out poultry and later, fish. Dairy products were the next to be eliminated from our diets. We stopped eating honey, not wanting to exploit the labor of bees. We even stopped doing it doggy style so as not to offend canine beings.

All this was strangely okay with me. I recognized that his refusal to blow his nose so as not to disrupt a colony of bacteria in his sinuses was a bit odd, but I was blinded by malnutrition and high on his special herbal concoctions. We might still be together if he had not found a pair of snakeskin heels in my closet.

He was disgusted with me and the carcasses of animals that I wore on my feet. I argued that animals are natural and protective not to mention fashionable. He gave me an ultimatum; I had a choice, synthetic man-made shoes or he walked out in his Birkenstocks.

I chose shoes. He called me a murderer.

I reminded him that arsenic is natural.

We broke up. I went shoe shopping.

Mist 1

Baby, I Like it Raw

2007-06-14T06:31:00.000-07:00

People don't like to dine with me. I have food quirks that make it difficult to order a meal in a restaurant. I like food that is red or purple, I abhor overcooked vegetables, and I like my steaks really, really rare.

For years, I have tried to hide my preference for raw meat. I frequent dimly lit restaurants, so that I can eat my bloody meat in peace. Over dinner, I make jokes about the movie, Rosemary's Baby, insinuating that I have been impregnated with Satan's spawn. I use humor to deflect attention from my affinity for raw meat, but deep down inside, I am considering devouring my dining companions with a side of gorgonzola if my entree doesn't show up soon.

When I order a steak, I give explicit directions. I like it bloody, but not moving. I say things like, "shoot it before you serve it," or "I'd like it with it's nose freshly wiped with a side of roasted asparagus," or "no, really, the lightbulb in here should be enough to cook it thoroughly". Sometimes (rarely), my steak is prepared correctly and I watch it take it's last breath on my plate.

I have been craving red meat for weeks. I caught myself absentmindedly singing the Outback Steakhouse jingle the other day. Driving home, I slowed down to admire roadkill in an unhealthy way. The thing is, I like raw meat. Not rare. Raw. When I have cravings, I like to indulge them.

For three nights, I have eaten at bars. I go to bars to drink vodka, but my friends appear to have an appreciation for bar food. They know where to get the best wings and mozzarella cheese sticks. I try to avoid the sensation of gnashing my teeth on bone and I have a fear of frying and so generally, I avoid bar menus. This week, each night, I have carefully ordered raw red meat accompanied by some kind of vegetable. Each night, I have been disappointed.

Monday night, my steak was nicely peppered, but fatty. Tuesday, my steak was overcooked and much like sawdust smothered in some kind of mushroomy sauce. Last night, the steak tips on my salad were tough and sinewy.

Each night, I have requested a to go box. As I transfer the improperly cooked contents from my plate to the styrofoam box, I tell myself that tomorrow night will be different.

I have had it with these muthaf*ckin steaks in a muthaf*ckin bar.

Mist 1

Uninstalling

2007-06-13T06:48:00.000-07:00

I have a good relationship with my hp 3 in 1. I click print and he prints. I click scan and he scans. I click fax and he faxes. He even copies. It is beautiful. Really, we couldn't be happier unless he had a button for car detailing.

My 3 in 1 and I hit it off from the very beginning. I remember the day we met. I was in Office Depot. I was wearing blue suede platforms with tiny studs. He was on sale and I had a coupon. The sales associate was trying to set me up with a laser printer, but the 3 in 1 had already stolen my heart. He had all these little ports for my cables and chips. I don't know. I can't explain it. I had to have him.

We decided to move in together immediately. I never move this fast. Usually, I am more of a stick my tongue down your throat in the parking lot kind of girl, but I knew from the beginning, that this was no ordinary relationship.

I set him up and we networked. Installation was so simple. It was like he got me, you know? I still have the first test sheet that he ever printed. I bought him a few extra ink cartridges (name brand) so that he would be comfortable and put all his stuff in his own drawer. He suggested that I register him online and let everyone know that we were official. I agreed, without hesitation. When he recommended that I complete and return his warranty card, I balked. We didn't need a warranty to sully our relationship. That seemed like gambling against what we had. I told him that I believed in Us and threw away the card. It was a statement. Actions speak louder than words.

But now, we are having problems. I admit, there were signs. I had to reinstall his software once. But, everyone makes mistakes. We talked about it and he printed another test sheet for me and I forgave him. I told my girlfriends that if it ever happened again, he would be on eBay. Yesterday, I caught him in a lie. He told me that he was scanning to Word, but the document never popped up. I clicked and clicked and clicked. Each time, he looked me in the eyes and lied. Finally, I caught him in my email. He was all flustered and garbled and I couldn't understand him. If he wanted to read my email, all he needed to do was ask. I have nothing to hide.

I stopped talking to him and shut him down for a few minutes. He needed to align his cartridges and think it over. Finally, when I was ready, I asked him to print some directions for me. He thought about it. He placed them in queue, but he refused to print. He demanded that I check his connections or insert the CD that he came with.

I did what every girlfriend would do. I clicked print again and again thinking that he couldn't ignore me for long. I yelled. I withheld pdfs. Finally, I cried.

He has agreed to couples therapy. My therapist thinks that I am repressing my feelings and once I learn to appropriately express myself, he will print again. He just sits there silently.

I have given him an ultimatum. If he doesn't print, I will never put my a$$ on the platen glass for him to copy again.

I confess that I went Office Depot yesterday evening. We are not married, I can still look. I only hope that he didn't smell another printer's toner on me.

Mist 1

Setting Civil Rights Back

2007-06-12T06:38:00.000-07:00

My mother isn't much fun when it comes to board games, unless she is winning. When I win, she gets angry and calls me her sister's name. When I keep winning, she calls me by Dad's name and then it starts to get really uncomfortable.

I say stuff like, "Mom, when you called me Dad's name and said that I was a cheater, what did you mean?" Then, the game stops and we start drinking in earnest. I call Dad when she's in the bathroom and tell him that he still has a shot. He acts confused, but I know that it means a lot to him.

Last weekend, we played competitive Scrabble. It wasn't full contact Scrabble, but still many people came away with mild injuries. You do not mess with Mom and me. We have big vocabularies. Super big vocabularies. I can't think of a word better than super, but trust me, we are totally good with words.

We challenged a family staying in the bed and breakfast to a Scrabble match. They went home crying. Super hard. Like, totally super hard from our incredible vocabularies.

The couple was from Coon Rapids, Minnesota. Being from Minnesota, we were thrilled to be challenging fellow Minnesotans. Also, we really enjoyed calling them The Coons. We had breakfast with The Coons. We played Scrabble with The Coons. We even stole The Coons' parking space.

Now, maybe in the North it's not as funny to talk about The Coons, but here in the South, the word Coons carries some heavy implications. Mom and I enjoyed nothing more than telling the other guests of the b & b that they would have to move because The Coons were going to need those seats. We felt Rosa Parks smile down on us as we told people, "I'm sorry, those seats are reserved for The Coons."

The Coons were really bad Scrabble players. They were the kind of people who believed that everyone is a winner. They opened up triples and tried to use unique words to score points. We defeated The Coons. We even exploited The Coons. The Coons sucked at Scrabble even before we started drinking. Then, The Coons really sucked.

I like The Coons. They are decent folks. They just have limited vocabularies. Still, I can't hold that against them. I would totally hang out with The Coons again.

After last weekend, I feel that I can safely say that some of my best friends are The Coons.

Mist 1

I Like Aquafresh

2007-06-11T06:12:00.000-07:00

Mom and I did more than publicly demonstrate our inability to hold our tiramisu martinis while she was in town. We also demonstrated our ability to eat a meal every 90 minutes. I don't eat like this when she's not here, so I'm making her leave town today because I'm going to the beach next month and I will not be able to get into my bikini if we continue to eat like this. I love my mother, but I love my a$$ in my bikini even more.

Every few years, Mom and I retreat from the chaos of our lives. We leave the city behind and relax someplace where we can see the stars and buy stuff from local artisans. We've learned a lot about ourselves from these trips. We've learned that the word "rustic" when describing our accommodations means that we will be checking out two days early and so there had better be a hotel with a recognizable name close by. We've learned that we are very competitive when we play Scrabble and sometimes, people get hurt. The same is true for jigsaw puzzles.

We found an adorable b & b with limited internet access, while still offering adequate shopping and dining and HBO so that I could see who would get whacked on the Sopranos. I swore that I would not bring the computer or a man. Mom swore that she would not utter the phrases "Child, those shoes are going to give you bunions," or "is that a shirt or a dress?" for the entire weekend. Satisfied with the conditions, we reserved the weekend and opened a bottle of wine to celebrate.

When we arrived at the b & b, it seems that the entire home had been rented for a party. Naturally, we had not checked for an email confirmation before we left. The lovely proprietress offered us the cottage for the weekend. She noted that Bjorn, the man who had been staying there for several months was away for the weekend, but that he was away and she was absolutely sure that he wouldn't mind a bit.

We could not have been more thrilled. Staying in Bjorn's cabin made the trip so much more than a weekend getaway, it was now a mystery to solve. We charged ourselves with figuring out everything about Bjorn. We wondered why he had so much money in his checking account (I never would have looked at his bank statement had it not been in plain view in the dresser under his socks), but lived in a cottage. We scrutinized the contents of the pantry and promised that we would not drink his wine unless we left cash. We sniffed the tubes of spreadable fish in the refrigerator. I was especially fascinated with the toothpaste like tubes of fish paste. I can't think of any spreadable animals that come in tubes. We examined his toiletries and noted that he did not seem to own any dental floss. We even considered calling a friend of mine who is married to a man named Lars to see if he would translate Bjorn's Nordic notes.

Within thirty minutes, we had tired of Bjorn. We got dressed for dinner and found that the car had been parked in by guests attending the party in the main house. So, we crashed the party. We congratulated graduates and told people that I had grown up with the bride as we pushed our way to the bar. Over the fruit plate, I told Mom that I couldn't believe that she agreed to crash the party. Mom looked at me with narrowed her eyes, "I've been sneaking into movies, too." I love her. Also, now I understand how she sees so many movies. As the guests began making toasts, we talked the bartender out of a bottle of wine and slipped back to the cabin.

We watched a Lifetime movie entitled, "You Know This Kid is Going to Die, It's Only a Matter of Time." The ending was unpredictable and Mom and I cried. I dozed off on the couch while Mom got ready for bed. I was awakened by the string of profanities coming from the bathroom.

I kept my eyes closed and pretended to sleep. I even made soft snoring noises when Mom came into the room. She leaned over and kissed my cheek with fishy breath.

I left Bjorn $5 for the tube of fish paste. It was worth it.

Mist 1

PS: Mom presented me with the darling purse pictured above. It is a Dr. Seuss original. Mom told me that only someone as cute as I am can carry a purse like that. I'm posting a picture of it in all it's horrifying splendor, because if you subscribe to Mom's logic about cuteness, you can tell how adorable I must be.

Sleeping it off...

2007-06-08T06:00:00.000-07:00

Mom and I tried to write a martini inspired post last night...

We cannot write collaboratively after martinis.

We are sleeping it off.

Mist 1 (& Mom)

PS: We apologize for the drunken nonsense posted here last night. It all made sense at the time.

Dabbling

2007-06-07T06:07:00.000-07:00

I have been trying to use the word "dabble" more frequently. I started tossing it around freely the other day when I overheard a woman in the park tell her friend that don't get her wrong, she loves her job, but she's been dabbling in real estate. I can't explain why that entertained me so deeply. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love blogging, but lately, I have been dabbling in taxidermy, or neurosurgery, or midwifery.

My parents encouraged me dabble in all kinds of things when I was growing up. In my home, encouragement meant that we all went to our respective favorite places as far away from one another as we could be so that we could dabble with our stuff in private. Mom dabbled in extracting ear wax with hair pins and doodling, Dad dabbled with the powers of telekinesis and do-it-yourself home repair (it took 20 years, but the kitchen floor miraculously developed new tiles). My sister, Elle, dabbled in soap tasting and shaving her hairy toddler legs. I dabbled in knotting my sheets into a ladder to escape the confines of my bedroom where I also dabbled in Tarot. We were and, continue to be a family that dabbles in dabbling.

Mom sent me a letter a few weeks ago. I shook the envelope for a check and, upon finding nothing, promptly set it aside so that it could be properly lost in a pile of magazines and throw pillows. I lose all kinds of things in my magazines and throw pillows. I am not certain, but I think the dark haired, blue eyed guy from the bar may be in there.

Last night, Mom called me. "Are you going to pick me up from the airport tomorrow?" she asked. I never pick Mom up from the airport. She takes MARTA because it makes her feel all grown up. She lives in the Tundra where they only recently got a light rail train. The recorded voice can say, "caution, doors are closing" in 42 languages. It also reminds you to check your seat for personal belongings. I know when my personal belongings in my seat and don't require a reminder. The new light rail is a miraculous development for the metro Tundra region. It is wired to travel exactly 0.7 miles. The convenience of traveling from the largest mall in North America to the Airport has been warmly received by tax payers in the Tundra. Mom likes to take the rail system here because she can travel for miles and miles in four major directions. She gives detailed reports on the stench of urine and who she believed the source of the odor to be..

Mom informed me that she would be arriving in the afternoon and not to worry about her, she would find plenty of stuff to dabble while utilizing public transit. I would have offered to pick her up, but I have absolutely too much to do before she arrives. Most importantly, I have set the chair in the living room upright, hide the ring that I "borrowed" from her jewelry box, take down the picture of my fake family and hang the photo of my real family, and drink two large bottles of cheap wine. The large bottles do not speak of class and refinement. Rather, they scream, "I dabble in cirrhosis."

I hung up the phone and calmly headed to the kitchen for a glass of wine. I vacuumed up all the change and my lip balm from under the cushions on the couch. I dabbled in fluffing the pillows, but was distracted by a glass of wine. I declined a drunken marriage proposal via text message and paged through the phone book to find a 24-hour cleaning service. Unable to find one, I had a glass of wine and wondered if I could use wine to moisturize my dry lips or if I should dabble in the vacuum cleaner bag to find my beeswax lip balm.

Elbow deep in a bag of dust and cat fur and pennies, I began to wonder how long Mom's visit would last. I wiped off my arm, drank a glass of wine and called her. She was at dinner and I could tell that she had been dabbling in martinis because it took her three guesses to figure out which of her two daughters she was speaking with. I asked Mom if she wanted to sleep in my bed or in the guinea pig room and that's when she let me know that she will be staying at the lovely bed and breakfast near my home. When Mom hung up, I breathed a sigh of relief. I had dabbled in enough cleaning.

I have been admiring the absence of crap under my couch cushions for hours now. The fabric is cool against my cheek. It sort of makes me want to dabble by myself before I go to bed.

Mist 1

She's Not His Type

2007-06-06T06:53:00.000-07:00

I was disinvited to a social gathering last night. It's not that I didn't want to spend last night at home with a glass of wine, it's just that I wish that I hadn't put on makeup and an amazing skirt first.

The woman hosting the party is a friend of a friend. We have the kind of relationship where we run into one another while drinking in our zip code. We drink and talk and she calls me "girlfriend," then I talk to someone else. I don't talk to people who say "girlfriend" or "don't go there" unless they are doing my hair. Still, in my book, we're pretty close. I mean, I haven't puked at her house or anything, but I've felt pretty nauseated.

I'm used to not being invited to events. I have no problem with people who don't want me present from the beginning. Lots of people hate me. I attribute it mostly to being fascinating and my stunning eyelashes. It may also have to do with my intimidating shoe collection, but that is an issue that other people can resolve by shopping. I feel no guilt.

Being disinvited is a new experience for me. In order to feel better about myself, I am temped to list all of her flaws here, but that would just be ugly. She can't help it if she can't tell a story without forgetting it halfway through. Nor do I hold it against her that she has to wax her entire face and probably her neck. I wouldn't do that. I like her. Really, I do.

It seems that she is trying to gain the affections of a new man. This man likes "ethnic" looking women. I cannot help it that due to my parent's multi-cultural interests, I just happen to be ethnic looking. I also cannot help it that she is not. I am sure that plenty of men just adore her look. Why, they must be lining up to admire her in all her don't-go-there-girl mystique.

I think I have a pretty good discrimination case here. Until my day in court, you will find me peacefully protesting outside her home.

We shall overcome.

Mist 1

Hefty Bags

2007-06-05T06:08:00.000-07:00

When my friends and I talk, we talk about serious, pressing issues facing the world today. We are deeply concerned with current events and frequently find ourselves talking about items taken directly from the news.

We are passionate about environmental issues and conservation. Last night, Moronda and I debated an environmental issue. Moronda has strong environmental convictions. She believes in recycling men that she has already slept with. I support the environment by dating men with previous emotional baggage. I like to consider them post-consumer waste men. I don't damage new men. That would be environmentally irresponsible. Also, I only flush my toilet when people ring my doorbell. I wish my toilet was wired to my doorbell. It would ease my mind.

Moronda had a pressing question last night. Something that had made her lose several minutes of sleep the previous night. She wanted to know if it is appropriate for her to tell a man with a little penis that it is entirely unnecessary for him to wear a Magnum condom. She feels that he's delusional and doesn't want to give him a complex. Moronda says that the sex would be good if not for the excess latex in the way. It gets in the way of the satisfaction of all parties. Not being a fan of the condom, I asked her how bad it could be. I repeated her reply to myself over and over in my head, so that I could quote her properly here. She said:

"I mean, it looks like a ten gallon garbage bag hanging off his sh*t. He can't bust and neither can I. He keeps trying to come up with all these complex scenarios as to why. I'm like, 'hello, maybe it's the Hefty you have on that little wee wee of yours'."

Lord, I wish he was psycho enough to bug her phone. He needed to hear that.

Please, if you are banging my friend Moronda and you are reading this, scale it down a size.

Thanks in advance.

Mist 1

Motel O'Aces

2007-06-04T06:40:00.000-07:00

This weekend, I did two things that I had never done before. I went to Alabama and I used a Port-a-Potty. Neither was as bad as I had expected, but I have no future plans to to either again soon.

I didn't have a reason to go to Alabama. I woke up in the morning and scratched my a$$ just like I do every morning. Then, I had an idea. Whenever I have a good idea, I like to call someone and tell them about it, I don't care what time it is. Also, when I have a good idea, I like to preface it with the phrase, "I know what let's do". Everything sounds like a good idea when you say that first. Jamie could not refuse.

We checked into the Motel O'Aces just in time for cocktail hour. Jamie and I were parched. The woman at the front desk hadn't taken the time to inform us that cocktail hour at the Motel O'Aces means you bring your own liquor down to the lobby or try to pick up a trucker who has good pills. We decided to go out for margaritas instead.

We found a Mexican restaurant and were shown to the smoking section. Where I live, smoking indoors is a crime punishable by fines, jail time, and lung cancer. Jamie and I decided that we were going to smoke as much as we could since it was perfectly acceptable here. It turns out that eating dinner in a smoke filled room isn't all that appetizing. Margaritas are still pretty damn good. This was the kind of restaurant where you have to get up to pay. It took a long time for us to figure that out. We occupied our time with margaritas at the bar. The sexy Mexican bartender looked through his dark hair and said in a thick accent, "You don't sound like you're from here." I did that eyelash thing that I do and I said, "neither do you, Baby, neither do you." I swear, in my head, it was very, very sexy. Jamie pulled me out of the place by my arm before I embarrassed myself any further.

We spent the rest of the evening with the locals discussing the best way to get rid of wild hogs and how not to get caught should you ever need to kill an endangered species. It turns out that herons, while endangered, are awful good eating.

The next morning, we went down to the lobby for the continental breakfast. The woman at the front desk hadn't taken the time to inform us that the continental breakfast at the Motel O'Aces means you bring your own coffee down to the lobby or try to pick up a trucker who has good pills. We decided to go out for bloody Mary's instead.

We spent the afternoon in the pool. When we returned to our room, we found that our room hadn't been cleaned yet. Apparently, the woman at the front desk hadn't taken the time to inform us that room service at the Motel O'Aces means you go down to the lobby for clean towels or skip the towels and try to pick up a trucker who has good pills. We decided to go out for beer instead.

Yesterday, when we checked out of the lovely Motel O'Aces, we discovered a miscellaneous $250 charge to the bill. It seems that the staff noted a funny smell coming from our room the night before. A smell, that was mysteriously reminiscent of marijuana. I glared at Jamie who I distinctly remember telling to smoke that sh*t outside. Jamie, who had insisted that it would be okay, was now insisting that the smell must have been from her cigarettes. She explained to the woman behind the front desk that she rolls her own. The woman politely explained that we could pay the charge or tell the story to the police.

I pulled Jamie aside. We both agreed that as much as we had enjoyed our time in Alabama, the Motel O'Aces was probably considerably more comfortable than the county jail.

Using the Port-a-Potty was a slightly better experience. Slightly.

Mist 1

Sorry, Dale Chihuly

2007-06-01T06:25:00.000-07:00

I expect people to grieve with me when my luggage gets lost. I want them to understand the gravity of the situation. I give them great detail about the sandals with the rainbow leather heel that are packed snugly away and how I have only worn them one time and I expect them to feel the pain that I feel. I tell them that I have a phobia about my shampoo and conditioner spilling on the inside of my bag and how while this may not be recognized as a mental illness, it is very, very real.

If that fails to gain a suitable emotional reaction, I tell them that my medication is packed in my bag and that it is an extended release prescription and my last dose is due to wear off any moment now. Then, I usually get the look of concern the situation demands.

But, when other people lose their luggage, I expect them to lighten up. "C'mon," I urge them, "let's have a few cocktails. Your bags will turn up. Who's ever heard of luggage disappearing anyway?" I took this approach with Joelle when I picked her up from the airport last. I think she was comforted by my cool, calm demeanor. I pointed out that there was plenty of shopping to be had in the area and that she looked so good in what she was wearing that she could totally wear it again.

We decided to wait in the piano bar in the atrium of the airport until her bags arrived or until last call. I love the piano bar. Drinking at the airport virtually guarantees that I will hold a conversation with someone interesting, or at least strange. We took a seat near a young hippie couple.

Joelle eyed their army drab duffel bags. Mournfully, she said, "they have their luggage." I helpfully suggested that she should travel with hideous luggage and maybe she wouldn't have this problem. Everyone knows that luggage only disappears or gets damaged when it is new or extremely cute. Joelle slumped lower in her seat and glared at the hippies.

The hippies saw Joelle's hostility as an invitation to join us. They had traveled from Eugene, Oregon for an art show. He was a glass blower. She was his girlfriend. Ignoring her, I made slightly sexual comments about blowing glass and other stuff that can be blown. I tried to impress him with my vast knowledge of glass art. The girlfriend turned to me and said, "not vases and sh*t. He makes dildos and butt plugs and bongs and stuff like that."

They invited us to hang out with them that evening. As much as I wanted to check out his dildo creations, I didn't imagine that they shared my preference in hotels. I prefer hotels with running water and they didn't look like they appreciated bathing. I politely declined, telling them that we'd love to but that Joelle had lost her luggage and would have nothing to wear.

The girlfriend turned to Joelle and said, "perfect."

Mist 1

When I'm Old

2007-05-31T06:48:00.000-07:00

I don't like to do more than one thing in a day. I keep my to do lists short (1. Get Hobby, 2. Floss). When I add more items to my list I start to feel overwhelmed. I have a hard time finding the time to 3. Get Dressed, 4. Get an Oil Change, 5. Pee, 6. Do Something Productive With My Life, and 7. Find Remote Control.

Yesterday, I had a lot to do. In addition to my regular list, I had to go to the bank, the post office, FedEx, find the time to eat a meal, and do something productive with my life.

After I left the bank, I went to the post office. The elderly couple in front of was holding hands. I thought about how nice it would be to have a companion to run my errands with; someone who would do all the driving while I did all the talking. The four foot tall old lady dragged the elderly man forward in line. They deliberated over how many stamps to buy. Rather, she deliberated with herself while he stood there and nodded in and out of an elderly stupor. She was still considering whether or not they would use 100 stamps before the price of sending a letter increased again when I was called to the next available window. I sent my package and left for FedEx. They were still there.

Twenty minutes later, I was sitting down to a salad when the couple walked into the restaurant. I watched her order his meal. Did he want the full portion or the half portion? Was he sure? She reminded him that he wouldn't have any leftovers unless he ordered the full portion. He dozed off again and she ordered him the full size portion. When it came, she remarked at how large the portion was and maybe he should have ordered the half size.

I finished my salad and sat in my booth for a few moments. I watched her talk to him about what they were going to do next. He drooled in his soup. She wiped his chin and prattled on and on about double coupon day at the grocery store.

It wasn't until after I left the restaurant that I realized that I may be alone when I'm that age. I will have no one to hold my hand in the package store. I will have only my own chin to wipe when I dribble my vodka down my face. I will have to shop for old lady shoes alone.

Good.

I am looking forward to living in a retirement community. Women outnumber men in retirement homes six to one. I am looking forward to the challenge. I think it will keep me young, or at least whorish in my old age.

But at the same time, I kind of want to be a burden to someone in my old age. I have been practicing being a burden for years.

Mist 1

Suicide Hotline

2007-05-30T06:25:00.000-07:00

I am worried about my sister. I need confirmation that she is still alive. I have tried calling her with no success. I've left her three messages and still, she has not returned my calls.

Mom was the last person to talk to her. They spoke early yesterday and Mom reported that Elle was in bad shape. I am afraid that she has been pushed over the edge. My sister is deeply disturbed, yet highly motivated and the slightest thing could set her off. I only hope that she has internet access and reads this before it's too late. I want her to know that I care.

Elle called Mom early in the morning. She was nearly hyperventilating, "I can't leave my apartment. I'm not going out there. They'll see me. Tell them not to look at me," she sobbed. These kinds of phone calls don't bother my parents. I have been preparing them for moments like this for years by sending them the transcripts of the conversations that I hear in my head. A little Agoraphobia doesn't worry them in the least.

It seems that my sister just found out that our preferred hair care company has recently discontinued our favorite anti-frizz, leave-in treatment. My sister and I are curly haired girls. We depend on this product to protect us from humidity. Humidity and curly hair can be a fatal combination. Once, my hair was so frizzy and large that it obstructed my vision. Without peripheral vision, I nearly ran my car into oncoming traffic. Right then and there, I knew that I had to make a change in my life, or at least in my hair products.

Elle sent Mom to several salons throughout the city to see if she could find a few leftover bottles. She had her visit the corporate office to see if she could shake down the executive types there for coordinates of the warehouse where surely, she would find the last remaining case of the leave-in treatment. Finally, Mom called me to see if I would scour the Southeast for the precious product. I am happy to help with the search, but thus far, I have not turned up nothing. If I do find anything, I will not be sharing with my sister.

Hair products are thicker than blood, as the saying goes.

Mist 1

To Go

2007-05-29T06:11:00.000-07:00

Where I live, bartenders end the evening by saying, "I'll close out the tab," or "I'll call you a cab," or even "hey, your friend's puking." In New Orleans, bartenders ask if they can pour me a drink to go. Drinks to go are irresistible. I cannot refuse the opportunity to clumsily walk up and down the French Quarter juggling my purse (red, adorable), shopping bags, my cell phone and camera, and a cocktail in a plastic cup.

The bartender in the hotel was a petite man in a horrible shirt with embroidered guitars. He wore cheap boots and his accent changed with every round of drinks. But, he called me Darlin' and I was able to overlook his flaws. His name is Polly. Polly insists that it is Paulie, but he's not in the Mafia and so I opted to call him Polly. He bought a few rounds of drinks for Lisa and me and then offered to be our official New Orleans tour guide. Because we are not the kind of girls who are afraid of being dismembered and fed to alligators in the bayou, we accepted Polly's hospitality. We also accepted drinks to go.

After spending an evening with Polly, I have decided that I have a calling. I am burdened with many responsibilities. I can't remember what any of them are right now, but I am sure that there are plenty. I am here to help men like Polly learn what does not work with a woman.

Polly did not mention my shoes once during the evening. He did not open any doors. Within a few minutes, Polly declared that he could make love to me for two weeks straight only pausing for drinks and cigarettes. He used the phrase, "Homie don't play that" liberally. He said something about falling in love that broke me out in a rash. He made an awkward attempt to kiss me that ended poorly.

I tried to tolerate Polly. He brought us to fantastic bars where he introduced us to bartenders and local musicians. He laughed at my jokes. But, Polly insisted on talking. It was clear that Polly didn't understand the dynamics of our relationship. The roles were to be as follows; Lisa and I were to talk and enjoy cocktails and look pretty and go to the bathroom together while Polly was supposed to run Crown and Cokes and vodka tonics to us. I try to keep things simple.

As Lisa and I were in the midst of a heated debate about feather boas (I am anti-boa, Lisa is pro-boa) Polly interjected a story about his uncle dying. We talked over him as he made no reference to boas, beads or tiaras. He started the story again from the top. I asked how many time his uncle was going to die before I got a lime for my cocktail. Polly stepped back and yelled, "Can Polly finish talking?"

"Polly," I said, "I think Lisa and I already have that part covered."

Polly stepped back and stared at us for a second. He turned on his heel and left the bar leaving me to get my own lime for my cocktail.

He didn't even get a to go drink.

Mist 1

Bayou

2007-05-28T06:51:00.000-07:00

I'm in New Orleans for the holiday. Please come back tomorrow and I might tell you all about my adventures, including a story about a man named Polly.

I have to get back out there now. There's a bar with my name on it.

Happy Memorial Day.

Mist 1

Shorts

2007-05-25T06:02:00.000-07:00

I adore summer. I love sun dresses and short shorts. I like that I can walk into the convenience store in my bikini and buy beer and it's perfectly acceptable. Wearing a bikini is like wearing a bra and panties only you can do it in public and I think that's fabulous. Throughout the rest of the year if you try walking into a store wearing your underwear, you get odd looks and mothers cover the eyes of their children. But, from now until Labor Day, it's fine. Summer is the one time of year that I can step up my wardrobe from slightly slutty to whorish and it's perfectly acceptable.

I love the snug brown shorts that UPS graciously provides to drivers for their summer uniforms. I have found myself shopping online more and more, just to have Curtis come and visit me (albeit briefly) in those shorts every day. He sprays cologne on himself before he leaves the truck and it is entirely overpowering, but I forgive him for as long as he is wearing those shorts. Curtis is always polite. I ogle him while he sets my packages down and then he tells me to have a blessed day and I feel like a heathen because I swear, I do not know what the man's face looks like. I promise myself that tomorrow will be different. I will be respectable and I will sign for my packages without doing that look where I peek through my hair at him and bite my lower lip. I promise that I will stop molesting Curtis with my eyes when the weather cools down.

Lately, I have noticed that Curtis is uncomfortable around me. He is always shifting from foot to foot. He tugs at he back of his shorts when he's standing in front of me. His eyes dart around the room. I imagine that when he leaves, he scratches himself like a bear on the trunk of a tree. Yesterday, I asked him if I made him uncomfortable. He explained that it's not me, but that the truck has no air conditioning and that he's always sweating in his tight polyester shorts. The sweat it seems, drips down his back and pools in his crack. I nodded my head in mock understanding. I gave him the look that says, Curtis stop talking, you are totally ruining tonight's fantasy. I was going to ask if he wears boxers or briefs, but I thought that might be too forward. Curtis scratched his a$$ one last time and told me to have a blessed day. I wished him the same, but in the back of my head, I was thinking about how many times a day he scratched his butt and then handed people a package.

I'm glad that Curtis is comfortable enough with me to reveal the intimate details of his shorts. He's made me think, surely he's not the only man who has problems with his a$$ crack sweating in the summer. What do other men do? Baby powder seems like a reasonable option, but I haven't noticed any men smelling like baby powder down there. I'm not saying how I would have noticed, but I'm just saying, a girl notices stuff like this. By the way guys, if I ever notice that you smell like baby powder, I'm coming up for air.

Does Tampax make panty liners for men? I'm ordering a pack of manty liners for Curtis. I'm having them shipped UPS.

Mist 1

PS: Thanks Michael for letting me be a part of your Carnival of the Mundane.

Can You Spell That?

2007-05-24T06:55:00.000-07:00

I like it when I meet people with names more unusual than mine. I never say the things to them that people say to me when they meet me. I don't ask, "is that your last name?" or "is that a family name?" or "what kind of drugs were your parents doing?" because I know what it's like. I just smile and introduce myself. I know what it's like to have to say your name twice when you meet people. I know the feeling that I have when I have to spell my name for people even though it's a common English word that most children know how to spell.

In college, my favorite course was taught by Dr. Ira Klein. Instantly, I loved him. I loved his parents even more. I like anyone with a name that is a statement. Dr. Klein's name tells you not only what to call him, but what he does as well.

A few years ago, I dated a man named Jerry Duty. We didn't have much in common, the sex was great and I really enjoyed telling people that I had Jerry Duty. He figured out that I was using him as an excuse to get out of work and he left me.

I'm trying to get better at remembering names. I've tried repeating names when I am introduced to people. I've tried associating names with pictures. None of it works very well. I've resorted to writing down names and a little note about them on a list so that I can recall it later. I try not to do it right in front of them because it makes me look creepy. As I was reading the names of people I've met this week, I decided that my name really isn't that bad. It could be worse.

Sunday, Titas mixed my paint at the hardware store. I could not help myself and referred to him as Tight-A$$. The color of my paint was slightly off.
Monday, I was transfered to the voicemail of a man named Reid Ownley. I couldn't be sure that I had heard the recording correctly, so I hung up and called again.
Tuesday, the new massage therapist at the spa handed me his card. His name is Denis. With one n. Like penis. Only not. I will not be booking services with Denis until he adds another n to his name.
Yesterday, I batted my eyelashes over a magazine at a man in the book store. He came over and introduced himself. His name was Kurt. "Hi Kurt, I'm rude," I said.

Mist 1

No, Mist

M-i-s-t

Yeah, like Mist.

Grocery Shopping

2007-05-23T06:15:00.000-07:00

I am usually the picture of patience.

I don't mind waiting in line at the bank. I like to watch the people in line with me. Waiting in line is awkward. People never know what to do with themselves. I watch them fidget and shift from foot to foot. I talk to them. If they are short with me, I make up stories about them in my head. My stories are so entertaining, that I hope to never know the real details of their lives. Sometimes, when they are leaving, I am tempted to reach out to them and say things like, "keep skating, you'll make it," or "I know what's buried in the backyard." I have tremendous self restraint and I so I look down at my hands and pretend to be really interested in my cuticles.

I like the camaraderie that I find with other people waiting in line with me. When the cashier has to change the roll of paper in the till, we sigh and share a moment because we know that we are so important that we cannot possibly be asked to wait the additional minute and a half that it will take to insert the new roll. We love to hate the cashier who fumbles with the paper. We know that we could do it better if it was left up to us. I love communal hatred. It feels so good.

Last night, I stopped by the store for toilet paper. I also picked up a few bottles of wine, an air freshener, sushi, dental floss (unwaxed, mint), replacement blades for my razor, cigarettes, and grapes. As I was shopping for impulse purchases, I yapped on the phone with a friend. She asked me to pick up a pack of size 4 diapers. Confidently, I strode down the diaper aisle. Diapers are like baby panties and I am practically a panty shopping professional. With the diapers in my cart, I went to wait in line to check out.

I leafed through a magazine while I waited and ate several grapes. To keep from eating all of them, I picked up a pack of gum from the rack and chewed a piece. Finally, the cashier began ringing my purchases. I swiped my card and punched in my code and waited. Not Authorized. I swiped again and slowly entered the code. Still, Not Authorized. I watched the people in line communally hate me. They sighed and craned their necks to look at the other lines. They cleared their throats and hated me.

Fingering through my other cards, I heard a woman's voice say, "Looks like we chose the wrong line." I felt them judging my purchases. What kind of woman buys diapers and razors and wine and cigarettes? I wanted to explain to them not to worry, I'm an astronaut. In the end, I did the only thing I could do. I pulled out my phone and answered a phone call. I spoke loudly as I made my plans for the weekend.

Then, I slowly wrote a check.

If random strangers are going to hate me, I want them to really hate me.

Mist 1

Sponsorship

2007-05-22T06:48:00.000-07:00

This post is for a good cause.

I know that the people who read and comment here are philanthropic. You share with me every day in your comments and with your words of encouragement, and your LOLs. Today, I am asking you to help out a blogger who used to read my blog. I am certain that if we all pull together, we can make a change in one man's life. Together, we are powerful. We can make a difference.

Recently I got the following email from this man:

Several weeks ago I suggested that we meet up on my way from [state]. That was wrong, dead wrong. I'm firmly and deeply in love with another woman, the love of my life, and even just having conversations like we did was totally wrong. To do otherwise would totally destroy whatever trust she has left in her, and that would devastate us both.

I can never have any further contact with you either through our blogs or any other means.

I responded politely and told him that I was weirded out by his email and wished him the best of luck in his relationship with the love of his life. Then, I got an email from the love of his life. Please see segment of her email below:

...in order to believe him I asked him to write that email to you and to everyone else he had such conversations with, so if you're truly "weirded out" and your intentions were also innocent, I apologize for causing you concern. I just wanted to assure you that he's not a weirdo, and that he wrote that email at my urging.

And that's how I found out this poor man's plight. Apparently the love of his life has removed his testicles and is holding them hostage. My sources tell me that they are in a jar in her Curio cabinet. This is a crime against humanity and should not be allowed to continue in this day and age. This is the United States of America. How can we turn our backs and pretend not to see such heinous acts of cruelty? Not on my watch, I say.

Won't you consider joining Save the Testicles, Inc. and me in our campaign to retrieve this poor man's balls from a terrible fate? Your contribution will not only go to rescue this man's nuts, but will support thousands of emasculated men worldwide. You may even know a man who is living a life without possession of his own testicles. The National Association for Ball Reclamation states that in 2006 four out of every 12 testicles may be in this situation. That is like a third of all men unless some of them only had one testicle to start with, so really, it could be anyone's guess. Experts at Save the Testicles, Inc. feel that this figure is a gross underestimate.

Fortunately, men like this are not without help. That's where you come in. Your donation will support a Testicular Reconnaissance Force comprised of volunteers who will take back entrapped balls, by force if necessary. Your contributions don't stop there, education and awareness are a cornerstone of Save the Testicles, and our efforts have brought bright futures to testicles in countries like Malawi and Iowa.

Please, take a moment and show your support by becoming a nut sponsor. Every time someone becomes a sponsor, two balls are forever changed. With your monthly contribution (less than the cost of a cup of coffee), you will receive regular letters and photos from your sponsored testicles. The special relationship that you can develop with your sponsored balls is something that you and your balls will cherish forever.

Mist 1

PS: I wish the happy couple all the best. I give it a year.

Sick Duck

2007-05-21T06:05:00.000-07:00

It has suddenly become clear, that I am not responsible enough to manage animals.

After last week's episodes with felines and hormones, I thought that I'd spend the weekend blissfully at home. I would drink wine and smoke catnip and talk about Issues. You know, stuff that really matters like why my favorite hair care company has stopped making my favorite product and like, about how much I hate improvised explosive devices or something.

I should have done everything that I could have to stay away from animals. Instead, I went to the pet store. I picked up all the baby guinea pigs and thought about buying a friend for Wiggy. I held the bunnies and giggled at the fur growing between their toes. I even picked up the ferrets. I love ferrets, but I hate the way they smell. I wish that I was cute and funny enough that people would forget about how badly I can smell when I'm not properly groomed.

I exercised self control. Instead of buying a guinea pig or a bunny or a ferret, I purchased a cat leash and bird seed. I knew that the leash wasn't a good decision, but I couldn't resist. The cat in the photo on the package, was so damn cute. He was happy and proud of himself and he had such love in his eyes for his owner. I thought, "yes, that could be Hissy and me," and so I bought it. Hissy didn't appreciate the gesture. After losing most of the flesh on my hands and my entire left eyelid, I decided to return the leash. I am happy that the pet store accepts returns, even when they are covered in blood.

After a blood transfuion, I went to feed the ducks. Spending time with my ducks always makes me feel like a good person. They don't judge me. They don't care who I bring with me to feed them or if I come alone. They don't care if I dump out all the food away and walk away or if I stay or awhile and fawn over them. They never expect me to call in the morning. I like that about ducks.

When I got to the pond, the ducks were chasing each other. They were playing a version of duck tag that seemed to end in some kind of mounting game. Although, it looked like fun, I yelled. I waved my arms. I whistled. The ducks ignored me and humped in the mud. I shook the bag of seed. The ducks came running over. They smelled of sex and pond scum.

I guess I should have known that ducks have sex. I wasn't ready to see it.

Duck sex is not exactly romantic. It's mostly like eating a beakful of food and then chasing after the first chick you see. I have taught them nothing about dating. Sometimes, other ducks watch. They let people watch. No vodka. Two on one. No lube. Ducks, quite simply, do not care.

I gave them my blessing.

Then, I spent the rest of Sunday searching the internet for duck sex. If my computer is seized by the authorities anytime soon, I will probably be busted for animal porn.

Still, I can't hate on anyone having fun.

Go get 'em, chicks.

Mist 1

Showers

2007-05-18T06:57:00.000-07:00

It turns out that I'm not as good with animals as I had previously thought.

I know that I am not the most nurturing person, but I am disappointed in my cat. Hissy's misbehavior is a reflection of my failures at raising decent, animal G*d fearing, contributing member of the animal kingdom. Sue, my striking, yet borderline retarded friend told me that when her dog acts up, she buys him a toy. Yesterday, after kenneling Butters all day, she bought him an $11 bear with a blue ribbon around it's neck.

"I know the pink ribbon is for breast cancer, but what's the blue ribbon for?" she asked me via text. "Darfur," I replied. "Cool, I don't support wearing real fur." I love her, because she makes me feel so smart.

Knowing that Sue spent $11 on a dog toy didn't make me feel any better. I make Sue look like the picture of financial responsibility.

Disturbed by our recent move, Hissy has decided that his litter box is no longer his preferred place to pee. Rather, he finds that the rug in front of the sliding glass door is appropriate. He waits in front of the glass for hours until the local stray approaches. They stare at each other, both of them puffed up, for twenty minute stretches before Hissy decides to pee in front of the other other cat. He runs around here, panting, with his mouth open. Unable to accept that he may have a behavioral problem, I brought him to the vet.

Several hundred dollars later, the vet has determined that Hissy is unhappy. Not a bladder infection; not poisoning from tainted pet food. He is simply disgruntled with his environment. I wanted to tell her that I am disgruntled too, but thus far I have kept up my normal toilet habits. Instead of prescribing kitty anti-depressants, she sent us home with a $50 cat pheromone air freshener. I still cannot believe that I just paid $50 for a plug-in hormone diffuser that is supposed to give my cat a sense of calm and well-being in a 650 square foot radius. I admit that I think it's working. I spent all yesterday lying in a patch of sunlight on the floor and occasionally drinking out of the toilet. Hissy, on the other paw, feels very sexy and has been carefully grooming himself in his erogenous kitty zones. This diffuser will last a month before I will need to purchase a refill. Until then, we are happy and high on hormones.

Over some potent catnip and breathing in kitty vapors, Hiss and I talked last night about where I went wrong in his kittenhood. He told me about his days on the streets. About how he never really knew his mother. About his foster home. I feel like I've done everything for him. He's wanted for nothing since I adopted him. Sure, I don't let him go outside, but there is nothing for him out there. He has all the toys that he could ever need here. I buy him sushi grade tuna and he sleeps in my bed. Those are privileges exclusive to him.

As I was defending myself, I was overcome with a feeling of guilt. If I had adopted a child, I would have had a baby shower. I would have registered at Baby Depot for a stroller and a high chair and other baby accessories. My friends would have planned all the games and gifted us with a supply of diapers and bibs and vomit rags and stuff.

When I adopted Hissy, I went to the pet store and fell in love because he would look so good with my curtains and sofa. I bought all of the cat accessories on the spot and took Hissy home. No one wants to feel like a spontaneous decision. We all want to know that someone has wanted us for a long time.

I passed the catnip to Hissy and told him that to make it up to him, tomorrow, I'll be registering at PetSmart. He shrugged, licked his a$$hole, and looked contemplative for a moment. Then he shredded the skin on my left hand.

I'm looking into boarding schools.

Mist 1

PS: Thanks to everyone who let me know my comments were off this morning.

PPS: Perry has invited me to babysit his blog, Intelligent Humor while he does a little hard time. I'll be over there today if you'd like to drop by. If not, please bake him cake with a file in it.

Prom

2007-05-17T06:41:00.000-07:00

My father is a sensible man. He doesn't give me unsolicited advice, he makes gentle suggestions. I'll never forget the time we went to Disney and he had to fish me out of the It's a Small World ride. He put his hands firmly on my shoulders and said, "Honey, I need to know which meds you forgot to pack so we can call your doctor." He has never needed my advice. Until now.

Dad is going to prom. This would be worrisome in some families, but Dad teaches high school, and he volunteered, so it's okay. In fact, I am thrilled that he would ask me for prom fashion advice.

It's not that I want to relive prom. I don't. I would like to forget that my senior prom ever happened. Nothing went right in the days leading up to that magical evening.

Three days before the event, my hairstylist called me to tell me that he had unexpectedly decided that he was gay and would be leaving his wife to live with his lover in Miami. I pleaded Tommy to wait until after prom, but he informed me that his life had been on hold for long enough and nothing, not even my prom could keep him from his dream.

Two days before the event, a bleeding stomach ulcer landed me in the hospital overnight. I was released the next day doped up and dry heaving. On the plus side, I couldn't eat solid foods and therefore achieved the sallow gauntness that made my cheekbones pop and set off my earrings.

The day before the event, my date announced that in order to save money, we would be sharing a hotel room with a few of his buddies. I hung up on him and called my reserve date.

Perhaps the worst moment was arriving to prom in the identical dress as my high school nemesis. My girlfriends clustered around me in a show of support and told me that I pulled the dress off better than she had. She didn't know how to accessorize they assured me. They were right. She was in chunky sandals and was wearing a Wonder Woman-like cuff.

My best accessory was her ex-boyfriend on my arm. He looked great with my shoes.

I hope Dad's prom is better than mine was.

Mist 1

Affairs

2007-05-16T06:21:00.000-07:00

I gave up dating married men years ago. Essentially, that means that I've given up dating entirely. It seems that I am most attractive to married men. At first, I didn't see anything wrong with it. I have been the Other Woman, the Main Girl on the Side, and the I Thought I Told You Never to Call Me at This Number B*tch. I like the absence of commitment. I adore the gifts. The travel is exquisite because I love staying in hotels, even if it is only for an hour or (with Viagra) two.

I had a change of heart when I met the wife of a man that I was dating. I am not innocent here. I knew he was married. I didn't know that he was married to a saint. She was beautiful. She worked for a nonprofit. She had great taste in shoes. In fact, her shoes were better than my shoes. I wanted to hate her, but I couldn't. I hated her husband instead.

From time to time, one of my friends will come to me to ask my opinion about engaging in an affair. Yesterday, before the sun was up, my phone rang. The situation was simple. He had fallen asleep at her house and now didn't know what to tell The Wife when he returned home in last night's clothes, smelling like another woman.

I usually don't remember what I say on the phone in a state of half stupor and half sleep, but this call had such urgency. I sprang into action after checking my email and flossing my teeth. I told my girlfriend that he had better total his car and break his arm before he went home. I reinforced my point that if he was to return home, 12 hours late, that he must be sporting a cast. Not a bandage. A cast. No one can question you if you have a broken bone. A cast says, "Baby, I would have been here with you except that my arm was stuck in a meat grinder or pinned under a car or something like that. I love you and no, that's not a hickey."

So, we decided that he should break an arm. He wasn't too keen on the idea until I explained it to him. Then, he saw my logic. The problem is that I don't know how to break an arm nor do I have the stomach for it. It looks so easy in the movies. I tried snapping his arm over my leg several times with no success. Finally, I suggested tying one end of a string to his elbow and the other end to the doorknob. He informed me that he was not trying to rip his arm off like a loose tooth, he merely wanted to break a bone.

He is still at my friend's house, plotting his return home.

It seems to me that there are two remaining options. Amnesia or divorce.

Mist 1

Breakfast, My Place

2007-05-15T06:16:00.000-07:00

I care about what people think of me when they first meet me. I limit profanity to words starting with f or s. I make sure that my butt crack isn't sticking out of my slightly slutty jeans by making sure that my thong shows instead of my crack. I do not answer my phone when I am talking to someone new, but I make sure that the ring volume is all the way up. I think it makes people feel special because they know that even though someone else wants to talk to me, I am putting them first. I like to make people feel good about themselves.

I may drop my pants or fall on my face or bring shame to my family in public on a monthly basis, but still, I care about first impressions. It's just that I'm not very good at them.

I'm also not very good at breakfast. I like a spicy Bloody Mary for breakfast. That may have something to do with how I end up ruining first impressions. I'm working on improving my breakfast habits by incorporating solid food into my morning routine.

Yesterday, I toasted a blueberry Eggo waffle and sat down on the couch to watch CNN. The day was off to a good start. I would have a solid breakfast and I would also be an informed citizen. The rest of the morning was to be simple:

1. Eat waffle.
2. Shower (deep condition, shave legs).
3. Dress.
4. Wait for the gas man to service my furnace (that's not code for anything, I just like the way it sounds).

I never made it all the way through step one. When the gas man woke me up, I was still in my trampy shorts and tank top on the couch. CNN was still on the TV. Crumbs clung to my face. The waffle was clutched in my hand.

I screamed when I saw the gas man standing over me. That's when I realized that I had fallen asleep with a bite of waffle in my mouth.

The gas man laughed, "you look like The Hoff."

He'll never service my furnace again.

Mist 1

Jimmy

2007-05-14T06:33:00.000-07:00

Mom sent me an email on Friday afternoon. "Jimmy's dead," she wrote. I'm not sure why she thinks it's okay to send this kind of news in an email.

I grew up next door to Jimmy. We raised worms in my backyard. We played Mad Libs in his tree house. Then, his family moved to a rural town to further Jimmy's career in vermiculture. We lost touch, but recently we've been able to reconnect through email.

Shocked from the email, I called Dad. He sounded awful. "Dad, I just heard the news," I said. "Which news?" Dad asked. I wondered how many people had died that day. Before I could clarify, Dad had to get off the phone. He was taking it pretty hard.

I read Mom's email again. She said that they were going to the "reviewal" on Sunday. I don't know what a reviewal is. Viewing, wake, review, and revival are all words that I know. But, a reviewal is new to me. Jimmy's family must be Lutheran.

At the reviewal, mom looked for Jimmy's mother, but couldn't find her anywhere. Instead, Mom told some of the ladies there a story about the time that Jimmy and I took a bath together after playing in the rain. The ladies gave her a strange look and backed away. Mom shrugged it off and went to pay her last respects to Jimmy. The man in the coffin was 90 years old and not at all how she remembered Jimmy. After having a few more cookies and a cup of coffee, Mom went home. She sent me an email:

"Okay, well James Broussard died, not James Braswell. I think that's sad, don't you? Good ole James Broussard--I kinda wish I had taken the time to get to know him, ya know? Anyway, yay for Jimmy who is probably still alive."

I wish I hadn't sent that sympathy card to Jimmy's mom.

Mist 1

Carnival XXXV

2007-05-11T06:34:00.000-07:00

I've never been a good hostess. There will be no gifts for my guests and I'm out of ice. Still, please stay. Put your keys in the bowl by the door; trust me, if will be fun at the end of the night.

Thanks to everyone who participated in today's Carnival of the Mundane. You should host one. Invite me. Make little snacks and hire a real bartender. I'll be there.

Many submissions made me feel vomity. Tammy, who usually has delicious recipes, has turned me off of Moussaka for ever. I'm not sure that I've ever had Moussaka, but I'm pretty sure that I went to high school with him. Moussaka Jones. He never had me. I'm not a big fan of girlie drinks, but I've never been opposed to librarians until Postmodern Sass threw in this one.

Matt has been documenting the mundane for years. I think of Matt as a scientist of the mundane. Thanks for the multi-media, Matt. Archie's got my back, and I've got his font. Fringes felt special that I had extended an exclusive invitation to participate in the Carnival. Sorry, but it's not the first time anyone has felt special because of me. See her other firsts here.

Dallas has a portal in his computer that is sucking him in. He does not have a supermodel sucking him in. Ms. Mamma hasn't been laid in a long time. I'm happy that she chose my place to advertise. Miss Britt told me all about her vagina in ways that have disturbed me deeply and profoundly. Puss and her inner-vamp submitted an item about Ms. Hilton. What could be more mundane than anything having to do with Ms. Hilton?

Kiyotoe (who does not have a mundane bone in his body), doesn't trust any of us and is prepared to defend his friends and family in case we get out of hand. Lee wrote about French cuffs, but only because I scare her. I appreciate that in Lee. I didn't even have to threaten her with bodily harm. Fairmaiden hasn't murdered anyone in the laundry room yet, but it's only a matter of time before someone gets stuffed in a dryer. I haven't stuffed anyone in the dryer either, but I have stuffed my bra. Mad Kane submitted an item about bras. Speaking of racks, 123Valerie blogs drunk and writes about shoes. She knows the way to my heart. Another way into my tiny heart is to write about the Transformers. Nance, you've gotten me all excited for the movie.

Michael got his butt groove back...and it was cleaner than when he last felt it. Briliant Donkey wrote something about memories, but I can't remember what it was. Andy wrote about the magical fruit. Webmiztris has stinky glasses. Somebody, please send her a set of glassware. While you're at it, please send Stephanie some screens. If you're still paying attention, please send me some vodka.

I will drink beer with Lizza any day of the week, but if she invites me to breakfast with her friends, I'll pass. Unless they're having mimosas, then I'll be there. Reflecting Pool says things during the course of her day that I have never uttered before. I can't believe that she can make it through a day without asking the question, "can I have my panties back?" even one time.

Mystic Wing reminded me that not only do I need a hobby, but I need leisure time too. Now, I keep thinking about what the Hell I'm going to do with my leisure time, which seems to go against the whole point of leisure time. Token and Mystic Wing must be drinking the same Kool-Aid. She sent me a piece on leisure time too. Kuri is a big guy. He could be a boxer. His post makes me think that maybe he is challenging me. I am not afraid. First, he will have to catch me. Love Monkey isn't a boxer, but I am a little afraid that she will creep into my home late at night armed with plastic bags and kitty litter.

Go visit a few new blogs, will ya? I need a corn dog and a beer.

Mist 1

UPDATE: I am an a$$. How could I have left out Avitable? You simply must read about his first time. Av, please forgive me.

UPDATE2: NWJR is late. I will not publicly shame him because he knows people in sanitation services and that scares me.

Foreign Relations

2007-05-10T06:33:00.000-07:00

About a month ago, I met a lovely woman who lives somewhere in the U.K. Annie was in the States for business and we found ourselves drinking in the same hotel bar. She has the most delightful accent and we chatted for hours over cocktails. At the end of the evening, we exchanged email addresses and have been writing to each other ever since.

A few weeks ago, I gave her my phone number and she called me. "Mist, it's Ah-nnie," she said, as though I couldn't tell from her adorable accent. I just love the way she says Ah-nnie. We talked about and shoes and men and body products and shoes and even tried to have an intellectual exchange about politics (I am incapable of intellectual exchanges and segued back to shoes by asking what size shoe Tony Blair wears). The thing is, I can't tell if Ah-nnie has a sense of humor. She always sounds the same. I can't tell how she's feeling at all from her flat voice. I can't tell when she's excited or happy or angry. When she laughs, it is subtle. She sounds like she is mildly amused, but I can never illicit a hearty laugh from her.

I want her accent. After I talk to Ah-nnie, I try to sound like her all day. I think I sound more like a really bad high school production of Oliver Twist, but I live in the South. No one here knows any better and so I am comfortable sounding like an imitation Eliza Doolittle.

I decided that the next time Ah-nnie calls me, I will try out my new accent on her. Surely, that will make Ah-nnie laugh.

Yesterday, she called. "Oh, 'ello Ah-nnie," I said. "Can you 'old on, I'm in the loo." in fairness, Ah-nnie doesn't really drop her Hs like that, but it's my version of her accent, and I will make it as bad as I please. Ah-nnie told me to call her back and promptly hung up before I even got the chance to do my Oliver Twist bit in which I say, "Please, Sir. I'd like some more." It's really, very good. I have found that I can work that phrase into conversation at least six times a day. I even hold my hands out in front of me as though I am holding a tiny bowl. It's hard for me type that phrase without stopping to cup my hands in front of me. I say it when I order another drink, I say it at the farmer's market when the fish man weighs a piece of salmon for me, and I am dying because I simply cannot wait for someone to spank me just so I can use that line.

The fact that she hung up convinced me that my accent was believable. She must have really thought that I was in the loo. Pleased with myself, I sat down to watch a few minutes of Wallace and Gromit. I like to consider myself to be the scholarly type and I believe that the best way to learn about a group of people is to fully immerse yourself in the animation of that culture. Before I went to Japan, I watched countless animated films. I was practically indistinguishable from the locals, except for the whole part about not actually being Japanese.

As I was waiting for the call to connect, I wondered if I had offended Ah-nnie. I wondered if I had gone too far and if I'd be able to tell from her monotone voice. I also wondered how much the call was going to cost me. When she answered, I said, "Ah-nnie, I 'ope I 'aven't offended you."

Ah-nnie paused and said, "Look, I'm from Milwaukee. I've been working here for two months and I thought I'd try out the accent on you. I'm so embarrassed."

"You should be," I told her. "You didn't fool me for a second."

I grew up in the Midwest. I knew her accent sounded familiar.

Mist 1

PS: Thanks for everyone's submissions for the Carnival of the Mundane. If you haven't submitted something to me yet, hurry up and do it. The longer you wait, the more wine I will have consumed, and the more likely I am to screw up your link.

Oral Hygiene

2007-05-09T06:32:00.000-07:00

It's no secret that I am a little obsessive about my oral hygiene.

Last night, I ran my tongue over my teeth as I was reading my email. They were wearing little fuzzy woolen sweaters. Sweater season is over, I needed to brush my teeth. I scoured my mouth with my toothbrush. Little circles to the left. Little circles to the right. Not feeling satisfied with my manual toothbrush, I brushed again with the electric toothbrush.

I own several toothbrushes. I have two in one bathroom. I have two in the other. I have one in the car. I have one in my overnight bag. I have a drawer full of brand new toothbrushes in case I am ever stuck in my home due to a mudslide or alien invasion. The aliens could occupy the Earth for close to 32.5 months before I ran out of toothbrushes (assuming that I changed toothbrushes every 180 uses). I buy toothbrushes compulsively. If I cannot find the kind of toothbrush that I like, I feel panicky. I have this little nervous tic that starts to come out. It's the same tic I get when I walk by bathroom scales and bars and shoe stores. I hate it when my tic comes out in public places.

When it comes to toothpaste, I am a spitter. Some people wait until they are finished brushing before they spit out the toothpaste. I don't. I spit when I have to. I don't like to hold all that frothy spit and stuff in my mouth. I think swirling all that debris and residue around my mouth is counterproductive when I am trying to clean my teeth. It's like taking a bath when you are dirty. It just doesn't make sense. If I need to reapply toothpaste and start again, I do so. Last night, I leaned over the toilet (I spit toothpaste into the toilet, that's just me) and spat my toothpaste into my hair. I cursed. I had just contaminated one of my bouncy curls with particles of dinner and plaque and cheek dander and DNA and whatever else had been removed from my teeth.

I imagined the nasty germs that cause gingivitis swimming around in my hair. Surely, they would find their way to my scalp where they would reproduce and cause skull cavities.

I had no choice but to take a shower and wash my hair. I rinsed my scalp with mouthwash, just to be safe.

Mist 1

PS: Thank you to everyone (Avitable, Michael, Madkane, Kiyotoe, Fairmaiden) who has already submitted something to me for the Carnival of the Mundane. To those of you who have promised me something (Fringes, Dallas, Matt, Valerie, Puss, Mystic), thanks in advance. For all of you who know you want to participate, email me. Send me anything that you think is mundane (you know, like about brushing your teeth or something).

Three Men and a Truck

2007-05-07T06:20:00.000-07:00

I'm not good at following directions. When I shampoo my hair, I do not Repeat as the bottle suggests. I simply Lather and Rinse. I open boxes on the side that reads Open Other End. When I take a pizza out of the oven, I do not let it stand a few minutes before cutting. While filling my gas tank, I re-enter my car to make phone calls.

At the Post Office, I picked up a helpful mover's guide. The guide included a checklist of things to do leading up to the move date. The first item suggested was forwarding mail service. The people who created this guide knew what they were doing. I forwarded my mail. From then on, I did everything the guide suggested. I transferred phone, internet, and electricity with care to overlap by just a few days in the event that something didn't go according to my plan. I made extra copies of my new keys. I scheduled a reasonable late-morning move to avoid any mishaps in the chaos of the morning traffic. I packed the corkscrew, but I purchased beer with twist off caps to amend the situation. Being prepared felt good. On moving day, I sat on the couch and checked off the last box on the list.

The movers (Craig, Robert, and Sincere, sincerely) arrived and remarked at how easy this move was going to be and that they loved customers like me; customers who are prepared. They did not mention that they loved my boxes of shoes, but I was feeling so high preparedness that I would not let one omission reflect in the tip.

After wrapping everything in shrink wrap and blankets, the living room furniture was hauled to the truck and I complemented myself on the absence of hairballs and dead bugs and wine corks and panties under the couch. I decided that I really should give myself more credit for my cleanliness, even if I was wearing the clothes that I fell asleep in the night before.

Craig and his crew took a smoke break ($1.78 per minute x 4.5 minutes smoking = $8.01). Robert stopped to pet my cat and I (ever prepared) got the treats to coax Hissy to remove his claws from Robert's calf ($1.78 per minute x 6 minutes of coaxing = $10.68).

It wasn't until Sincere produced a mattress cover that I realized that my checklist did not include a box for Remove Vibrator and (Complimentary With Purchase) Bottle of Lubricant From Between Mattress and Box Spring.

I looked at Hissy and with my mind I said, "Draw blood. Do not let up until I have cleared the area. If one of them makes a move for that mattress, show no mercy." Hissy sat and examined his paw. I was going to have to stop Sincere myself. I lunged between Sincere and my bed, blocking his attempt to lift the mattress. I tried to form the words "inhaler" or "nitroglycerin" or something that would justify my sense of urgency, as though under the bed is a perfectly normal place to keep life saving medications. Robert turned to me and said, "Darlin' we do this every day. We know most people got shotguns under there." I decided that any reference that I could make about concealing my weapon would be lost on Robert and so I kept it to myself. I swept under the mattress and tucked the paraphernalia into my overalls (I have never been happier to wear loose fitting clothing).

As he slipped the mattress into a cover, Sincere lowered his voice and asked for my phone number. I understand why his mother named him Sincere. Clearly, she could not have named him Observant. My number is recorded on the 27 forms that I had to initial and sign before the movers could begin ($1.87 per minute x 30 seconds of skimming the fine print = $0.94).

Some of you made offers of alcohol; it is time to ante up. Many of you had doctor's appointments, sick grandmothers, 8-hour flu bugs, and natural disasters; there is till time to send me a housewarming gift. To those of you who offered to help me move, I'd like to thank you, but I don't trust you. No one likes to move, I can only assume that you were trying to gain access to my shoe vault. I am on to you.

Mist 1

Moving Day

2007-05-04T08:22:00.000-07:00

It's moving day. I need a day off. Please come over and help me unpack. Bring wine.

Mist 1

PS: Bring a corkscrew too, I can't find mine.

Warning Signs

2007-05-03T06:49:00.000-07:00

After yesterday's post, I am feeling nostalgic for my childhood. I have very few specific complaints about my childhood. I harbor a little resentment that I never had a pony. Instead, I got a sister. She has grown on me in the last few years. I used to feed her sugar cubes and carrots and she has adapted nicely to trotting about on all fours. Despite this, when I am pressed, I can come up with plenty of stuff to riddle Mom and Dad with guilt.

I send my parents the bills from my therapy. I don't really blame them for my various obsessions and disorders and the voices in my head, but my parents don't know that and so they remit the payments on time. Eventually, I know that my parents will seek their own therapy and get over their feeling of guilt, but until then, I am enjoying exploiting their parental love for my own emotional needs.

They should have paid more attention. At some point in sixth grade, I started hanging out in the bird sanctuary by the lake. There, I looked for traces of owls. I collected and dissected the furry pellets that they left behind. I assembled the bones in the pellets back into tiny mouse skeletons that I kept in shoe boxes in my closet. I told Dad that Jeffrey Dahmer had done the same thing as a child. Dad said, "I've seen your fridge. There are no body parts in there, just pickles. I think you turned out okay."

I asked Dad why he didn't let me watch TV when I was a kid. "You got to watch all of the National Geographic specials that you wanted to," he answered. I complained that they were all old and dated. He countered by asking me how I could tell that a National Geographic special was old. He has a good point. The people in the programs were mostly naked and didn't drive cars or have cell phones or any other indicator of the year in which the program was produced. Still, I can tell when I am not watching modern bush people. I don't know how, I just can.

Dad could not be swayed wouldn't accept the blame. Determined to find out exactly where things started to go wrong, I called Mom.

I remember going to the lake as a kid. The other children yelled "cannonball!" as they jumped of the dock into the lake during summer vacation. I approached the edge of the dock solemnly and shrieked, "Sylviiiiiia Plaaaaath!" before I jumped in. I asked Mom if she ever thought this was strange. She told me that while the other parents were disturbed by my behavior, it never bothered her. "I would have been worried if you had said that before you stuck your head in the oven."

I didn't ask her what I said when I stuck my head in the oven.

Mist 1

Care Packages

2007-05-02T06:10:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, my parents sent me to camp for the entire summer. It's not that they didn't love me. Rather, it's that they loved me so much that they wanted to share me with the wilderness, so that I might bring joy to all the flora and fauna and the hormonal counselors who were charged with keeping me from drowning and getting kicked in the head by a horse.

Anyone who has ever been to camp, knows that your sense of self -worth is exponentially related to the amount of mail that is received from home. My parents sent me letters written by my cat, Baker. Baker wrote about all the antics that my parents were up to since I had been away. He would include kitty treats and hairballs that he had yakked up on the rug. Baker was a visionary. He wrote that in the future, cats everywhere would have journals accessible via the internet. I thought his prophecy was rubbish and I wrote him letter telling him so. I am sure that he is looking down at me from Kitty Heaven now, licking his a$hole and thinking I told you so.

Recently, I asked my parents where they got the idea to write letters from the cat. I figured that they must have spent all year crafting letters from the cat. I can't fathom the amount of planning involved to orchestrate the precise schedule of a daily letter (minus Sundays). "I don't really remember those letters, Honey. You have to keep in mind that those were the days when your father and I were still experimenting with recreational chemicals and knew nothing of 12-step programs," Mom said. She paused and then said, "I'm glad that you enjoyed them, your sister didn't get anything like that when she went to camp. We just sent her money."

Mom still sends me care packages. She sends fancy pens and journals, whimsical flip books, trail mix, sardines and cocktail napkins all packed in perfumed confetti. Yesterday, a package arrived at my door. Inside was a copy of Watership Down, one of my childhood favorites. There was also a very used baby doll with bright blue eyes that open and shut and a tuft of fire red hair on her head.

Memories of playing with the doll came flooding back. I called Mom and she told me that when I was a kid, they bought me lots of dolls in different colors so that they would look like our family. A friend of the family noticed that I didn't have any Caucasian dolls. One day, she brought me a doll that her daughter had grown tired of. A little white baby doll. I named her White Baby.

I looked at White Baby and told Mom that it sure looked like I loved that doll. "No, she was pretty worn out when you got her."

I should have named her White Trash Baby.

Mist 1

PS: Thank you to all of you who voted for me for a Really F*cking Stupid Blog Award. This is an honor that I'll remember for as long as I can.

Respecting My Elders

2007-05-01T06:32:00.000-07:00

I had this coming.

Yesterday, I wrote about how I am tormenting dear, sweet, generous, kind, lovely Enid. It is wrong and I can see that now.

I have always wondered why the elderly travel together. I wondered why they chartered buses and took outlet malls by siege. Now, I know. Old people work together. Senior Centers offer ceramics and line dancing classes as a cover for their operations. They are an organized crime force communicating through an elaborate hearing aid network. They manipulate the legal system with ADA laws and AARP goons. I have proof.

In the process of moving, I have decided that I no longer need any of my worldly possessions outside of my shoes and my laptop and a few choice hair and body products. Everything else, I have decided to bag up and throw away. I think this is very Zen of me. Plus, I can buy new stuff once I finally move into the new condo.

In the past 48 hours, I have thrown out a wall shelf unit, a house plant, a bra with straps that never stayed put, three vases with small chips, a set of three teacups and four saucers, and several other items that at one point, I thought that I might die if I did not own them. Now, I just can't see myself packing and moving them. It took several trips to the dumpster to purge my home of all these things. My arms have never looked more toned. They have also never been more bruised.

Last night, on my final trip to the dumpster, I spotted Miss Chris. Miss Chris has lived here since the continents were fused together. She tells stories about how the dinosaurs roamed the Earth and how Coca-Cola was a nickel. I like Miss Chris, but I hate when she is at the dumpster. She means well. She's a recycler. She has dragged my trash out of the dumpster only to give it back to me a few days later. I have had to load the trunk of my car with garbage and dump it in another neighborhood, just to avoid receiving it all back again as a gift at my back door. A ticket for illegal dumping my my community can cost up to $1,000 or 100 days in jail. I paid the fine for my first offense, but I cannot stand to do 100 days, so dumping is not an option.

I cringed when I saw Miss Chris. She had laid the former contents of my home out like a garage sale. I saw the panties that laced up the sides that I had thrown away because they were too complicated. She grouped my broken umbrellas together according to color. All of the shabby chic (it was a phase) iron items that once adorned the dining room were collected in a rusty pile. I felt violated. My life was on display. I don't need people to see the dusty candles that I never burned in the bathroom. I am ashamed of the number of times that I have purchased the wrong color nail polish, only to let it get sticky and separate in the bottle. But, there it was, ordered and on display.

I doubled back home with my trash bag. I brought it inside and thought of Enid and how I should have returned her damn jar. Then I wrote my grandmother's each a letter. They love getting mail. I figured that once they receive the lovely notes from me, they will call off their elderly thugs.

Until then, I will continue to place a few scoops of used kitty litter in every bag of trash.

Mist 1

PS: To fulfill the community service condition of Avitable's probation, he has volunteered to assist technologically delayed bloggers create widgets to let you subscribe to the comments here. Thanks for the help, Av. Sorry I won't be sending you that picture of my nipple that I promised.

I Will Not Be Ignored

2007-04-30T06:34:00.000-07:00

When Jamie first moved into her house, Enid, the elderly woman next door brought over a jar of homemade sweet pickles. I will eat almost anything pickled provided that it is not a part an animal. Also, I won't eat pickled okra.

I ate all of Enid's sweet pickles standing up in front of Jamie's fridge. I threw away the lid of the cute jar, rinsed the jar with water, and poured a beer in it. It became my favorite drinking glass.

For weeks, Enid dropped by to see if Jamie needed help settling in or if she wanted some extra bulbs for her nonexistent garden. They would chat in the yard in a nice neighborly way. One day, Enid asked for her jar back. Jamie said that she would bring it to her directly. Moments later, Jamie called me to see where the lid was. I forbade Jamie to give Enid my favorite drinking glass. If she had wanted to give Jamie just the pickles, she should have brought them over in a baggy. Jamie, because she is only happy when I am happy, informed Enid that she must have lost the jar. Enid was not happy about this and the climate between Enid and Jamie and I has changed.

Enid ignores us.

Usually, I love it when people aren't talking to me. It gives me a break and a chance to talk about them rather than to them. For some reason, it bothers me that Enid is ignoring us.

It started out as a game. We tried to get Enid to notice us. Jamie checked her mail wearing her bathrobe and curlers with a bottle of wine clutched in one hand for a week. We choreographed an interpretive dance and performed it in the front lawn (with tambourines). Jamie trained the dog to crap in Enid's yard. And still, Enid ignored us.

Then, we forgot about the game, but we started doing things unintentionally to get Enid's reaction. Jamie decided to drive her recycling out to the curb at two in the morning. She carefully placed the bin of bottles and cans on the hood of her car and headed down the driveway. Naturally, the bin slid off and landed with a crash that sent all of the neighbors out of their homes in their pajamas. Everyone, that is, except Enid.

We set Enid's bushes on fire one night grilling oysters. Jamie had loud sex with the windows open. The dog ate most of her cat. And still, Enid ignored us.

Saturday morning, after a long night, Jamie drove into Enid's mailbox. Enid was outside, trimming the rest of the singed bushes. Jamie did not stop driving. She dragged Enid's mailbox twenty feet. Sparks flew up around the mailbox. Enid did not look up.

Determined to get a reaction, Jamie slammed on the brakes and emerged from the car. In a mini skirt and heels, she took the cigarette from her mouth and waved. "Mornin', Ms. Enid," she called out in her perfectly southern neighborly drawl.

Enid is still ignoring us.

Maybe we'll get a reaction from the mailman.

Mist 1

Blogger Endorsements

2007-04-27T06:36:00.000-07:00

Earlier this week, I mentioned the names of some of my favorite hotels on this blog. As a result, an employee of one of the hotels sent me an email to thank me for the good PR. She invited me to meet her at the hotel for a gift of appreciation. I thanked her, but told her how much I hate trying to find parking downtown. She said, "valet park, I'll take care of it." I cannot resist anything as long as someone will "take care of it." I would probably have a root canal if my dentist said, "I'll take care of it."

I met her at the full-service Starbucks (Dear Starbucks, I really, really like green tea lattes with soy milk). She bought me a latte and handed me a box of hotel soaps and a little green notebook with a pen, "keep writing," she encouraged me. I wish that I had written about how much I like those little tiny bottles of vodka in the wet bar in the room. Then, maybe she would have given me the notebook and pen as well as a box of tiny vodkas as a token of appreciation (Dear Ketel One, I really, really like your vodka). Regardless, I am pretty happy with the gift because I love free stuff and the pen even works. I am pretty sure that she skimmed the soaps off the little housekeeping cart or from a storage room, which makes me like it even more. If anyone who works at the Doubletree hotel is reading this, I really, really like the fresh baked cookies, especially when they are still warm.

Another place that I really like is Target. There is nothing in Target that I don't need. Even if I don't think that I need an item, if I don't buy it, I am sure that I will need it in under a week (Dear Target, I really, really like your gift certificates. They are the gift that always fits).

I went to Target and had a blue Icee. I don't know what flavor blue is, but I like how my tongue changes color when I drink them. I was in the specialty light bulb aisle when I suddenly had to pee. I detest public restrooms. I can pretty much determine my emotional state by my reaction to public restrooms. When I am living in a state of denial, I will wait until I am home to pee. When I am feeling obsessive compulsive, I will refuse to touch anything and wait for someone else to open the door to avoid touching anything. When I am feeling ADD, I will apply a fresh coat of lipstick and make a phone call and test out all the soap dispensers. Public restrooms are a good gauge of mental health.

The restroom was spotless and as I am apparently feeling disabled, I choose the handicapped stall near the wall. I love the big stall. I especially love it when there is a sink of my own in the stall. I make a big production of washing my hands in there in the event that someone else in the restroom thinks that I didn't wash my hands after using the bathroom. I always announce something over the stall door like, "hey, there is really great water pressure in the sink in here. I bet you wish that you had a sink in your stall." I don't want anyone thinking that I am a disgusting individual.

The handicapped stall at Target is right next to the diaper changing station. There is a friendly reminder to never, ever leave your baby unattended while using the diaper changing station. It is very polite and does not seem like nagging at all. Does the men's room have diaper changing stations?

As I was splashing about loudly in the private and yet, accessible sink, a woman entered the restroom to change her baby's diaper. She let down the changing table and spread out a changing pad and lovingly laid the baby on it. Through the stall door, I could hear her pull open the little adhesive tabs on the disposable diaper. I turned the lock and opened the stall door to exit. I couldn't get out. I was trapped by the woman who could not leave her baby unattended. The table blocked me from exiting the stall. I made awkward smalltalk. "There is a sink in here," I said. She gave me a look of pity as though she could tell that I was retarded and that was the reason that I was using the handicapped stall. "No really, want to see?" I gestured to the sink. She gave me the same look. I was making things worse.

She was a doting mother and even warmed the wipes in her hands before wiping the baby's pink a$$ which was pointed directly at me. I fumbled in my purse for something to entertain myself with so that I wouldn't be forced to watch the procedure. I didn't want her to think that I was a perverted retard.

Finding nothing, I went back to my private sink and washed my hands 26 more times.

Maybe I am feeling obsessive compulsive after all.

Mist 1

There Will Be No 2nd Date

2007-04-26T06:28:00.000-07:00

Here is what I said to Sue (who is dating Robb, a TV producer):

"Hey, you should have Robb hook me up with my own show. I want to be a star."

Here is what Sue (who is dating Robb, a TV producer) heard:

"Hey, you should have Robb hook me up with one of his friends. Let's meet at a bar."

In all fairness, Sue (drop dead beautiful, yet dumb as a post) has dropped her phone so many times that she has to slap it seven times in rapid succession and then blow three quick breaths into it before she can hear the person on the other end speak. This seems to be the magic equation. When I call her, I wait 20 seconds before holding the phone to my ear. I suppose, it's possible that she misheard me.

When she came over last night, she looked at me in my tank top, panties (sequined), and flip-flops (also sequined) and rolled her eyes. "Get dressed, we're going out" she said. Ordinarily, I would have squealed and made her sit on big chair in my bedroom as I got dressed. But, I have an ear infection and a cough that makes people cringe when I am around them, so I'm not in a squealing mood.

Still, I have a new pair of camel toe jeans that I have been dying to wear, so I got dressed. When I came down stairs, Sue looked at my jeans and said, "you're going to get a yeast infection in those." She always knows how to make me feel sexy. She had made me a cocktail (amoxicillin and vodka) so I couldn't be mad .

I love it when Sue drives me places. She is terrifying behind the wheel. In her head, she is a getaway driver. I am sure that she can see flashing blue lights in her rear view mirror as she weaves in and out of traffic. Sometimes, I feel like taking off my seatbelt, leaning out of the open window, and screaming, "you'll never take me alive, coppers!" I don't want to mess up my hair in the wind, so I fix my lip gloss instead.

I knew I was being ambushed when we walked in the bar and Sue craned her neck to get a look at who was there. She grabbed my arm and began walking toward the dart boards. Under her breath, she gave me the details, "31. Never married. He works in HR or PR or the ER...something with an R. Likes dogs. Can't remember his name. Smile."

I had been set up. I'm not sure why people continue to set me up on dates. I have a good time, but no one else does. I am obnoxious. I talk all the time and because tell how loudly I'm talking due to my ear infection, I talk too loud. I demand complements on my shoes. I do not care about baseball. I need a few dollars to play Golden Tee Golf. I need a few more for the juke box. I scratch my a$ in public. I am all for public humiliation, even my own. Instantly, I pitied the poor man. He had no idea what I was going to do to his bar tab. Most importantly, he had no idea that I was going to tell him how much I hated his shirt. Also, he was carrying an umbrella. It was not raining. I didn't know his name yet and it wasn't going well for him already.

After a few drinks, Sue suggested that he drive me home. I agreed because the pressure in my ears was unbearable and I could hardly hear myself talk. We walked out to the car and I said, "I really appreciate the ride. It's almost time for my next dose of antibiotic." I can turn sexy on and off, just like that.

We drove back to my house in silence. At least, I think it was silence. I really can't hear at all in my left ear. A block from my home, he drove through a red light and we were pulled over. The officer ran his license and returned to the car. My date was asked to get out of the vehicle slowly. Apparently, he was not aware that there was a warrant for his arrest. I think the officer offered to drop me off at home before taking my date downtown, but I'm not good at reading lips. I told him that I would feel uncomfortable with a fugitive of the law in the backseat. I wouldn't want him to know where I live. I asked if I could just take his car and drive myself home instead. I had a coughing fit and the officer thought carefully about the possibility of me spreading my infectious disease in his squad car. He gave me the keys.

Sue called me about an hour later. It turns out that my date had written a few bad checks in college at a local pizza place. He was broke and hungry and it was years ago and that I should totally go out with him again because he was really interested in seeing me again. I didn't mention that I still had his car and told that I was surprised that he still had a warrant from that offense. "I know," she said, "never f*ck with a pizza place. They're all tied to the mob."

Yes, Sue. Probably.

Mist 1

CH2-OH-CH-OH-CH2-OH+3 R-CO2-Na

2007-04-25T06:31:00.000-07:00

I love email. I especially love it when people who read my blog consult me regarding serious concerns in their lives. If you have left me a comment, I am here for you. If you are a lurker, I will give you extraordinarily bad advice.

A fact that few people know about me is that several year ago, when I was an insomniac, I decided to make stuff. The difference between a person who can't sleep from homemade speed and a true insomniac is that people on homemade speed take stuff apart while insomniacs make stuff.

I learned to knit. I took a correspondence watercolor painting class. I wrote a book of redneck haikus. I refinished furniture and reupholstered my chairs. I mosaicked a tabletop with fragments of broken dishes. I built a loom and wove a rug. I beaded my own jewelry. I made candles. I collaged. I made my own paper. I studied aromatherapy and began making my own soap.

I love making soap. There is something about playing with caustic chemicals that makes me feel smart. When I make soap, I casually throw around words like pH and saponification value and sodium hydroxide. I wear an apron with a picture of Totoro on it and plastic safety goggles. I do not feel sexy, but still, I love using my candy thermometers and essential oils. It makes me draw upon everything I learned from Mr. Glock in chemistry class and incorporates my knowledge from the day spa.

Yesterday, I got an email asking me if I knew of or could blend a soap to protect against poison oak. I have never had poison oak, I know nothing of the chemical properties of poison oak, and I would never assume that I could combine the perfect mix of essential oils to prevent a nasty rash. Still, I felt as though I could help.

The best way to prevent poison oak is to stay in a hotel and avoid the outdoors at all costs. I prefer the Omni hotel, but I also am fond of the W hotel. I like Doubletree hotels for the cookies and I have never had a bad experience in a Westin. Clearly, all of these hotels have an anti-poison oak agent in their soap. I cannot vouch for the La Quinta Inn or the Red Roof Inn or any of the motels in the Super 8 chain. While they offer free HBO and a continental breakfast, I have never seen anything on their signs about soaps that protect against the outdoors.

I wasn't asked, but I would like to add that I have never been attacked by bears or killer bees or encountered a plague of locusts in any of these hotels either.

Mist 1

Extreme Bumper Cars

2007-04-24T06:24:00.000-07:00

I am always looking for a hobby. I have tried lots of things in my hobby quest. I have tried knitting and yoga and convincing my friends to break up with their boyfriends so that they can spend more time with me. I still do all of those things, but not enough to qualify as a hobby. In my mind, a hobby is something that I make time to do every weekend. I think I have found that thing.

Yes, it involves beer. But it involves so much more than beer. It showcases my skills. It involves driving while doing other sh*t at the same time. I am really, really good at that.

Whirlyball is a combination of basketball and bumper cars. While I have never considered driving or basketball one of my talents, it is clear that I am a natural at whirlyball. When the attendant at the whirlyball place explained to me that the sport involved driving while doing other stuff and crashing into other drivers, I knew that I had found something special.

I may have found my perfect pastime. I can do lots of things while driving and still manage to crash into people. According to my auto insurance company, I have a knack for running into moving and non-moving objects alike while putting on mascara, talking on the phone, touching up my pedicure, searching for My Anthem of the Moment on the iPod, tweezing, keeping an eye on two tarantulas in their cages, looking under my seat for the remote to my stereo, kissing, and trying to get the b*tch in the front seat to shut up. I find that running into a city bus is an excellent way to prove a point.

I finished my beer and climbed into my car. There are no seat belts and no helmets. There is also no stereo in the bumper car. Suddenly, I wished that I had ordered another beer for the road.

After the game, I asked the attendant how They think of this stuff. "Pot," he said. "Lots of pot." This pretty much synced with my thoughts. I wonder how many hybrid versions of bumper cars and other sports They tried before stumbling across whirlyball. I imagine that the creators of whirlyball scoured college campuses for volunteers in clinical trials of all sorts of extreme bumper car sports. "Dude, there will be beer and pizza," was all they had to say. They had my interest at beer.

I bet golf and bumper cars seemed like a good idea at first and probably made it to stage two of testing before someone got knocked out. Synchronized swimming bumper cars never made it off the drawing board. Billiards and bumper cars testing ended in injury and darts and bumper cars was all fun and games until someone lost an eye. Bumper hockey, while popular in Canada has yet to take off in the States. Archery and bumper cars only works if you have a certain skill level with bows and arrows. Anything with a net is out. I have seen what happens to the human body when it is hurtled through a net. The possibilities are endless; checkers, juggling, flame swallowing, bowling, swimming, and horseshoes all seem like plausible options. I am holding out for bumper polo. It would make me feel classy.

I totally killed my opponents. I am a gracious winner and insisted only that my bar tab be covered and that I be referred to as the Holy Queen of Whirlyball when spoken to for the next 72 hours.

I plan to play again soon. But, next time, I will totally stick my tongue down the attendant's throat for an additional 14 minutes of play time.

If only bumper cars had a back seat.

Mist 1
(Queen of Whirlyball)

One Fork at a Time

2007-04-23T06:34:00.000-07:00

I hate moving. I hate moving almost as much as I hate camping. I have acquired several years of shoes and accessories and candles and crap that I am now packing up and moving into a condo that as of the last time I checked, the internet still does not work. Unless it works soon, I am going to be the neighbor that comes over, not for a cup of sugar, but to ask for a wireless network password.

Still, I have found a lovely condo on the right side of the tracks for a price that I cannot refuse. I tried to offer my blog as a down payment, but the agent just tilted her head to one side and asked, "what's a blog?" I informed her that according to Technorati, my blog is pretty damn valuable and that if she played her cards right, I was willing to consider incorporating an ad to her place of business on it. She tilted her head to the other side and told me who to make the check out to. My blog will remain ad free.

I am taking my time moving. There is no sense in living in just one place when I can have half my stuff in one place and the rest of it someplace else. In fact, this has solved all of my shoe storage problems. Open toe shoes and sandals are at the condo. Slingbacks are at the townhome, unless they are open toed, and then they are at the condo. It takes me a little more time to get dressed now, but in my wisdom, I have a full length mirror in both locations.

Yesterday, as I sat in one of my living rooms surrounded by boxes touting names such as Bacardi and Stoli and JD, I began to feel overwhelmed. I wrapped a fork in bubble wrap and placed it in a box next to a vase of marbles and an incense burner and a bottle of plant fertilizer. With a marker, I labeled the box, "Sh*t That I Don't Need, But I Own Anyway and Can't Seem to Part With."

Needing a break from packing, I brought the box over to the condo to unpack it. I was only able to score three boxes from the package store, so I have to unpack every box with each trip. I placed the items in a drawer in the kitchen. With my labeler, I designated this drawer as "Sh*t ThatI Don't Need, But I Own Anyway and Can't Seem to Part With." I printed six more identical labels for the rest of the drawers in the kitchen.

As I was leaving, a burgundy Cadillac pulled up. A man got out and asked me if I was moving in. He told me that his mother had lived in the condo until she died about eight months ago. He didn't say, "my mother lived there until I put her in a nursing home where she died." With that, he convinced me that the woman died in my new bedroom. Rather than ask him which bedroom she died in, I said, "I'm so sorry for your loss." He replied, "She was 75," as casually as he could have said, "What the Hell, let's go get some beers." I am pretty sure that he murdered her in the bathroom of my new condo. Her angry ghost is just waiting for me to take my first shower there.

He told me that I had a really good spirit looking over me there and that he still drove by every day in case I needed anything. I flashed him that smile that says You-Are-Creeping-Me-The-F*ck-Out-Dude. We shook hands and he drove away.

I went back to the town home and drank, surrounded by my three liquor boxes. I surfed the internet for exorcism practitioners and wrote the first draft of a novel in which the protagonist hits rock bottom in her town home surrounded by empty liquor boxes and decides to change her life one fork at a time.

Mist 1

Mistcommunications

2007-04-20T05:50:00.000-07:00

I didn't have a cell phone for a long time. Everyone, seriously, everyone had a cell phone before I had one. Now, I'm not quite sure how I lived without one. It's not that I didn't want the convenience of talking about the intimate details of my life to my mother while filling my prescription for birth control, it's just that she always told me that if a man wanted me badly enough, he would pay for my expenses. I never questioned her reasoning. I didn't even bring up that 15 year period in which Dad was a stay at home dad.

I got my first cell phone when I was in a long distance relationship. After a few weeks of being apart, he sent me a cell phone. I bought a furry case for it. I was in love. Of course, now that adorable furry cell phone case would be large enough to hold my laptop, but back then, it was divine.

I was responsible with my phone as He was paying all of my bills. I only used it in emergencies, like when I needed a tow truck or a weather/time report or needed the input of a friend about whether my toe nails should be pained Rich Girl Red or Merlot.

He broke up with me years ago. We had a big blow up about whether or not living hundreds of miles away from one another meant that I could sleep with the DJ in the bar that I frequented or not. It was complicated. I felt that it was only natural that I should sleep with him and He felt that it was only natural that He should call the DJ (since He got the phone bills) and curse him out. Turns out, I was wrong and He was right and so, He dumped me.

For four years, I have been living without a cell phone bill. Then, unexpectedly and without notice, my phone was cut off yesterday. I called the customer care line at Sprint because it was the only number that I could still call and asked just what the Hell was going on here. The customer care agent informed me that my contract had terminated and that all services had been discontinued.

At first, I was shocked that He thought that we had the potential to last four more years. A four year contract with a cell phone company is almost like a proposal for crap's sake. I almost teared up because it was the sweetest thing that He had ever done for me, unless you count the time that He violated the terms of his parole to see me. That was pretty sweet too. Suddenly, I wanted to call Him and tell Him how much I had been thinking about Him since my cell phone was cut off. I would be sure to mention that I hoped that He was doing well in all of His endeavors and maybe we could have dinner and maybe He could call me sometime. But, of course, that would require reactivating my account.

So, I called Him from my home phone. Okay, in truth I called one of His friends because He has changed His number in the past four years (Mom always said that He was unstable and couldn't provide for me). When I finally reached Him, we talked. We caught up. He is doing better than when He left me (read: not on parole). He has a girlfriend and so I backed down. I have had enough of complicated relationships.

Finally, the conversation turned to my cell phone. I played nice. Then, I argued. Finally, I begged. I am not proud. He told me that He doesn't feel that He should continue to pay for my phone bill as I am The Queen of Text Messaging and also a b*tch.

Still, I feel like I have grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle. Surely, any judge can see that.

I am suing for cell phone alimony. At least until I get on my feet.

Mist 1

Are You Thinking What I'm Thinking?

2007-04-19T06:04:00.000-07:00

I've been ignoring it for awhile. It seems that some lovely, albeit confused people think that I am a Thinking Blogger. I have let them know that I am a Drinking Blogger. It's an easy mistake to make. Clearly, they are Drinking Bloggers too.

I have tried not to let this, as well as the other lovely nominations for a variety of other blog awards (none of which have to do with my outstanding shoes) get to my head. At first I was confused by the whole Thinking Blogger thing, but now, it seems so obvious. Of course I'm a Thinking Blogger. Thanks for noticing.

I think a lot. I would venture to say that I am almost always thinking. If I am not thinking, I am thinking about thinking. Or I have passed out from thinking.

I think socially. I like to think with my friends. We have several preferred places to think. I'm very open minded when it comes to thinking. While I have stuff that I prefer to think, I will think just about anything. Sometimes, this works out well for me and I discover new things that I like to think. Sometimes, I think something that makes me sick and I swear that if G*d will let me live through the night, I will never think that much again.

I don't try to hide how much I've been thinking and I don't lie about my thinking habits. I admit that I think alone. Thinking is part of my blogging process. I sit down at my computer and I have a good think. Then I have another. Then, I write. I also smoke when I think. I try not to smoke in the house, so I have to stop writing and go outside. Sometimes, I think while I'm out there. My neighbors know how much I think but, they are polite and don't mention it to me.

I have some rules about my thinking. I don't think in the morning, unless I was up late thinking the night before. Usually, I don't think before noon, but I've heard that it is the cure for those kind of situations. Also, I don't think and drive. I am a naturally bad driver, I don't need to add thinking to the mix.

One day, I hope to learn not to call people when I am thinking. I am guilty of making the annoying middle of the night phone call in which I say stuff like, "Woo hoo!" and "Dude, I'm thinking tonight. You should totally be here," and "I love you, man." I also send inappropriate text messages and humiliating emails when I've been thinking.

I come from a family of thinkers and recovering thinkers. Family gatherings can be awkward. I congregate with all the thinkers and we think together while the non-thinkers sit in the other room and judge us. They say things about how we are powerless over our thinking. It only makes us think more.

Sometimes, my thinking gets me into trouble, but generally, I'm a happy thinker. I like to think. In fact, I am thinking right now.

This blog is driving me to think.

Mist 1

Paper & Cuts

2007-04-18T06:39:00.000-07:00

I used to subscribe to more magazines than anyone I knew. All that changed a few weeks ago when I put my wine glass down on top of a stack of unread magazines creating an avalanche and spilling wine all over all of my tax documents. As I sucked the last drops of Shiraz out of my receipts, I swore that I would not be renewing all of my subscriptions. I also swore to start drinking wine from a cup with a lid.

Yesterday, I had an appointment with the gynecologist. Ordinarily, I am not impressed with the magazines at her office, but due to my recent decision to cancel my subscriptions, I was happy to sit in the waiting room and pour through magazines so old that the perfume samples had all been rubbed onto the wrists of other patients.

As other women arrived, I found myself feeling territorial over the magazines featuring what to wear last fall and how to get the best beach hair. I hoarded a pile of magazines. I ignored the nasty looks of the women in the waiting room. I gestured to the nurse behind the desk. I wanted her to keep an eye on everyone in the event that they staged an uprising. I discarded an old Newsweek onto the table to distract the masses.

Finally, the nurse called out, "Ms. Mist." I scooped up the magazines and brought them back with me. I followed her down the hallway and stepped onto the scale. "Ms. Mist, I'm going to have to ask you to put those magazines down while I weigh you." The nurses know that I don't take off my shoes to be weighed. They don't even ask anymore. I calmly told her that by my precise estimation, she should subtract six pounds to compensate for the additional paper weight.

She left me in the room to change. I kept my shirt on because it was chilly, but I stripped from the waist down and draped the paper sheet over my lap. I sat on the end of the examining table and continued to read about what drives men wild in bed.

The February 2003 issue of Elle slipped from my lap and landed on the floor. I leaned over to grab it. I slipped. I plunged face first off the table, still clutching a stack of magazines. I caught myself with my jaw on the stirrup. I dangled there, with my bare a$$ and everything else in the air for a moment trying to catch my breath. That's when the doctor walked in with a student.

My doctor helped me back onto the table while the student picked up the magazine. I didn't snap at her even though she had lost my page.

After the exam, my doctor smiled and said, "everything checked out okay, now let's take a look at your jaw."

It's not the first time I've left the doctor with a sore jaw, but usually there's anesthesia and a subsequent law suit involved.

Mist 1

Wiley Coyote

2007-04-17T06:27:00.000-07:00

I am not allergic to nuts. I've had a lot of nuts over the years, but so far, I have not had any adverse reactions. At least, not anything severe. I have been irritated by the man attached to the nuts, but it was a mild reaction; nothing that a little "space" couldn't cure.

A few years ago, I developed an allergy to bananas. I have never liked bananas. When I was a kid, my dad believed that bananas were the cure for cuts and scrapes. If I asked for a Band-Aid after skinning my knee, he would give me a banana instead. I am beginning to think that either we didn't have health insurance or that he was just too cheap to buy Band-Aids.

My banana allergy was a bit of a shock. I had a friend staying with me for a few days who decided to stock my home with food. Food goes bad in my home, so I rarely buy it. On the day that she left, I stared at all the food in my house and decided that I had better eat it all so that my kitchen didn't turn into a large, indoor compost heap. My intent was to start with the produce and then to continue my way through the fridge eating cartons of stuff in order of the expiration date.

I ate the bananas after eating everything in the crisper drawer and consuming the half ripened avocados in a brown paper bag with an orange on the kitchen counter. The reaction was instant. I wheezed and itched and continued to eat the bananas. By the time I got to the emergency room, I had hives from head to mid-thigh and my tongue was the size of a small Volkswagen. The attending physician declared that I had a food allergy and shot me full of something which made me shake worse than the time I ran out of wine on Sunday. I was asked to list all of the foods that I had consumed that morning. The list resembled the menu for a hippopotamus at the zoo. The doctor made a note in my chart and referred me to a dietitian and a therapist to deal with my abnormal eating patterns. I learned a lot from that experience. I can still hear my therapist saying, "fat is not a feeling."

A few months later, I had a cranberry smoothie when I was shopping. Cranberry smoothies used to be my favorite kind of smoothie, although the peanut butter and jelly smoothie ran a close second. I wheezed and gasped for air in the shoe store, but refused to seek medical attention until I had purchased the shoes (pink snakeskin, open toe, silver buckle, 25% off). The lovely woman in line ahead of me let me go first. My eyes were swollen shut and snot ran freely down my chin. I still wear those shoes.

That's how I discovered that bananas were the offending food. I have avoided bananas ever since. People discover allergies in all sorts of ways. You just never know when you might have a reaction to something.

Last night, I discovered that I am allergic to coyotes. Maybe I have always been allergic to coyotes. As I haven't had many opportunities to be face to face with a coyote before now, so I have no way of knowing. I may also be allergic to grizzly bears and peacocks and sloths. I fear these animals now, because I don't know if I am allergic to them or not.

My friend's dad fancies himself to be a hunter. He is always dropping off carcasses of various animals that I wouldn't ordinarily eat. Sometimes, he brings me gifts of snake rattles because once I admired his rattlesnake boots. This time, he dropped off a hat made from coyote. The entire coyote. The head of the coyote sits directly on top of the hat. The front legs drape down near my shoulders. The hind legs hang close to my neck. The tail nearly reaches my butt.

It is stunning. I wore it for quite some time last night. I had Jamie come over and take pictures of me wearing the coyote on my head. I posed proudly with a glass of wine in front of the fireplace. I felt dignified in that outdoorsy way that one can only experience with an entire dead animal on one's head.

Suddenly, I wanted to get naked. Apparently, nothing makes me feel like getting naked like a dead coyote. I asked Jamie to take nude photos of me in the coyote hat. I could see the scene perfectly. I would sit demurely on my knees with the paws of the coyote covering my nipples. These were to be tasteful photos. I imagined the look on His face as He opened the attachments and saw me looking coyly full of wanton lust at the camera with roadkill on my head. Surely, He would be aroused. Men like naked chicks and dead animals.

I slipped into my robe and repositioned the coyote on my head. I looked into the mirror and touched up my lip gloss. I pouted. "You sexy b*tch," I said to my reflection. And then I saw my red, puffy eyes.

Tonight, I will take a Benadryl before I get all sexied up in my dead coyote hat.

Mist 1

P.S. I would post a photo of the hat, but I seem to have hidden the My Pictures file from myself. Anyone who can help me find it will receive a photo of the hat via email. I may or may not be wearing it, depending the level of customer service provided. Thanks in advance.

Nomenclature

2007-04-16T06:24:00.000-07:00

I love my parents. They are funny and quirky and very clever folks. They also live very far away from me.

I talk to them all the time. Sometimes, I call Dad more than once a day. I call him in the middle of the night. He almost always answers. So, when I couldn't get in touch with them all week, I got worried. I called Mom's attorney and made sure that I was still her primary beneficiary. He assured me that I still stood to inherit an assortment of dead houseplants, two cats, and her collection of refrigerator magnets. My sister gets the ottoman although, I am pretty sure that I can swindle her out of it. I have always been good at taking her stuff. I thanked him and got a good night's sleep for the first time all week.

Last weekend, Dad finally returned my calls. It seems that they went to Vegas. Apparently, cell phones don't work in Vegas and hence the saying that whatever happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. I think it's awfully clever of the Vegas Bureau of Tourism and Convention Sciences to use the dismal telecommunications system as a brilliant marketing tool.

I think I should mention that my parents are divorced. I don't remember them vacationing together when they were still married. Even when they got arrested at a hippie boycott, they didn't share a cell. When they visit me, they stay in an adorable B & B together. They have dinner together several nights out of the week. I am starting to think that they lied to me about the whole divorce thing. I am having flashbacks of when I was 12 and Dad was taking Sociology and Psychology classes. He probably based his thesis on the effects of divorce on adult children. I hope he gets his PhD soon, because I am starting to feel confused by this all.

After I talked to Dad, I called Mom to get her side of the story. She didn't mention the trip at all. I happen to know that she came home with considerably more money than she started with. I'm not dumb. Someone is lying to me.

She didn't talk about the trip to Vegas, but she did mention that they had gone to an auto show together. They came up with several clever names for new automobiles. I wish that my parents were in charge of naming cars. They weren't so good at naming kids (I have a hippie name, my sister has a hillbilly name), but seriously, the automotive industry has no idea what kind of a creative force my parents are. I would probably drive the Suburu Slut, but the Jeep Libido is good too. I wouldn't even test drive the Dodge Gigolo. Please, I am way classier than that.

"Mom," I said, "what kind of auto show was this? It sounds like an auto-erotica show."

"What's that?" Mom asked.

I couldn't tell her. It was worse than the time she asked me what 40s and blunts were.

Mist 1

Jacob's Dentist

2007-04-13T06:13:00.000-07:00

I can do lots of things with dental floss.

I can make a tripwire just outside my front door. This provides endless amusement for me. I set the trap and then I go inside and call people and invite them over for a glass of wine and a Tarot reading. Then, I stand with my eye pressed to the peephole and wait. The other night, Jamie walked unsuspectingly up to my door. I threw open the door to welcome her. When the cat ran out, I expected him to trip and fall on his little whiskered face. Of course, he is much too graceful for my clever prank. I darted out after him and naturally, fell flat on my face. Jamie laughed at first, so I made her go to the drugstore to buy Neosporin for my scrapes.

If Jamie had fallen, I would not have laughed. Or at least I wouldn't have laughed for as long as she did. Rather, I would have offered to suture her wounds with floss (unflavored, unwaxed). I am pretty sure that it wouldn't leave a scar.

I am so good with floss that I can reach my teeth way in the back of my mouth without gagging myself even once. I leave nests of used floss on the table next to the couch. This practice repulses many of my guests, but when I show them how all my cat's little craps lift neatly out of his litter box like pearls on a string, they see the genius behind my slovenly habits.

I love floss so much that I have stopped getting my eyebrows waxed in favor of having them threaded. Every few weeks, I stop by my local Pakistani beauty salon and Abida shapes my brows to perfection. She always asks if she can do my upper lip. I decline, but it is starting to give me a complex. Other than that, I love having my brows threaded. It reminds me of going to the dentist only I can talk while I recline in the chair. Abida holds a length of floss in her teeth and weaves the other end into an intricate Jacob's Ladder. She moves her fingers like a puppet master and plucks my stray brow hairs. We talk about my pores and the best place to get Pakistani food and and the many, many uses of dental floss.

Abida is different than my dental hygienist in so many ways. She has perfect brows and also she is never pregnant. My dental hygienist is always pregnant. I call her Pregasaurus behind her back because she likes to wear scrubs covered in tiny dinosaurs. She's never slightly pregnant. She is always very pregnant. She can't get close enough to me to reach my molars due to her round (and remarkably adorable) belly and the last time I saw her she burst into tears because I told her that I am never going to part with my wisdom teeth. She thought that was beautiful and told me that she feels the same way about three of her seven kids. My dental hygienist never mentions any trace of my alleged upper lip hair.

The last time I saw Abida, I asked her if she only threaded facial hair. She informed me that she is available to thread all sorts of body hair by appointment only. I promised to make a bikini appointment soon.

Yesterday, I had a dental appointment. Apparently, after a little nitrous oxide, I dropped my pants and asked Pregasaurus to clean up my bikini line.

I have been asked to find a new dentist.

Mist 1

I'm Here To Help

2007-04-12T06:31:00.000-07:00

I encourage people to reach out to me when they need help. Mostly, because I like to talk about them behind their backs. But, also because I am a caring and deeply compassionate person. My favorite kind of phone call to get, is the one that starts with, "Mist, I have a Situation." I love Situations. I can be sure that whatever follows that sentence will be good.

I am not a helpful person by nature. The last time that I was helpful it was by accident. I still feel like the Mayor should have recognized me for single handedly stopping a purse snatcher by almost running over the guy with my car. Yes, I was putting on mascara while driving, but he had no business snatching purses and not looking both ways before crossing the street.

I wish that I had listened to the entire Situation before I offered to help. Now, I have a Situation of my own. I have promised to help my friend clean out her father's house. He'll be away until next March unless he is released early due to good behavior. This, according to my friend is the perfect time to get his house in order.

I was warned in advance that the condition of the house. The police removed several of her father's belongings as evidence, so we wouldn't have move anything heavy. She failed to ask me if I like the sensation of cat urine burning my nostrils. I could smell the house from the driveway. "How many cats does your dad have?" I asked. "One," she said and headed for the door as though she couldn't detect the smell.

I decided to roll up my sleeves and start helping clean out the house. I started in the liquor cabinet. Once I had cleaned that out, I decided to take a break.

I found a trash bag and spread it out so that I could sit down. My friend was steam cleaning the curtains. Always helpful, I told her not to waste her time cleaning them. It seemed to me that the only thing to do with the entire house was to burn it. And then, burn it again. Surely, her father has insurance. She ignored me. I whined that it was hot. Naturally, all of the windows had been painted shut years ago. I begged her to turn on the air conditioner in the window. "Trust me, you don't want me to do that," she said. "He got it from his neighbor, it smells like cat when it's on."

I was going to ask how that would make the situation worse, but I was overcome with the need to puke.

The toilet bowl had a delicate fringe on the inside. It fluttered like eyelashes when I flushed.

I am supposed to help her again on Sunday. Clearly, I cannot back out without a bigger, more important thing to pull me away. Someone will need to have a heart attack. But who will it be?

Mist 1

Pork, It's What's For Dinner

2007-04-11T06:15:00.000-07:00

Go ahead and call PETA now.

When I think about my relationship with Wiggy, the albino guinea pig who lives with me, I am always reminded of that children's song about the old woman who swallowed a fly. She swallowed a spider to catch the fly and then continued to swallow a whole bunch of other critters to get the damn fly.

It's no secret that I'm not overly fond of Wiggy. I rescued her five years ago and I have been waiting for her to die ever since. The first thing I do every morning is check my email. Then, I check to see if Wiggy is still breathing. Guinea pigs can live to be eight years old. By my calculations, Wiggy is living on borrowed time. A few months ago, when I noticed that Wiggy was still in perfect health, I got a cat.

This plan seemed flawless at the time, but it hasn't worked out the way that I had expected. Hissy seems to have no feline instincts. He lounges around the house and attacks my ankles. Once an hour, he gets up to smack Wiggy. Wiggy seems to like the attention.

The problem is that Wiggy is huge by guinea pig standards. There is no way that Hissy could eat Wiggy all at once. I knew that I should have adopted a boa constrictor or a cougar, but Hissy's spots looked so good with my shoes and my furnishings that I was instantly smitten.

About three years ago, I stopped bathing Wiggy. I pretended that I didn't notice that there was crap stuck in her fur. I was able to ignore the four pound clump of wood shavings that clung to the crap stuck in her fur. But, I couldn't overlook the problem any longer when her food bowl (with a carrot in it) became adhered to her rear. Wiggy loves carrots. She chased the carrot in the bowl stuck to her a$ around in circles. It was amusing at first. Eventually, the noise of her overgrown talons scraping the bottom of her cage and the clunking of the bowl against the sides of the cage irritated me.

Last night, I decided that it was time for Wiggy to have a bath.

I ran a few inches of warm water in the bathroom sink and slowly eased her into her bath. She squealed and shrieked. I lifted her up out of the water and examined her butt. The bowl had come free, but several years of crap were still firmly glued to her fur.

I massaged the soap onto her butt. Wiggy cooed. I massaged and Wiggy cooed. And then I got it. She was enjoying it too much. I retched and rinsed the soap from her fur. I hastily dried her fur and returned her to the cage.

As I type this, she is standing up on her hind legs, staring at me between the bars of her cage. Her red eyes are saying, "Mist, you're not gonna leave a pig hanging, are you?"

I am disgusted with myself. I feel used.

Mist 1

Shooting Up

2007-04-10T06:48:00.000-07:00

In Friday's comments, I was notified that I have been nominated over at I Miei Pensieri as the blogger most likely to shoot up at a 7-11.

At first, I was a little confused by this nomination. Although, I am thin, I am not thin enough to be cast in Trainspotting II. I have relatively scar free arms (my right forearm has a small scar that I swear is from when I got monkey pox, but looks suspiciously like a cigarette burn). Then, I reread the category. I have been nominated as the blogger most likely to shoot up a 7-11. That makes much more sense.

I have felt like shooting up a 7-11 before. Actually, it was a BP, but it really makes no difference because my inner conspiracy theorist has told me that They are all part of the same foreign oil dependent animal.

I would have shot up that BP for not selling me beer because I didn't have my ID on me, but I got distracted because I was rather flattered that he thought that I was under 21. I gave him my phone number instead and told him to call me.

All this somehow reminds me of a crush that I had on a boy years and years ago. Jason is still in prison for shooting the gas station attendant for $20. I found his prison profile online a few months ago and I thought about writing to him and telling him about the crush that I had on him as an awkward teen. But then, I looked at his photo and noted that I'd have to learn how to braid his hair and knew that it was too big a job for me. I can't braid. Still, I wish him all the best upon his release in 2017.

In the meantime, I am still trying to figure out what I will wear to shoot up a 7-11. Clearly, I can't wear flats. My ankles don't look their best in flats and the surveillance camera will add ten pounds to each ankle. I will need a sensible heel to wear while fleeing the scene. Then, there is the weapon to consider. Am I an automatic kind of girl or an old school revolver chick? Naturally, either will be unloaded (I know the law).

Do I wear a mask or just large sunglasses? Should I get my hair colored now or after to throw off the cops?

Also, I will need a driver. I am afraid that I will not be able to speed away fast enough and check my lip gloss in the mirror at the same time without popping a tire or stalling out. My driver should be able to make the tires smoke and squeal too. That would set the mood.

I never knew that there was this much to consider in leading a life of crime.

Mist 1

P.S. Thanks, Miss Ann Thrope for the nomination. Why can't I link to you here?

Czech Yourself

2007-04-09T06:00:00.000-07:00

One side of my family is Czech. I love my ethnic last name. I am proud of our heritage and beer.

Like everyone else on Earth, we have our own unique traditions. For example, the first one to leave the dinner table on Christmas will be the first to die in the new year. My uncles have applied this superstition to every meal throughout the year. The One family may not be large in numbers, but we are a very, very large family. My metabolism has not yet caught up with me, but I am deeply afraid of when it does. I am holding out for the right marriage before this happens.

I take the wisdom of my Czech elders seriously. One of the best things that I have learned from my grandmother is the old Czech proverb, "if a guest comes to your home, grab a stick." I do not believe in the saying, "don't go to the pub without money," as I am pretty sure that this has been mistranslated from the original saying, "don't go to the pub without a vagina."

My grandfather once asked me what an aborted Czech fetus is called. He replied, "a canceled Czech." Grandpa, if you are listening up there, I thought of this the last time I was pushed down the stairs after a false alarm. "A bounced Czech" is a pretty good punchline too. Also, I thought that you would be proud to know that whenever a relationship is over, I declare that the former object of my affections and I are now Separate Czechs. It cracks people up Grandpa, I swear.

Spring is an important time for Czechs. The Monday after Easter is my favorite day of the year. On this day, Czech men throw water on Czech women. Then, they spank us with the pomlazka, which is much like a cat o' nine tails, only not as sexy. It's supposed to help us retain our health and beauty in the coming year. So far, all the spankings seem to be working. I still get carded buying alcohol and my only major health concern is my hypochondria.

So, while many of you are having egg salad sandwiches, I will be sitting here in all my Czech splendor and glory, waiting to be spanked.

Am still waiting.

Mist 1

P.S. Thanks, Michael (who makes these lovely flogs) for the photos. Be a sport and give a Czech girl a free flog for this special religious rite, would ya?

Gift Idea

2007-04-06T10:33:00.000-07:00

I get lost. A lot. Although, I've lived here for years, I only know how to get to the beer and wine store, two sushi places, the spa, my local adult novelty store, and several shoe stores in my area. I rarely travel more than 6.5 miles from my home.

I pretend that I know the directions to lots of other places. I always think that I'll be able to find where I need to go. I always think that I should turn left. I have learned that this means that I should turn right. Terms like East and West mean nothing to me.

A few months ago, Mom gave me an atlas. She smiled at me warmly and told me that she would rest better knowing that I kept it in my car. Now I have an atlas in my car. I feel like one of those people with a Bible in their cars. I always think that they drive around with Bibles because they don't have insurance. I try to drive extra carefully when I am around them. Although, for a few years, I had a piece of turquoise in my car in lieu of insurance. It is supposed to to have protective qualities. I totally believe in the power of turquoise because when I rolled that vehicle down the side of a mountain with a recalled seatbelt, I walked away with only one little cut caused by the large knives that flew up from the backseat. I had a perfectly logical reason for having knives in the backseat.

I also have an almanac in the car. I like almanacs. It's fun for me to know at a glance the local currency, what the language of choice is and if people can read that language or not, and how many people have toilets in their homes in any particular country. I like to know how old people are when they die and how many people live per square mile. I keep it in my car in the event that I have to wait in line at the Post Office and need people to think that I am smarter than I really am.

A few weeks ago, I found myself lost in another state. I pulled over and reached for the atlas. It turns out that Mom gave me an illustrated comparative atlas of surgical techniques. I didn't even know that there was such an atlas. Mom knows that I love medical conditions due to my hypochondria. The book 101 Diseases You Don't Want to Get was one of the best gifts Mom has ever given me. I refer to it all the time. Especially when I am planning travel to developing nations or making an appointment with my doctor.

After reviewing a few hundred pages in the book, I decided that I was in dire need of an esophageal resection. I called my doctor. Dr. Kilmer (sexy name, not a sexy guy)assured me that my esophagus was just fine and then gave me directions. I have very good health insurance and I ended up safely at my destination.

Yesterday, at my doctor's appointment, I thanked him for his roadside assistance. He winked and gave me a compass. He even answered my questions about how to install it. It turns out that even if I stick it to the windshield upside down, it will still tell me which direction I am traveling. What a clever device.

I got lost on my way home, but at least I knew which direction I was going.

Why doesn't someone get me GPS?

Mist 1

Shifting Plates

2007-04-05T18:33:00.000-07:00

I had dinner with a woman that can't remember my name last night. She calls me Summer and Savannah and Rain, but never Mist. Once, she almost got it right and called me Missy. We are not very close.

Because my voice is still a little scratchy from talking myself hoarse, I ordered a cup of hot tea. The server brought it to me on a tiny plate. I asked her for honey and she returned a few moments later with a tiny bowl of honey on a tiny plate.

I ordered a salad with the dressing on the side and the salmon (rare). My salad arrived with a tiny bowl of dressing on a separate tiny plate. The table was starting to get crowded with tiny plates. When my entree came, I had to scoot aside some of the tiny plates to make room for the salmon (on a huge plate) and the asparagus that came on another tiny plate.

I eat mustard on almost everything, so I asked for a side of the garlicky stone ground mustard. The server brought the mustard to me on yet another tiny plate. I was beginning to notice a trend. I looked around at the other diners. Their tables were covered in tiny plates too. I counted the plates. Between the two of us, there were 18 tiny plates on the table.

I know that it's wrong, but I enjoy having fun at the expense of others. I decided to see how many plates I could acquire throughout dinner. I dropped my fork. "Oops," I said feigning clumsiness. The server brought me a clean fork on a tiny plate. I giggled to myself, pleased with my new game. "What's so funny, Stormy?" my dining companion said. I ignored her and asked for extra butter.

At the end of the meal the server asked if she could tempt us with dessert. The woman (who cannot apparently say the word Mist) ordered the orange chiffon cake. "Order something, Star," she urged me. I do not order dessert. I am the kind of girl who insists that I cannot possibly eat another bite, but maybe I'll just have a bit of someone else's dessert.

The server smiled at me sweetly and asked, "I'll just bring you an extra plate, so you can share."

The possibility of her bringing me a plate on a plate was too much. I ducked my head to hide the grin on my face.

"Sunshine, you must really like orange chiffon cake. I've never seen anyone get so excited over cake."

I ignored her and counted the plates. Final count: 31 plates.

Mist 1

Tired

2007-04-04T06:22:00.000-07:00

I went to Six Flags yesterday. I am proud of myself because I didn't puke on a single cuddly mascot. I did make Porky and Petunia Pig kiss. That really amused me, because I was certain that it was two men wearing those costumes. "That was hot," I said in my best Paris Hilton voice.

There were lots of celebrities there yesterday. Evander Holyfield had his own reserved train on a ride. I was going to say something about how unfair it was to those of us who had paid extra to not wait in lines with the ordinary people, but I didn't want to get into an altercation and have to bite off his other ear, so I kept my mouth shut and waited an extra turn.

When Lisa and I finally boarded Superman (the ride, not the superhero), we sat motionless for several minutes. The operator came by and checked my harness. Twice. Then, he came back with a special tool and tightened up a screw holding me in place in my seat. I didn't know whether to feel safe or worried. I told Lisa that I loved her and that I wanted to be buried with all of my shoes just in case. "There is one thing that I need to know," Lisa said. "Did you sleep with my brother?" I couldn't believe that this was the last thing she wanted to hear from my pouty lips before I potentially plummeted to a horrible death. I deflected the question by asking her if she felt like her harness was secure and wondered out loud if the operator should have tightened hers as well.

After the ride, I really needed a beer. It is simply impossible to me that Six Flags does not serve beer. The words "Family Establishment" mean nothing to me. As I looked around at all the parents at the park with seemingly infinite numbers of children, I knew that they were thinking the same thing. Beer is a family value.

I keep a flask in my car. It is full of water, but I really enjoy taking a swig of it in traffic. People just stare and stare and give me plenty of space on the road. Yesterday, I secretly wished that it held more than water. Finally, Lisa suggested that we smoke to take our minds off of the fact that we hadn't had any beer since breakfast. We lit our cigarettes and were approached by a park employee who informed us that we couldn't smoke and walk. I told her that I thought that we were doing just fine, but that she should see Lisa try to chew gum and walk. It is a hot mess, I assured her. The park employee informed me that we could be ejected from the park for that kind of talk. I asked her how long we would have to wait in line to be ejected. She didn't laugh as she escorted us to the front gate.

I hate parking lots because I never remember where my car is parked. I lost my convenient alarm clicker a long time ago, so I usually have to wait for the parking lot to clear out before I can find my car. After a long search, we found the car in the West lot. I screeched out of my parking space to demonstrate my great displeasure with being ejected. At the stop sign, I took a swig from my water-filled flask for effect. The people in the minivan stopped across the intersection stared in horror and gave us the right of way.

I let go of the clutch and sped off.

Lisa and I laughed and felt immensely cooler than the people in the minivan. Then, I drove over the spikes in the parking lot. It turns out that those signs that warn of severe tire damage if you drive over the spikes the wrong way are not lying.

We debated about what to do for awhile. I called my auto club while Lisa spelled out "Send Booze" in stones and pieces of funnel cake that she collected in the parking lot.

Mist 1

Why I Drink Vodka and Wear Pants (Sometimes)

2007-04-03T06:15:00.000-07:00

I am more of a tea drinker than a coffee drinker. There is something about coffee that makes the buzzing in my head louder than normal. Shortly after I drink a cup of coffee, I need a glass of red wine just to balance things out.

I am also more of a local, independent, shade-grown coffee shop kind of girl than a big chain coffee shop kind of girl. Mostly because I dislike paying for the internet. I dislike paying for all kinds of things including parking, drinks, dinner, cable, and oil changes. I go to great lengths to avoid paying for stuff like this because they seem to be intangibles to me. I mean, after dinner, I will only be hungry again and after drinks eventually, I will sober up. What's the use in paying for stuff that I think should be free?

Sometimes, I have to have an iced soy green tea latte. Because I am a lovely person, every time I am in a coffee shop, I call a friend and ask if I can bring them a beverage. I try my best to listen to the order. I swear, I listen. But, I always f*ck it up. Once, I get to the counter, I can't remember if it's skim milk or sugar-free or hazelnut. I just hope that they won't notice when I get there with the wrong drink.

Yesterday, I ordered two beverages and decided to browse all the coffee accessories on display. I love accessories. The coffee grinders were an additional 20% off. I already own a coffee grinder, but is is shiny and not a matte steel finish like the one on the shelf. I knelt down to examine it more closely.

I heard the barista call out, "Grande Soy Chai Latte! Tall Caramel Macchiato!" and stood up to fetch my drinks. I think this is a good place to mention that I was wearing a pair of adorable brown eyelet peep toe shoes with a wrinkly brown skirt.

I stood up without my skirt, which was pinned to the floor under my heels.

The barista handed me my drinks and a few dollars from the tip jar.

Mist 1

Road Rage

2007-04-02T06:56:00.000-07:00

I don't experience road rage. I suppose, I should be honest. Sometimes, I get a little cranky with people who don't give the gratuitous wave when I let them in traffic before me. Generally though, I don't get enraged in traffic because I am the one who is driving like an a$$hole.

I don't need to be driving. I'm not good at it. I want someone who will drive me places. All I want is to sit in the front seat like a grown up. I won't even touch the stereo. I will just sit there and look cute and talk and talk and talk.

Yesterday, Jamie was driving me downtown to a concert. Jamie gets angry when she drives. It doesn't matter what's on the stereo. Music does not soothe the savage driver. She is perpetually angry when she drives.

I am used to her road rage and it doesn't bother me anymore. She calls me when she is driving to tell me about the cocksucker who just cut her off. I am not offended by her misuse of the term cocksucker, although it seems to me that the term should be sacred and used only in the purest form. If the Cocksucker Party decides to lobby Congress for exclusive rights to the term, I will sign every petition. I am not ashamed. I would be their spokesmodel if they would only ask. I would proudly attend legislative sessions with my nametag, "Mist 1, Cocksucker."

But, in Jamie's car, yesterday, I had a revelation. I think driving with Jamie is a lot like having sex with her. I've never slept with her that I can recall, but I think I know what it's like. As we sped down the street, weaving through traffic she yelled;

"Not there A$$hole!" and,

"Can't we go any faster?" and,

"Jesus f*cking Christ moron, let me get in front of you!"

I closed my eyes and imagined her in a sexy negligee. I didn't speak another word until we got downtown.

I asked her to stop at Victoria's Secret before we got to the concert. I needed dry panties.

Mist 1

Pots & Pads

2007-03-30T06:51:00.000-07:00

I don't smoke pot. I gave it up a long time ago when I discovered that when I mix pot and alcohol, I puke. As I am deeply in love with alcohol and less than completely enamored with vomiting, I had to say farewell to pot.

I don't really miss it. When I smoke pot all of my limited social skills disappear. I never know what I said last or how long ago I said it or if I said it really, really loud. I wonder if it is time for me to say anything again. Then, I realize that I have no idea what we were talking about and so I have nothing to say. Also, the urges to clean out the drawers in my desk or dust the blinds or reorganize my bookshelf becomes overwhelming and I have to go find my rubber gloves or my happy place.

Naturally, finding my rubber gloves is a challenge and I end up unearthing a whole bunch of other crap and I can't remember what I was looking for in the first place, so I have to go back to the conversation that I had previously dropped out of. Thus, the cycle starts again. Wait, did I just say that?

I don't dislike pot. I don't dislike pot smokers. But, it's difficult to explain to pot smokers that I can't smoke for fear of vomiting in public. It's even harder to explain that I really want to find some rubber gloves to clean something but I just can't remember what that something is.

My lovely, but nearly retarded friend Sue knows that I don't smoke. When she travels with me, she understands that she is responsible for stuffing her bra with her own pot as I will be unable to help her acquire any. It's always exciting to see what she will pull out of her bra. I call them party boobs.

I can't even get a bottle of hand sanitizer through security at the airport, but she can manage to smuggle her weight in pot across various borders. Apparently, cleavage is very distracting. I have suggested that she use her cleavage to smuggle illegal immigrants across the border, but she can't figure out how she will get them into her bra when it is stuffed full of pot.

The last time that we traveled together, she decided to try a different approach. She stuffed a giant sized nighttime pad with wings full of pot. Her biggest mistake was taking the pot out of its original plastic bag before slicing the pad with a razor and inserting the pot into the pad.

When she went to pull the pot out of the pad, it was coated in soft, downy cotton and that mysterious blue gel that is intended to wick moisture away from the body.

The other thing that I don't do besides smoking pot is go down on girls. When Sue offered me a joint of pot with an absorbent core, all I could tell her was that I don't mix pot and crotch.

"More for me," she shrugged.

She blazed, and the smell of burning cotton and hair filled the room.

Mist 1

P.S. Writing the words pot and pad so many times has made me think of Pol Pot and that makes me feel more intelligent in that Khmer Rouge sort of way. I guess I didn't smoke too much pot during those five years it took me to get that liberal arts degree.

Mixed Nuts

2007-03-29T06:05:00.000-07:00

I love group therapy.

I hadn't been to group in a long time. Too long. I was starting to miss it.

Every session, I would imagine that I was a guest on a talk show. Group therapy is much like a talk show. There is a host and corporate pharmaceutical sponsorship that makes it all possible. Really, the biggest difference is that there is never a musical guest.

Sometimes, I was the person in need of tough love. Other times, I felt like an expert panelist. Mostly, I wanted to be the host. Without the credentials, of course.

I like the check-in part where you get to list off all your sins since the last meeting. I liked knowing that other people had done worse things than I had done. It was refreshing to hear the guilt of others over seemingly mundane stuff like obsessively plucking out a patch of hair.

Group therapy is a setting in which it is entirely acceptable to be on and talk about drugs. Half the group will be nodding out from a new prescription. The other half will be twitching like crickets on crack. We compare notes and talk about our personal preferences. Does it make you suicidal? Did you gain weight? How's the sex? Can you drink on it? How long does it take to wear off? It's really the only place outside of college where you can talk about drugs and sex so openly with the advantage of being able to say things about strange habits like flossing several times a day.

Recently, I went back to group. I felt like a past celebrity guest who came back for an update. I told them about life on the other side of group. I confessed that I still have thoughts and behaviors that make me uncomfortable, but that I am learning to set boundaries and I don't see those little bugs at all anymore. I asked them to hold their questions until the Q & A period generously provided at the end of the meeting. I also informed them that I would be available for autographs later. I plugged my blog and told them about what it's like to work with my therapist. She is brilliant, really. She has such a command over her craft. Seriously, she is never out of character throughout our entire session. I feel so honored to have had the opportunity (read: insurance) work with her.

I can't wait to go back. I've got this really convincing way of scratching a hole in the skin on my left arm.

Mist 1

Blogger Dish

2007-03-28T06:08:00.000-07:00

Meeting bloggers is a little awkward for me at first. Especially when I knock on the hotel room door and it is answered by a woman with her dress up over her head. This is how I met Fairmaiden.

If she had emailed me pictures of her boobs, I would have recognized her instantly. Instead, she had sent me pictures of her face. I had been thoughtful enough to send her a picture of the shoes that I would be wearing when we met, so she would know who I was instantly.

Averting my eyes wasn't an option. The half naked man in the room behind her waved hesitantly at me. In his eyes, I could tell that he hated me for box-blocking. I smiled and pushed my way in. "Hi, I'm Mist. This room smells like you were about to have sex." I am very good at introductions because I went to charm school.

The best way to get over awkward half naked introductions is to drink. In preparation, I had made sure that my diet was filling and nourishing. It consisted of four grapes, a half a piece of toast with a buttery-like topping, lettuce, a calcium supplement, soup, and two pieces of whitening gum. I also had swallowed my saliva for the past several hours to make sure that I wouldn't be dehydrated. This paid off for me in the long run.

The rest of the day and evening were filled with beer, vodka, various shots, red wine and champagne. The side effects of a rich diet and heavy drinking are waking up drunk the next morning and moderate kidney pain. The benefits include enhanced dancing abilities and the belief that everything that I have to say is entirely fascinating.

Maiden wanted to play pool. I don't play pool because I don't have cleavage. She explained that bending over was an integral part of playing a good game of pool. Because I wear jeans that are not appropriate for children, I agreed to play a few games of pool. Instead, I found myself at the internet juke box (for a minimal fee, you can also check your email). As we selected songs (Blondie, Alkoholiks, Pixies), the co-owner of the bar decided to hump the Maiden. She clearly was born without a sense of smell because his breath made my the hairs in my nose recoil in fear. I looked around for someone to punch him. As there was no one available, I decided that I'd rather score drinks on his tab. I ordered the most expensive bottle of champagne on the menu ($8) and hoped that he would hump her again 64 more times so that I could write off the rest of the tab.

I hope that I impressed her with the dance routine that I performed to Ice Ice Baby. No really, it's very good.

Mist 1

PS: Since I'm coming out of my shell, I've been thinking about another blogger meet up. A few other bloggers are in. Who else is interested?

Four Hours

2007-03-27T06:40:00.000-07:00

I'm not much fun on a road trip. I can talk for hours, pausing only long enough to apply mascara. I cannot talk and apply mascara. My mouth gapes open in complete concentration and I am silent for a full minute.

When I'm in the car for an extended period of time, I start to think. I think about road kill. I cannot look away from it. When I spot a lump on the side of the road ahead, I start guessing what kind of animal it is. Usually, I guess that it is a marmot. I don't even know what a marmot is. I think every animal becomes a marmot once it is bloated and on the side of the highway. To make the game more exciting, I throw in exotic animals like badgers and wolverines. I don't know what a wolverine is either.

Thinking about all this stuff leaves me with lots of questions. Anyone unfortunate enough to be stuck in the car with me on long trips will be subjected to millions of random questions. I wish my car had voice activated Google on board. Then, I could find out the answers to my most pressing questions.

When I tire of this, I think about poetry. I compose and recite haikus. If I ever give this blogging thing up, I will probably write a book of poetry. Here is a sample of one of my gems:

Your dad creeps me out.

When we went through his garage

I saw kiddie porn.

Yesterday, as I drove home from Savannah, I discovered that it takes four hours of incessant talking to completely lose my voice.

I sound like a prepubescent boy. Someone will be receiving a disturbing phone sex call from me soon.

Mist 1

Girl, Uncomfortable

2007-03-26T06:44:00.000-07:00

I have been putting off watching Hotel Rwanda for a long time. I wanted to wait until a period in my life where I felt like I could deal with the atrocities documented in the film. The beauty of not being displaced by war or living in a place where I rarely have to fear rebel forces or step over bodies on the way to my mailbox is that I can decide when I am ready deal with genocide. Until Sunday, I didn't feel ready.

Movies like this should be prefaced not by the reminder that pirating DVDs is criminal, but rather with warnings about the legalities of committing war crimes. I knew it wasn't a comedy or created by the people who brought me any of my animated favorites and I didn't expect any steamy love scenes or anything, but still, not wearing mascara was not enough preparation for this movie.

I don't want to spoil what happened in Rwanda for anyone who doesn't remember 1994, but sometime around when women and children start getting chopped up by people with machetes, I started to feel a little suicidal. I was deeply ashamed of myself for my failure to join the Peace Corps or adopt any Rwandan orphans.

Rather than compose my suicide note apologizing for my complacency, I decided to call Dad. I got his answering machine. I left a cryptic message asking just where in the hell was G*d in 1994.

Then, I climbed up on the roof. I looked down and wished that I had chosen better shoes for jumping off the roof. Something with an ankle strap would have been a better option to make sure that it didn't come of my foot mid-fall and come down on top of my head. I decided to call Mom. She can always talk me down off the roof.

Mom said, "You think you're upset? Just imagine if you had been there. You think the Tutsi's got to think about the shoes they were going to die in? Well, they didn't and it's not too late to join the Peace Corps." I thought she'd add something about what a wonderful mother I'd be to a displaced child if only they hadn't all been adopted by celebrities, but she didn't.

Instead, she lowered her voice and said, "I have to keep it down. I'm in the library. There's this new program where you can sign up to read a book to a service dog. People are trying to get my spot in line."

I asked her what she was going to read to the dog. She hadn't decided yet. She wanted to know if there were any parameters. No one had told her if there was any prohibited subject matter. She had selected a few books as she wasn't sure of the dog's reading level and she didn't want to choose anything that another library patron had already read to the dog. "He looks pretty bored," she said.

"If he wasn't off-duty, I'd put the dog on the phone with you. He'd talk you off that roof; that's what these kind of dogs do, you know. They are miracle workers." This is where I stopped listening. I think I'd like to have a service dog. I have lots of uses for a highly trained dog. It could find the remote in the couch cushions, uncork a bottle of wine, drive me places, and most importantly prevent me from watching depressing, although deeply important movies.

I would just like to mention here that while I have been using those handy address labels that Amnesty International sends me a few times a year, this year, I am going to pay for them. I swear.

Mist 1

Sweetness

2007-03-23T06:20:00.000-07:00

Usually, artificial sweeteners taste like powdered cat urine and bubble bath to me. I've never been able to stomach the contents of those little blue and pink packets of sweetener. That was until I was introduced to Splenda in the little yellow packet.

I am having to rethink everything I know about artificial sweeteners. I cannot tell the difference between Splenda and sugar. On TV the other night, I saw a commercial that explained that it tastes like sugar because it is made of sugar. That is the kind of scientific logic that I can understand. I don't need a diagram of the complex molecule explaining why it tastes sweet, I just need to hear the word sugar and I am convinced.

Whenever I discover a product, I have to let those closest to me know. Like the pimple cream that made the zit on my forehead dry up and fall off in under eight hours. That was a miracle that I wanted to share. I feel the same way about Splenda. I called my sister and told her all about Splenda. She didn't share my enthusiasm. "Splenda has been around for a long time. It's not new, Mist. I don't like it." I wish my sister had been around when Columbus discovered the New World. I can imagine the phone call, "Yeah Chris, we know all about that place. When are you going to bring the Nina, the Pinta, and the Pina Colada back?" She could have rewritten history. (Side note: I wish I knew how to make that little ~ thing.)

I was undaunted by my sister's lack of support for my love of Splenda. I hung up the phone and rushed immediately to the grocery store for an entire box of Splenda all my own. When I got home, I wished that I had purchased the box of small, single serving packets and not the bulk box. I poured out the box on my kitchen counter and began dividing it into several smaller quantities. I was packaging it all neatly in plastic baggies when Jamie decided to burst in the door.

It was a difficult situation to explain. I didn't even try. Instead, I pulled a box of drinking straws out of the cupboard and cut a three inch piece for her with my handy kitchen scissors. When she asked me if I was going to join her, I told her that I never get high from my own supply. I have to admit, it felt pretty cool to finally use that line.

The last time I checked, she is still in there snorting lines Splenda. She's done about six grams.

I'm not going to tell her.

Mist 1

First Dating

2007-03-22T06:25:00.000-07:00

I am good at securing first dates. I never really want the second date to come. First dates are awkward, but wonderful. Second dates are obligatory.

I have lots of techniques of ruining the chances of a second date. I find that carrying a wedding dress in the trunk of my car usually works. I have the poor bastard walk me out to the car. After I stick my tongue down his throat and thank him for a wonderful evening, I tell him that I have something to show him. Usually, that works.

Sometimes, men need a little more persuasion. I have found that faking terminal illness is ineffectual. People will want to spend your last few weeks on this planet with you. Claiming an STD is no good either because you have to know his medical history. Telling a man with genital herpes that you are also afflicted is like saying, "We are perfect for one another. I accept you, oozing pustules and all. Let's spend the rest of our lives together, except during particularly painful outbreaks." Announcing that you have three sets of triplets at home is not a turn off either. It simply states that you are not opposed to sex.

First dating is hard. It has to be exciting and perfect and then end abruptly, shortly after the bar tab is paid. I am running out of excuses.

I take pity on my next first date. After witty conversation and drinks, I will take him home to watch The Crying Game. I will make a comment about how I simply must get to bed because I have my last pre-op appointment with the doctor who is finally going to give me the chance to get out of the body that I have been trapped in since birth. I should never admit this, but I have the same hair as the tranny in the movie. If I sit at just the right angle, this should really freak him out.

Mist 1

Cookies

2007-03-21T06:34:00.000-07:00

I don't cook very often. It's not that I don't like cooking, it's just that by the time I uncork the wine, I have usually lost the notion. But, when Lisa called me and said that she was craving my salmon, I couldn't say no. She has pretty good wine.

I went to the International Farmer's Market to buy fruit that I didn't recognize. You see, if you cook fish with exotic citrus fruit found only in south east Asia, people think that you're a genius. No two employees at the Farmer's Market speak the same language. Solomon has worked in the produce department for at least five years and he's learned a considerable amount of English in that time. He can say, "How are you?" and "I work and work," and "You look like cousin of me." He has a new phrase that I love. I told him that I was cooking dinner for a friend and he said, "I will put my fingers cross for you." He gets nervous when he talks to me and his voice gets higher with every phrase. He might know a few other sentences, but they are in a range that my ears can't detect.

I don't like to cook in my own kitchen because it is three feet by two feet. While this makes it very convenient to clean the floor, it makes it very difficult to open the dishwasher and the fridge at the same time. Lisa's kitchen is much larger than mine, so I decided to cook/drink at her house.

I got to her place before she did due to an unfortunate traffic stop. When she arrived, she commented on how a blow job doesn't take nearly as much as time as writing a ticket. Then, she went into the bathroom to gargle and touch up her lipstick.

Dinner was divine. The wine was excellent. We drank and talked and sang karaoke and danced and talked about men and hair and men.

Eventually, I got hungry again. Earlier, I had spotted Girl Scout cookies on top of the fridge. I am partial to the Thin Mint and am heart broken that the Lemon Cooler has been discontinued. Because I can exercise restraint, I only bought two boxes of cookies this year and have not eaten a single one. It is like a game that I play with myself.

Lisa has every kind of Girl Scout cookie. She has three cases of cookies in her dining room and a freezer full of Thin Mints. As long as I don't touch the caramel and coconut cookies, she doesn't care what I eat. I reached up on top of the fridge and grabbed the blue box of cookies. Carefully and deliberately, I only took one. I know all about portion control (except for when it comes to wine). Lisa yelled from the other room to get one for her too. I took two more from the box because I want to make sure that she is fatter than I am in a swimsuit. I am a decent and caring friend.

I bit into my cookie. It was dry and bland. "F*ck," I said, "they really need to put the trans fats back into these." I handed Lisa her cookies.

"Mist, these are dog biscuits."

Who the hell keeps dog biscuits next to Girl Scout cookies?

I took the picture to demonstrate how misleading her display of cookies is. In my defense, I am short and cannot see on top of the fridge.

The dog and I do not get along.

Mist 1

Crap

2007-03-20T06:23:00.000-07:00

I know two women that live in a little two bedroom, 1.5 bathroom apartment. They have three big dogs, a cat, a rat, a beta fish, fruit flies, and several house plants.

This is too many living things in a cozy apartment. I suppose it's a good thing that they have so many plants. Otherwise, there probably wouldn't be enough oxygen to support all of those life forms. I hate going to their home. The conversation goes something like this; "So, LEAVE THE FISH ALONE how's your lust affair GET DOWN DAMMIT with that NOT ON THE F*CKING RUG internet boy?" I want to explain that he is a man and not a boy, but when I see people (or animals) puking, I can't help it, I puke too. "NO MIST NO! NOT ON THE F*CKING RUG!" Shamed, I go home.

I have noticed that every time I go to visit them, there is a little plastic bag of dog crap at the front door. They're front door appears normal in every other way. They have wind chimes, and a little monkey figurine, and a cute welcome mat that reads: Caution: Dog Can't Hold its Licker. I like that. I want a mat that reads: Caution: B*tch Can Hold Her Liquor.

I called Mom this morning to talk about shoes and her neighbor's fat cat. Naturally, talking about her neighbor's cat segued into talking about the little bags of dog poo at my friend's front door. "How long do they leave it there?" It's hard for me to believe that this was what Mom wanted to know. There were a number of other responses that I expected from her.

Now I am curious. I have been thinking of how I can find out without sending a sample to an independent lab for testing. Then, I thought about a time when I was parked in a lot indicating that I could only park there for an hour. When I returned to my car, there was a little yellow chalk mark on my tire.

I am going to have to buy some chalk. And maybe some rubber gloves and a face mask.

Mist 1

Sleeping In

2007-03-19T09:12:00.000-07:00

On the weekends, I fall asleep on my couch. I get home, kick off my shoes, and turn on a movie. I fall asleep in my clothing and mascara. In the middle of the night, I usually wake up long enough to squirm out of my bra and panties and throw them onto the floor next to the couch. I also drink a glass of water and take two Excedrin Extra Strength to prevent a nasty hangover. I keep a sleep mask in a box on the table next to my couch. I try to pull it on before the sun starts coming up so that I can enjoy a few extra hours of darkness.

Yesterday, I woke up from my phone ringing. I pushed my eye mask up on top of my head and answered the phone. It was a call from the Marine buddies of my friend's little brother. Apparently, they lost him in Savannah during all the St. Patty's Day festivities. The caller was wondering if I had talked to him. I didn't ask the obvious question of how I would of talked to him if they had his phone. Instead, I told them to call the local jails and hospitals. I used to be shacked up with a man that had a habit of not coming home at night and so I know the drill. I told him that if hadn't shown up in any of those places, that he was fine and that they only thing to do then was to pack up his stuff and throw it in the front yard and cut themselves out of all the pictures of them together. Then, I laughed to show that I'm not still bitter.

I got up and activated the phone tree to see if anyone could find him. After a few hours, I got a call. He was fine and at his mother's house. Satisfied that my reaction time makes me a perfect candidate for the director of FEMA, I put down the phone and went back to the couch to finish the movie that I slept through the night before.

I leaned over to pick up my bra and panties from the floor. My panties were lying there, right where I remember kicking them off. My bra was missing. I reached under the couch and pulled out my eye mask.

Slowly, I reached up and touched the top of my head. I grabbed the elastic strap and pulled my bra off of my head.

I guess it could have been worse. I could have slept with my panties over my eyes. Still, I am a little bothered that no sunlight streamed in through my bra cups. Apparently, my eyeballs and boobs are the same size.

Mist 1

Chocolate

2007-03-16T06:36:00.000-07:00

I didn't give anything up for Lent this year. I decided that G*d wants me to do more with my life, not less. There are plenty of things that I could have given up. I could have quit smoking or drinking or bathing, but really, I'm a much more agreeable person when I am doing all of those things.

I was talking to a friend of mine yesterday and she brought up Lent. She's given up caffeine. She could hardly stay awake throughout the conversation. She asked me what I gave up. I told her that I hadn't given up anything. I am all too familiar with the look that she gave me when I said that. It's the look that says You Are Such a Heathen and May You Rot for All Eternity. Rather than explain that I wasn't observing Lent, I clarified, "I mean, I'm not giving up anything besides chocolate." It seemed best to make her think that in years past, I had given up a number of things because I am so devout.

I wasn't sure why I said chocolate. It just came to me. "Mist, you just ate a bag of chocolate covered almonds." Crap. I guess that's why chocolate came to mind.

"Those are heart healthy chocolates and I don't mean that kind of chocolate," I said. She looked puzzled. I explained that I had given up black men. Really, it's pretty logical. No Sexual Brown Chocolate until Memorial Day or whenever Lent is over. I think it makes quite a statement to give up seeing black men until the day when I can start wearing my white shoes.

She looked at me to see if I was telling the truth. Feeling pressured, I continued, "I'm not messing with anything brown at all. Not even UPS. I am strictly FedEx for awhile."

"DHL is pretty good too," she said.

Mist 1

Facts of Life

2007-03-15T06:32:00.000-07:00

I have a soft, sentimental side. Usually, I try not to show it. I have a good back and a bad reputation to think of.

Almost a year ago, I adopted ducklings. I'm not sure why I did it, it just seemed that everywhere I looked, there were no ducks.

There is a man in Idaho who sells ducklings. You have to buy them in groups of ten. It seems like ducks should be sold in dozens, like eggs. If I was more frugal, I would have just bought the eggs.

It's exceedingly difficult to raise ducks in a town home. They didn't follow me around in a straight line like I expected them to. The duck crap on the floor made the feathers stick to my feet. Tarring and feathering is so Antebellum. It became clear, that the ducks had to find another place to live. Also, it is apparently against several local ordinances to raise livestock within the city limits.

Now, the ducks live in a lovely pond. I visit them every day. They climb all over me. I emailed pictures of my ducks and me to Mom. She replied, "You are going to get the bird flu. You don't have the sense you were born with. You never did have the sense you were born with." She is a gentle and loving woman.

Last week, I noticed that one of my ducks had laid two eggs. I should have had The Talk with the ducks a long time ago. I just thought that they would know all about the birds and the bees, on account of them being birds and all. At first, I thought that they couldn't be real eggs. I inspected them more closely.

I reached out and scientifically poked one of them with my index finger. It was definitely an egg.

It only took a second to realize what I had done. I hate eggs and I had just touched one. An egg that had just come out of a duck's vagina. Not even a store bought egg that had been carefully selected and cleansed, but a fresh egg. I didn't even know which duck it had come from. I retched. To me, this is like probing the contents of the sanitary napkin bin conveniently provided in women's restrooms.

I wiped my finger off in the grass and retched a few more times.

I gathered the ducks around me and told them that our bodies go through beautiful and miraculous changes. I warned the girls about the drakes and told them all not to do drugs without me.

I've started slipping birth control pills in their food. If they think I'm going to spend the rest of my hot years raising their damn kids, they are sadly mistaken.

Mist 1

Febreze

2007-03-14T06:39:00.000-07:00

I used to have the perfect couch. It was a pale sage green and the fabric was soft and stayed cool when I napped. It even absorbed drool without leaving a mark.

Everyone who came to my home fell asleep on my couch. I didn't mind; I liked that my couch had that effect on people. I also liked the change, lighters, and other assorted surprises that were left behind in the cushions.

One day, I noticed that the couch was sagging in the middle. I am not going to blame this on my 400 pound cat nanny, I am just going to say that it is awfully coincidental that my couch started sagging at the time that I started leaving the 400 pound cat nanny in charge when I was away from home for the weekend. Soon, it was impossible to sit on it without leaning toward the center. Then, there was the time that I fell asleep with a pen in my hand and continued to write even in my sleep, in blue ink on one of the cushions. The fact that I kept writing in my sleep is not surprising. I sleep-write a lot. It's amusing. I bring it with me to my therapy appointments. So far, it has not merited medication, but one day, I know it will pay off.

It took me months to buy my new couch. I sat on every couch in every showroom in the metro area. The sales associates would not let me remove my pants to really test the comfort level of the couches. I don't wear pants at home and so this made the decision considerably more difficult.

What I really wanted was my old couch to be new again. I settled for another green couch and a chair and a half. It seemed like a good f*cking chair; a little to big for one person, but just perfect for two people who wanted to get to know each other a little more intimately. As of yet, the chair and a half is a virgin. I've been living with my new couch for months now and it is still not right. There are too many pillows. It's too plump, too firm, and I cannot get comfortable.

Jamie came over last night for wine and conversation and wine. She took off her shoes and put her feet on my couch. Her feet smelled a bit like roadkill. I retched and reached for the Febreze. She looked offended. "Mist, you put your a$$ on this couch," she said. For the record, my a$$ does not smell like roadkill and hence, her argument was pointless.

I want to do a commercial for Febreze. I want to hold the bottle up to my face and inhale it's laundry fresh scent. I will turn to the camera with a smile and say, "Febreze; because I put my a$$ on the couch."

Mist 1

Update: It turns out that I'm also over at Britt's place today.

Miles to Go Before I...

2007-03-13T06:28:00.000-07:00

Last year, I bought a pedometer. I have some obsessive compulsive behaviors, so technically, I probably should have consulted my shrink before I made the purchase.

I programmed all the settings. I counted and measured my steps. I even input my weight honestly. This was a new relationship and I wanted to start it right. I wanted it to trust me. I didn't want to flip open the top to see how many steps I had taken and for it to tell me that I had taken 10,000 aerobic steps just to make me feel good about myself.

I found that the best place for my pedometer was tucked neatly into the waist of my panties and not to the waist band of my pants as suggested on the informational insert. The vibrating pedometer is another one of my fabulous inventions that I haven't gotten around to making.

From my home, there are 16 bars within walking distance. It turns out that it is about a three mile walk to go to each of these bars and home again. My love for fitness returned with this discovery.

It wasn't long before I had decided to see just how many steps I could take in a day. Somewhere around 22,000, I decided to see if I could walk so far that I reset the counter. I walked until my feet blistered. The sun went down and I got thirsty. I had made several laps around my neighborhood bars. It was time to close out my tabs. Total steps: 67,481.

As I sat at the bar, I continued to fidget. Surely, my pedometer would track my fidgeting. Unfortunately, pedometers don't work that way. They know when you are cheating the system, and when you are cheating the system, you are only cheating yourself.

After that day, I put the pedometer away. I had abused it's power. It sat, tucked away in a little box on my dresser for nearly a year.

Last night, I rediscovered it. I feel like I appreciate it now. I have matured. I will not put it on a pedestal or on a treadmill.

Still, I wonder, if I wear it while having sex, will it tell me how many calories I am burning? And, what will I clip it to?

Mist 1

All Your Beets Are Belong to Us

2007-03-12T06:37:00.000-07:00

I like food in jars, except for animal body parts and eggs in brine. I have a strange fascination with that stuff. I like beets and pickles and mushrooms and smelly kimchi and even those little creepy looking albino asparagus stalks in jars.

Jarred food is the perfect quick meal. I stand in front of the fridge in my underwear with a pair of chopsticks and eat, it's like a jarred food buffet.

Despite all the hand jobs that I have given to strengthen my delicate fingers, I still struggle when opening new jars. I grunt and curse and pound the jar on the counter top. I run it under warm water and cool water and strain myself trying to get into the jar. Finally, I will resign and put on my pants so that I can ask my neighbor if he will open the jar for me. One day, I will learn to make this into a sexier encounter. I think that I could say, "Excuse me, but could you get into my purple pickled cabbage?" in a voice that would reek of seduction. He's nice enough to not say anything about how sweaty I am and always says something like, "Much obliged, Ma'am. Enjoy your baby corn."

My new vibrator came in the mail the other day. It arrived in a clear plastic case, which isn't the level of privacy that I had hoped for. I waited to use it until the mood was right. I took a glass of wine to bed with me and turned my phone off so that we wouldn't be disturbed. I knocked over the glass in the dark while fumbling to locate my self-warming "massage" oil. I cursed and wished that I owned a bedside lube dispenser. I turned on the lamp and jotted down that idea on an index card complete with a sketch of the prototype so that I wouldn't forget it later. Then, I turned off the light and whispered sweet nothings to my new B.O.B. in his case. He shuddered with anticipation.

Here is what I've learned: never lube before attempting to open the plastic case.

I got out of bed and put on my robe. I pondered knocking on my neighbor's door with my head hung in shame. I imagined handing him the slippery case without making eye contact. I thought about bringing over a jar of olives for him to open as a way to break the ice.

Then, I realized that I had forgotten to buy batteries.

Defeated, I washed my greasy hands, turned my phone to vibrate and waited for someone to call me.

Mist 1

Time Change

2007-03-09T06:36:00.000-08:00

I am deeply in lust.

He is witty and funny and artistic. The fact that he doesn't know that I'm alive is a mere hindrance. To be fair, he has left a few comments here and we are reciprocally linked, but I have noticed that his link to me doesn't say anything like, "The Lust of My Life" or "The Woman That I Plan on Having Wild, Unbridled (or bridled, if she's into that sort of thing) Sex With." He would be a fool to let me slip though his links.

The object of my affections lives far, far away. He's in a different time zone. This has proved to be an inconvenience in my relationship with him. It turns out, that I am very good at addition. When it is noon his time, it is three my time. It also turns out, that I am very bad at subtraction. When it is nine in the morning here, I have no idea what time it is where he lives. When I am logged into Google (nearly always), I look for his status. When it is red, I know that he is chatting with another girl. When it is green, I wonder why he is not chatting with me. I change my status to read stuff like "lubing myself" or "ready/willing," or "I will scratch that other broad's eyes out, I swear to G*d, don't make me do it," but still, he does not bite. It only makes my devotion stronger.

The thing about time zones that confuses me (besides the math) is that I can't understand why the time change is in hour increments. It seems like it should be in fractions. Why can't the system be standardized? A mile per minute would make sense to me. That way, I would know that he is 2,609 miles behind me. According to Google Maps (not that I've checked), that is like a difference of one day and 15 hours.

I would know not to tell him what happened on The Office or I could give him winning sports stats in advance so that he could place bets and make us rich so that we could live happily, although distantly, ever after.

Better yet, why can't everything just operate on my time schedule? It would be so much easier for me if I knew that while I am thinking about lunch, he is doing the same thing. Only, his lunch would be called breakfast.

Wait, I'm confused again.

The International Date Line is ruining my love life.

Mist 1

Indoor Kids

2007-03-08T06:45:00.000-08:00

My friend Kathy has been pregnant since 1997. I don't even remember what she looks like when she's not pregnant. I have no idea how many children she has because I think she has them in litters. Every time I see her, there are at least three new ones. She can't squeeze them all into her Toyota when she needs to go to the grocery store. She leaves some of them at home with her husband or they take two cars. I don't think that I have ever seen her with all of her children.

I can't tell them apart. All children look the same to me. Children's faces should be on the tops of their heads so that you can tell them apart without having to stoop down to get a look at them. I can't tell how old they are and the younger they are, the less likely it is that I can determine their gender.

I went over to her house for the first time in years yesterday. One of the kids (female, not in diapers) let me in. She told me that her mom was in the kitchen and then went back to playing with matches. I picked my way over the bodies of children playing on the floor. I felt like a Marine, only with a good haircut. I kept saying, "dead bodies everywhere, dead bodies everywhere," over and over again in my head.

Kathy was sitting in a chair in the kitchen with several kids strapped into highchairs and booster seats. There was a pile of uncooked rice on the floor. I was going to offer to clean it up, but then I figured that the United Nations had probably just dropped it from a helicopter.

Everywhere I looked, there were children. They just ran around in circles, bumping into each other, falling over, crying, and blowing snot bubbles. I remembered a conversation that I had with Kathy years ago about birth control. Kathy didn't want to be on artificial hormones, but apparently really, really enjoys sex. She told me at the time that she was using wild yam to prevent pregnancy. I'm thinking that maybe she used it wrong. She was probably supposed to masturbate with a wild yam, not take some gelatin free capsule of dehydrated herbs and have sex with an actual man. I kept this thought to myself.

We had a conversation in 30 second spurts interrupted by Kathy banging her head into the kitchen table every time one of the kids threw up, punched another kid, or got head stuck in the washing machine.

When it was time to leave, the door was blocked by children milling about in clockwise circles. "Excuse me," I said politely. There was no response. I looked at Kathy for help. Kathy was wiping crap off of her sleeve and yelled, "y'all get away from that damn door and let Ms. Mist out!" Some of the kids stood there staring out of the door, the rest changed direction and wandered in counter clockwise circles. I looked back at Kathy who was now on the phone and encouraging one of the kids to stop, drop and roll.

I pushed through the kids and opened the door. It reminded me of when people come to my house and as they open the door I scream at them not to let the cat out. I was not quick enough. The second I opened the door, two of the kids escaped. They were stunned for a second and then filled with the elation of being outside.

"Kathy, some of the kids got out," I called to her. She waved me off.

I think she must have one of those invisible fences to shock them if they leave the yard. She should really should install a doggy door.

Mist 1

1891

2007-03-07T18:06:00.000-08:00

There are somethings that I miss about living in the Tundra. I miss the lakes and the greatest mall in all of North America. I miss Prince, we hardly talk anymore. I miss the funny way that people talk, although where I live now people talk pretty funny too, y'all. I don't miss the weather. Not even a little bit.

One of my favorite things to do is to watch the weather channel to see how cold it is back home. When the weather map is tangerine where I am and lavender where my family is, I call them (I also call them when the terror alert level is periwinkle). I pretend to be concerned. Really, I am just calling to tell them that I am wearing shorts and flip flops and good Lord, I think I just might break a sweat. My family knows me well enough to know that I am lying. They know that 1.) I don't sweat; and 2.) I prefer not to wear shorts or pants or really anything at all. It's part of the reason that I had to leave home in the first place.

The other night, I called Dad to talk about the weather. Dad always likes to talk about snow. He grew up in the Tundra and before that, his relatives moved here from Old Tundra where it snows all the time. I bought him a snow blower a few years ago. He uses it to take up space in his garage. He's the kind of guy who will go outside to shovel several times during a blizzard so that it won't be so hard later on. This kind of logic doesn't make sense to me. I don't rake leaves in the fall because more are just going to fall. In truth, I don't rake leaves at all.

"I heard it's the worst blizzard since 1891," I said.

"It's not that bad," he said. People in cold climates are always trying to tell those of us with sense enough to move to warmer locales are always saying stuff like that. They are full of sh*t. "You have to remember that people were a lot shorter back then." He makes a strong argument. I would like to see a chart graphing the height differentials of meteorologists over time.

Now, I'm questioning that whole global warming thing. Maybe people are just getting taller, that's all.

Mist 1

PS: Fringes is on vacation and has generously allowed me to hold her blog hostage today. As usual, I have lots of important stuff to say. Read it here.