(Note to reader: we are taking a break from our regularly scheduled programming - Interview with a Bunch of Guys I Tricked, but will return and with flourish in the days to come. Why? Because my ovaries hurt.)
Yesterday was a banner day for the OCD chick. First of all, there was leftover Chinese food so I had the distinct pleasure of having Mongolian Beef for breakfast. Yes it smelled so bad that one of the two Yorkie brothers buried his head under the sofa cushions. Yes it made me sick only a matter of 4 minutes later.
But still. It's the breakfast of Chinese champions.
Second, the wind in Kansas was about 400 miles per hour. That may not sound like a good thing to you, but I'm sort of in love with Kansas wind...so long as the wind is not shaped like a funnel. I like the sound very much. I also like that I have a valid excuse not to do my hair for approximately 2 months. I hate hair doing in all forms but save for the windy season, I succumb to peer pressure and do it anyway.
But the bestest of the best things to happen yesterday is that a key piece of a new venture in which I'm participating was put into place. If that sounds vague, please don't adjust your hearing aid. It is vague.
Ambiguous even.
I will say this much: I am going to be writing with an ensemble cast featuring two other women who are better than me in every way. They are blond and gorgeous and funny and smart and they never eat Chinese food for breakfast. (Although I would like them more if they did.)
This is a big deal kids and because of my deep and abiding love for you, I wanted you to be the first to know.
Right behind the Yorkie brothers, Mr. Man, the lady who answers the phone at Wong Pow's, my gynecologist, the guy who sold me my new tires, the fire baton repairman, the twenty-one year old guy I tried to cougar up on, my second cousin twice removed (from our family reunions because she has no teeth and we can't stand to watch her eat) and Dick Cheney.
He tortured me. You would have done the same thing.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ If you don't BLIP.fm kids,I can't be your friend anymore. Jeez. What are you waiting for?
Here's your song for the day by Lily Allen. Be forewarned - they are singing a very bad word that the OCD chick never says in this blog so send the kids outside before listening. I'd like to dedicate it to the person who made me mad yesterday. You suck.
Although I have seen pimps on television, I'd never actually met one up close and personal. That is until I was introduced to one D. Magical, arguably the most infamous purveyor of women as a commodity in the Tenderloin District of California.
I will admit I was nervous about this interview. It wasn't so much the subject or the man as it was the place where we were to meet. His secretary, or D.'s Ho as she announced herself, informed me he would only allow me an audience if I came to his office.
Turns out a pimp's office is in reality a seedy motel room behind an abandoned Salvation Army. Despite my general aversion to seediness in most forms, I'm a professional. I asked myself, WWCCD, and off I went. (What Would Connie Chung Do?)
Mr Magical, or Sweet Daddy as I was instructed to address him by 3 large men with diamonds where their teeth should be, wasn't there when I arrived. Instead a full half hour before his arrival was spent preparing me for my time with him. I was instructed not to ask any questions about his alleged link to a recent homicide involving a rival Pimp and a trombone, or about his Momma. It was also recommended that I try not to look him directly in the eye. I didn't ask why.
In his own good time he strutted in the room decked out in fur, gold rings, diamonds and a purple hat so cliche I almost laughed out loud. He sat down across from me and in an effort to take control, he asked the first question.
Sweet Daddy: Sobriquet?
(Clearly he thought Sobriquet was the French word for cheap wine served in a plastic cup.)
Sher: Thank you, but no. Mr. Sweet Daddy, I'd like to start our interview by thanking you for agreeing to sit down with me. This is important work we're doing. There is some chatter about a Pulitzer.
(I smiled at him only to have one of his diamond-toothed posse firmly shake his head NO at me.)
Now, would you mind telling me in your own words what exactly it is that you do? Sweet Daddy: This concludes my question and answer session. Sher: What the hell? That was my first question! I've visited with lots of other men and they've all answered my questions.
(The biggest in the posse walked over to put his hand on my shoulder. I became alarmed that he might in fact pull my head out by the stem.)
Sweet Daddy: If I was a completely uneducated hillbilly type, midwestern, tobacco chewing, wife beater wearing, Nascar watching, beer drinking, good ole boy I would.
Sher: So why are you even here if you aren't going to talk to me? Would you at least answer a couple things?
(The grip on my shoulder tightened signaling it would be best to change my approach.)
Please Mr. Daddy? Just one or two?
Sweet Daddy: I'm working and must sometimes spring to action at a moment's notice.
Sher: I understand. You're like Super Pimp. Gotta jet off to rescue a ho any time Commissioner Gordan sends up the bat signal.
(No one laughed. I thought I might throw up, but I chewed it back.)
Let's try this again Sweet Daddy. Without mentioning your business specifically, let's talk a little bit about the kind of woman you most appreciate having in your employ. What might she look like?
Sweet Daddy: A Georgia peanut farmer with bucked teeth. Dirty white dress. Fake boobs are out of the question.
Sher: I see. It sounds like you know exactly what you want, or perhaps more to the point, what men want. Sweet Daddy: The thing for cool boys.
(This everyone in the room thought was hysterical as they high-fived each other and congratulated Sweet Daddy on his brilliant & insightful comment.)
Sher: It's my understanding you have one special lady in your stable. Is that correct?
Sweet Daddy: The One. The most perfect woman in the world. No longer here.
(I thought I saw a single tear run down his cheek.)
Sher: What happened to her?
Sweet Daddy: An unfortunate smelting accident.
Sher: Wow. I did not see that coming. Sounds tragic. I'm sorry.
Sweet Daddy: Makes you feel dirty, doesn't it?
(He leaned in toward me, leering as though telling me the love of his life was dead might somehow have flipped my on switch.)
Sher: It does not! I don't know why you think it would.
(The smallest of the scary men now folded his arms and cleared his throat. Signal received.)
I can't help but notice your beautiful ensemble. Is this how you always dress? Is there like Pimp casual when you're not working?
Sweet Daddy: Cloth diapers.
Sher: That sounds both disgusting and ridiculous.
Sweet Daddy: It makes for a fun time had by all. Why become aghast in public at a man's sexual misconduct only to be secretly causing intentional sexual arousal under a table, in a darkened hallway, at a different time etc?
Sher: I can assure you that I am aghast both in public and in private. There will be no misconduct on my part Mr. Daddy. There is absolutely nothing you could do that would warrant my ever causing you intentional arousal in any way. Ever.
Sweet Daddy: I will not ask for a penis prosthesis.
(The posse all nodded in agreement as if he were somehow making a huge concession just for me.)
Sher: What the hell are you talking about? What is a penis prosthesis anyway?
Sweet Daddy: Knowing the definition of the word kinda takes the fun out of it.
Sher: Mr. Daddy, please just answer the questions. If not, I'm going to have to bring this interview to an end.
Sweet Daddy: Makes you feel dirty doesn't it?
Sher: Stop saying that! That's it. I don't see anything further we can gain from this exchange. Before I literally burst into a dead on run and flee, is there anything additional you would want my readers to know about you Mr. Daddy?
Sweet Daddy: Two part answer. Strangers, friends, and acquaintances are strongly encouraged to enlarge their breasts and not be afraid to share them with me via text/picture messaging.
Sher: And?
Sweet Daddy: Thanks to my many friends for making "Operation Shake-a-Ho" a complete success.
Shake-a-Ho indeed, Mr. Daddy. Consider this "ho" completely shaken.
~*~*~*~*~*~* Come on kids. What else could today's music be?
Gentle reader - In order to enjoy this, the 2nd installment of our series, you would do well to first read this. Do it now. I'll wait for you.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ I've never cared for things found in nature, but I will admit to an odd fascination with lizards. Lounge lizards that is. Something about them I find strangely intriguing. Their slicked back hair; their cheesy song medleys; their over use of the question, "Where you from?" I can't get enough.
As I settled into a booth at the famed Kit Kat Club by the airport I was a bit anxious to finally meet the one and only Vince Giovelli. Giovelli laid claim to being the most legendary of all lounge singers since Bobby Cochran hung up his microphone after the 90's scandal involving a 19 year old stripper named Raphael.
Just as I ordered a shot of tequila to help calm my nerves, the heavy aroma of Musk Oil announced the arrival of the man. I looked up to find Giovelli standing beside me, cigarette in one hand, dirty martini in the other. He wore a black tuxedo despite the fact it was only 3 in the afternoon; his white shirt left open to reveal a tuft of dark hair and a gold chain so thick it looked more like a rope one might use to pull a skier behind a boat.
Sher: Vince,it's a pleasure. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.
He winked at me and motioned for the cocktail waitress to bring me another shot.
Sher: OK, Vince. As you know, I am doing a series of interviews with a diverse group of men across the country so that I might finally learn what makes men so different than women. Vince: Mom pre-made about 40 sandwiches for us. Sher: Thank you but I'm not hungry.
Vince: Mom made them with a loving amount of mayo on each: pimento cheese, bologna, banana, and my favorite, peanut butter and jelly without the mayo.
Sher: Seriously. I appreciate that your Mom put mayonnaise on a bunch of food for us, but I can't eat a bite. I licked the salt off all the crackers in my house before I left. I'm stuffed.
Vince: In keeping with the green theme, she placed them all back in the plastic sandwich bags the loaf bread came out of.
Sher: Oh for godsake then. Give me a mother truckin' sandwich. I'll take the PB & J without the mayonnaise. Vince, let's get down to it if you wouldn't mind. I think my readers really want to hear about your legendary womanizing.
Vince: Funny you should ask that one. That subject comes up almost every day.
Sher: How many women would you say you have in your stable at any one time?
Vince: I’m too drunk to understand that question.
Sher: Women, Vince. How many women do you currently date?
Vince: This is torture, OK? One of my buddy's wives. Angelina Jolie. I love the hell outta that woman. Stewie Griffin. Why? I don't know. He's not gay is he?
Sher: He is rumored to in fact be gay, yes. So you're seeing a buddy's wife, Angelina Jolie and Stewie Griffin. Anyone else?
Vince: Pam Anderson looks like crap.
Sher: OK. Pam is not one of your women. Got it. Would you mind telling me a little about what an evening with you might be like for one of your lady friends? Or Stewie?
Vince: A metallic green 1970 Ford pickup truck with a camper cover to match. All the amenities: AM Radio, no air conditioning, a big Johnson CB, vinyl seats, 3 speed in the floor, and on the rear bumper a twelve foot long bright orange CB antenna. Did I mention no air conditioning?
Sher: You did. So it's Saturday night and you've picked up your date for the evening in your admittedly awesome green truck.
Vince: While Mom was making the sandwiches, Dad filled the old cooler with can drinks and ice, then placed the sandwiches on the top to prevent them from getting wet from melted ice.
Sher: The sandwiches again? Are you kidding me with this? OK, so you have a cooler full of sandwiches, drinks in a can and ice. Assuming your date is still with you at this point, why don't you tell me specifically about your last date? I'd like you to be as detailed as possible without any mention of sandwiches.
Vince: We started eating the sandwiches, which after 12 to 24 to 36 hours in the cooler all tasted of bologna. This is where I first understood the term green. Talk about sick! But soon enough, and as my favorite verse in the Bible says, “and it came to pass”, we finally arrived at the campground. That’s right, campground. As in tent, no electricity, no running water.
Sher: So you and your lady ate sandwiches that had been in the cooler for between 12 and 36 hours and for some reason you've not explained, you then took her to a campground. Is that what you're telling me?
Vince: We fell asleep in the blistering hot heat of central Florida. I think bologna spoils very quickly.
Sher: Mr. Giovelli, I have never in my entire long-legged life met a man so obsessed with bologna sandwiches. Could we please move on to something other than the nasty lunch your Mom made you?
Vince: Oh my God you did not just ask me that! Well,I was in a bar in Greensboro, NC and one of my buddies’ wives was sipping on an unusual drink called a Tequila Sunrise. I ordered one. Nothing happened. After the 5th one I remember everyone telling me to slow down. From there I was doin’ shooters, singing karaoke and the limes kept falling in the floor. I had salt all over my sloppy face, then the owner of the bar offered me a free Cuban cigar if I would just leave his establishment.
Sher: Now we're getting somewhere.
Vince: I do remember my face flat on the bar as the bar maids and bartenders went through my wallet looking at my pictures. I was completely paralyzed. My buddy said it took a solid hour to get me out of the car and into my motel room. I don't know why I woke up completely naked in a chair by the door.
Sher: Your buddy's name wasn't Stewie by any chance?
Vince: Stewie sounds good, I’ll go with that. High heel boots, short shorts, tattoos I still don't understand, halter-top unbuttoned to the navel. Scared the bejeezus outta me. I was literally shaking.
Sher: And so there you are, naked in a chair by the door in some motel room. What did you say to your friend Stewie the next morning?
Vince: I showered for 2 hours just to get the scare off me.
I could see on Giovelli's face that he'd realized he'd just shared his homosexual one night stand with me, and in doing so, with my readers. He took a long draw off his cigarette and winked at me.
Vince: Sweetheart, lets go get some dinner and later I’ll buy you a sobriquet.
Sher: What exactly do you think sobriquet means, Vince?
Vince: An old mobile home.
Sher: In fact no.
Vince: Cherry Bomb mufflers.
Sher: Not even close.
Vince: Bologna.
Sher: Yes. That's exactly what sobriquet means. Bologna. ~*~*~*~*~*~
I find Bo Burnham delightful. If you concur, you and I are now BFFs.
That's your reporter. A real reporter. Not just a crudely pasted head on the body of Katie Couric. Seriously.
Note to reader: Recently I had the distinct pleasure of interviewing a random sampling of handsome and learned men. My goal as a scientist was to delve deep into the psyche of the male of our species so that I might learn what makes them tick. I asked them each the same questions and they dutifully provided their thoughtful answers which were meticulously documented.
Unfortunately for them, once I had their answers I went all Bobby Brown on them and invoked my prerogative to change the questions. I did not however change so much as one word of their answers.
Now I will share these interviews and in good time, my ultimate findings with you, my tens of readers. Following is the first in a series we'll callInterview with a Bunch of Guys I Tricked.
Please note: A good journalist always protects her sources therefore I have changed their names...but mostly because their real names were stupid.
~*~*~*~*
When first I met Smythe Livingston, he was serving a life sentence in Alcatraz for kidnapping a humor columnist and forcing her to go on a float trip. Although Alcatraz had been long since closed except to flip-flop wearing, camera wielding tourists and the occasional moaning ghost, Smythe was as dedicated to finishing what he started as he was to Johns Hopkins, his pet toad and constant companion.
On the first of our many sessions together, I found Livingston sitting in his cell humming show tunes and whittling what appeared to be make shift teeth out of a rat carcass. Without aid of a knife, he was gnawing away with his real teeth which this amazingly talented and beautiful reporter/scientist/fire baton twirler admittedly found ironic, if not completely disturbing.
Sher: Smythe, Hello. It's good of you to sit down with me.
Smythe: Sonofabitch. No cursing. You stupid asshole.
Sher: I only said hello. I didn't curse.
Smythe: Notwithstanding, we sometimes encounter situations in the woods that require the use of a colorful metaphor. Crude and vulgar is acceptable. Sher: Of course you do and thank you for the clarification. Later I'll tell you about a friend of mine from Nantucket. Now if I might Smythe - I'm sorry, may I call you Smythe?
Smythe: My preference is Sonofabitch.
Sher: So Smythe, let's talk about what landed you here in this the most notorious of penitentiaries.
Smythe: What can I say? Not much to tell, but then I'm not a very interesting person, unless you want to know about plants, trees, insects and animals. Most women don't.
Sher: You're right, and I don't. I'm more interested to hear about the woman you kidnapped and what drove you to such a dastardly crime.
(Sidebar: please note the awesome Geraldo-ness in my use of the word dastardly.)
Smythe: This chick was so far beyond my hotness level that I felt compelled to date her. I'm sure from the first date she was confidant she would control the outcome of the whole relationship. I just let her do most of the talking.
Sher: Some say date, some say held against her will. Tomato, tomahto. So you're a good listener then?
Smythe: If you ever need a carb for a 1948 Massey Combine I have one.
Sher: So noted.
Smythe: I wish I had a real humorous or scary story to tell about my worst date ever. Now if you would talk to some of the women, maybe I would qualify as their worst date.
Sher: So the kidnapping victim then; she was what you would term your worst date ever?
Smythe: Prior to her entrance I caught the faint odor of a crisply starched white blouse followed by the heady aroma of a long denim skirt. Then I heard it: the unmistakable slap of Birkenstock Sandals. Enter the date; long black pony-tail very little makeup and big round glasses.
Sher:Was that brought out in the trial because I'm thinking no judge would convict you?
Smythe: She was actually very pretty, but I knew instinctively our relationship was doomed. Hey, I've seen that look before. I knew she was a Tree Hugger. She was. A PETA person too. Not really a bad date, just awkward.
Sher: So is that why you kidnapped, I mean dated, her? Because she was a tree-hugger, as you put it?
Smythe: This is a really a deep secret, and something I'd never share with anyone else. You must never tell, even if you are offered a monkey.
Sher: I'm interviewing you. I plan to tell everyone who will listen and I'd do it for a lot less than the gift of a monkey, although that would be AWESOME.
Smythe: 1976. I was 14 and had a newly acquired drivers permit. Yes you can drive at 14 in this state. Of course I had already been driving for two years, but it was still a source of pride. (I was the only kid in second grade driving).
At this point in the interview, Livingston became pensive. He sat silently stroking his toad for what seemed like an eternity until finally he looked up and continued, misty-eyed.
You know how they say events are sometimes funny after a few years. That one still isn't funny yet. Maybe another 20 years or so.
Sher: You kidnapped a woman and held her hostage in the woods for 7 years, Mr. Livingston. I wasn't expecting a joke.
Smythe: While all men are Buttheads, some are not as bad as others, and some of us (hopefully I'm one) try daily to overcome it. We fail often, and have so much to learn though. This is no joke I'm serious here!
Sher: OK. We'll leave this one alone for now. Let's talk a little about your upbringing. What was your Mother like?
Smythe: Sleeveless Western shirts or pocket T's, Jeans, (bibs in winter),& boots.
Sher: Sounds like a diva. And your Father?
Smythe: We waz in the same grade, but then he dropped out. That lyin' SOB.
Sher: I sense you have some unresolved anger toward your Father. How did he feel about you?
Smythe: I never owned a pair of sandals. The old man said that's one of his favorites of my good qualities. He also said there's so few to choose from.
Sher: I think we've covered a lot of ground today Mr. Livingston and I must get home to let my cabana boy out of his cage for a quick "walk". Before we end this visit though, is there anything you'd like to ask me?
Smythe: This is a very serious question, and not to be taken lightly. I suppose under some circumstances this could be a life altering (or ending) experience. Hey wait, is this one of those "trick questions"? Oh well. I forgot, you're gonna rip me no matter what I say.
Sher: My intention is not to "rip you", Sir. My intention is to peel back your skull and look into your brain so that I may finally get to the nitty gritty of what makes a man manly and in so doing, make the world a better place. For women.
Smythe: I assume the size of the boobs is irrelevant.
Sher: I assure you Sir, I could not care less about your boobs.
Smythe: Are you nuts? They look great to me. They feel like concrete covered in a half inch of foam rubber.
And with that, my first conversation with the infamous Smythe Livingston was over. As I turned to walk away, I heard his raspy voice calling after me.
"I like opera!"
Smythe Livingston. An enigma, wrapped in a riddle, rolled in bacon, deep fried and sprinkled with sugar.
Stay tuned kids for the next installment of "Interview with a Bunch of Guys I Tricked". (Follow me. Do it for Uncle Kracker.) ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
I don't sleep. I am not one of those people who drifts off peacefully to sleep and then stays that way for 7 or more hours. I've always been that way but lately it's gotten even worse.
I know what you're thinking.
"Where did I leave my keys?"
(They're on the kitchen table, under yesterday's mail.)
I've had tests, I've Googled "baby can't sleep", and I've read all the best sellers about not sleeping. REM for Dummies and Be Quiet & Go to Sleep Before I Come in There were my faves.
But last night, as I was counting sheep and my blessings and the number of times I've been married, the reason I can't sleep finally dawned on me.
"Why are my cough drops always covered with lint?" (Because Hall's and Big Lint are in bed together.)
I got out of bed and ran to the mirror to check 'cause everyone knows vampires have no reflection so they can't see their own faces.
Crap. There I was looking back at me all tired and what not with my hair sticking up in such a manner that I wondered when the cat had groomed me. And then I remembered we don't have a cat and thought maybe it was a cat burglar instead.
He could have crept in with his black leggings and jaunty black burglar cap, stole all my jewels and Matrix DVD's and before he left, licked my head. Happens all the time.
But then I started doubting myself as to whether it's their reflection vampires can't see. What if it's their shadows? That sounds right.
It sounds right at 2 in the morning anyway.
So I looked around for my shadow and guess what? Not there. Totally no shadow.
I know what you're thinking.
"Having seen in the news that monkeys sometimes eat people's faces off, should I still get one for my kids to play with?" (Yes. Don't hate the monkey. Your kids are nothing to write home about.)
I started to wonder what else about me was vampiric.
Well, I like long nails.
Sadly they aren't long right now because of a nail biting frenzy about a week ago during an especially hairy episode of Two & a Half Men, but usually they are.
Plus I deeply enjoy biting.
Mr. Man has the bruises to show it. I will often inexplicably bite him when he least expects it. Until last night I figured it was simply a case of not being disciplined correctly as a toddler. Now I know the truth.
Once I confirmed that I am in fact a vampire I began to wonder when it happened. I would think being bitten by a crazy sexy man in the middle of the night when I was wearing a long flowing white gown and had my windows open would be memorable.
I was sure it couldn't have been recently as my favorite sleeping attire of late is boxers and a T-shirt that says my monkey made me do it. Vampires do not bite chicks dressed like that.
Especially when a cat burglar just licked their head.
So what the hell? Could I have gotten a vampire bug in a public restroom?
Hell to the no. The OCD Chick carries an assorted multitude of germ killing things with her at all times and since Germ-X kills everything, it's reasonable to assume that includes vampire cooties.
And then it dawned on me. It was the wedding!
A few years ago I was mesmerized by a vampire I met at a goth wedding at which I was officiating. Although I don't remember the actual biting, I do remember stalking him out to his 1981 Toyota Corolla. That's probably where it happened as the next thing I recall is wondering where the letter D on my ass came from.
I know what you're thinking.
"How is that Octomom ever going find a man now?" (Are you kidding? With the giant chunk of child support change she's going to undoubtedly get from Sperm Donor, they'll be lining up like she's freaking Angelina Jolie. Which she sorta is.)
I'm not sure what to do next with my bad vampire self. I guess I should probably think of a new name because everyone knows there are no vampires named Sherri Lynn. Or Margaret. Or Roberta.
I should also get out and start meeting some of my own kind at a mixer or something. I know exactly what I'm looking for in an eternal vampire partner slash friend slash cabana boy slash luvuh.
I also know what's probably looking for me.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ This is the vampire's favorite song. It has to be because it's the single best song in the entire universe. It is. I swear. Agree with me or I'll bite you. I mean it.
As you know, I asked some of my boy toys to answer a few innocent questions for me so that I might do important work by studying their answers. I've always seen myself as somewhat of a social scientist. Of course I've also always seen myself as twenty-one and gorgeous.
Thus the saying, "sometimes you can't believe your own eyes."
So as I was kicked back in the recliner enjoying a fabulous dinner of Viactiv and Diet Dr. Pepper, I began reading through the answers that have been returned to me.
Holy testosterone y'all. I'm so in love with this, I can't even tell you.
Although all the data is not in yet because some of them are oddly fearful of what I am going to do with their info (and their manlies), I have to tell you that some of the stuff I'm reading has made me laugh so hysterically, the Yorkies went and stood by the back door so they could go outside where women don't laugh like longshoremen.
I don't even know what that means but in my head, longshoremen laugh very loudly. I suspect it has something to do with their proximity to the shore. And that they're long and all.
I'm reaching now.
Some of it is funny intentionally. Some of it is funny because it is so beyond insane to me how men think. But some of it is even funnier still because the writer has no idea how hysterical it is.
My favorite quote so far? "I showered for two hours just to get the scare off me".
I love men. When I'm rich I'm gonna own tons of them.
Before we move onto your regularly scheduled programming today, here's a quick note for my female readers. I am currently conducting a highly scientific study of the male psyche using some real life males as my subjects. Stay tuned for some deep and life changing insights coming up next week.
OK so I've been keeping my menopausal life on the down low. Some years ago I was told I was in menopause, but then the pause stopped and as it turned out all the bad hormonal BS was attributed to Hashimoto's Thyroiditis and I left bio-identical HRT in the past.
But taaaa-daaaaa - it's back. And when I say it's back, what I really mean is, "I FEEL LIKE I COULD KILL A WOLVERINE WITH MY BARE HANDS AND EAT ITS BRAINS!!!!"
Yes, I'm a little touchy. (But not the way Mr. Man likes me to be.)
Naturally I called Pharmacist and said, "I AM GOING TO KILL A WOLVERINE WITH MY BARE HANDS IF YOU DON'T FIX THIS!!!!!!!"
He said okay and then I think he wet himself.
Long story short, I had to spit in tiny vials for an entire day and ship them off to The Texas Institute for the Study of Saliva and Wolverine Cravings.
Once they did whatever it is spit scientists do, they sent a report back to Pharmacist and Doctor. It said I'm so messed up, it's no wonder I can't watch chick flicks without my gag reflex kicking in. I'm like one testicle away from being a man.
Thus the wolverine fetish.
I've had several visits with Pharmacist since then. On my first visit he announced I would be applying something to a place on my body that embarrassed me so much I could only tell my closest girlfriends. The image of him saying the word that describes where I was to put it is burned in my brain. Forever. I damn near passed smooth out next to the Chapstick display and the pen chained to the counter.
Thankfully enough time had passed that I could finally face him once again because I had to go back today.
This time he said, "Hey girl! Come back here with me!"
"Back here" is a place surrounded by glass where he compounds stuff for people who like their pharmaceuticals compounded. I believe it involves pounding of some sort.
He handed me a mask like the one surgeons wear and I pranced my happy ass into the compounding room glancing only briefly at all the little people who were standing on the lower level looking up at me with envy.
"That's right people. This mask means I am somehow important and medical-ly." I made a mental note to wear it to Wal-Mart next time I go - which will be in approximately 5 minutes as I live in a constant Wal-Mart going loop.
Of course I know the feds like you to have a degree to make medicine, but since Pharmacist and I are buds, I figured it would be like Martha Stewart having friends over to learn to bake cupcakes.
As I was looking for the giant white tub labeled, "Medical Marijuana", he commenced to showing me how he stuffs capsules. It was quite riveting. Then he showed me how he measures. Also riveting. Then, out of NO WHERE, he said to me, "Now what you're gonna wanna do is take this much of that stuff in that tube and apply it directly to the vulva."
I said, "Can you show me that measuring thing again?"
The phone rang. It was the aforementioned Texas Institute. I don't know who was on the other end but Pharmacist was super excited. "Yes! Oh yes! This is great timing because she's right here. So which do you think we should use? OK. Well we're going to be applying it directly to the clitoral area. Yes. Right on the clitoral area."
Thank you Jesus for the mask because I began to grin from ear to ear and giggle. This man was tossing around funny no-no words AND he had made it sound as though this whole deal was about to go down right there in the pharmacy since WE were going to apply it to my lady business.
Just the two of us in the glass room, compounding and what not.
Listen kids, I don't care who you are there are certain words you should never say. Ever. Not to your partner, not to your spouse, not to your doctor. You know why? Because they are so clinical they sound utterly dirty, plus once you hear someone say those words, they are stuck in your head like the Wiggles singing Fruit Salad.
I would also like the record to reflect that as an adult woman nearing the 45 year mark, I was unaware there were so many doctor type words for my down there and that I would have to learn them all from my pharmacist. Thank you public North Carolina schools.
I don't remember what happened next because I think I had a seizure or something, but I do know I have $150 worth of tubes and pills that are guaranteed to turn me back into a girl again. The directions say I'll know it's working when I can watch Titanic through to the end without vomiting on the coffee table.
Oh and when I stop ripping the guts out of wolverines.
Oh God. Bristol Palin has broken up with her Baby Daddy! As I'm sure you are, I am just sick about it. I can't eat, I can't drink (except tequila) and my stomach is in knots.
To be fair that could be because I'm so upset or because I've been drinking tequila on an empty stomach.
Somebody tell me why, OH WHY, is Bristol's break up on the news? What in the hell has happened to this country? A high school girl who got knocked up is so NOT news. A high school girl who breaks up with her boyfriend is beyond NOT news.
Listen, I made an art form out of breaking up with guys when I was in high school and no one ever had the decency to even mention it on AM radio. I once broke up with a guy because his teeth looked funny. He was tall, dark and handsome, too... until he smiled.
I tried desperately not to be so superficial. I also tried never to say anything funny or nice around him. In fact, I'd start every date by climbing up in his Jeep and telling him my cat died or I'd just found out I was going to have to have my leg amputated below the knee.
It was no use. He was a happy person who simply insisted on smiling. He had to go.
Then there was the guy who referenced Ted Nugent way more than was necessary or tolerable. First of all, Ted never said anything that made any sense to anyone. Second, what kind of person worships at the alter of Ted Nugent?
He was gone in short order. As soon as I got my Valentine's gift, it was so over.
Recently through the power of Facebook I've reconnected with someone that I ran around with all through high school. His girlfriend was my BFF and they dated for a million years. Since they stuck it out together and I was always switching boys to match my outfit, we were like a three headed teenage monster.
I got an email from him the other day offering to retroactively beat up an old boyfriend of mine. At first I said ha ha ha at the idea of going back in time and punching someone in the eye because he was a short goober who acted like I was his goobery possession.
But upon further reflection I've decided that would be awesome.
I think he should track the guy down, walk into his place of employment and begin wailing on him while yelling, "You were mean to Sherri in 1981 you son of a monkey licker!"
Maybe that would make the news. I know it would be a hell of a lot more interesting than Bristol Palin's love life. Then again, so is watching my dog try to eat peanut butter.
I'm spending my lunch break thinking of things I hate about me. I know most people traditionally spend this time eating, but I feel I don't deserve food. Food is for people who are pretty, thin, rich and talented.
People like me deserve whatever the opposite of food is. Since I'm an awful cook (see below), anything I prepare falls in this category so maybe I'll eat after all. Here are the top ten things I hate about me:
10. I'm a terrible cook. I know I just said that, but I'm so bad I'm saying it again. I can make southern food like biscuits and gravy that'll make you sass your momma, but that's it. I made homemade hash browns last week and served them to Mr. Man in bed. "Why is their ketchup on my oatmeal?" he asked.
9. My eyebrows are all wrong. Because I have Hashimoto's, my eyebrows have all but disappeared. I live in constant fear someone will spontaneously ask me to go swimming or shower with them and my eyebrows will wash off.
8. My hair is ridiculous. One year it's blond, the next it's brown and it's never the right length or style. I either look like it's 1982 and I'm in a Duran Duran video or like I've just bought a new pair of double knit pants with an elastic waist and I'm off to Bingo.
7. My nose is too small. My glasses fall down all the time and so I wind up pushing them up like someone who wears a pocket protector as a fashion accessory. I need that thing that Steve Martin invented in The Jerk. (I also need this lamp, that chair and that's all. That's all I need.)
6. What the hell is going on with my chin? It's little but almost pointy like the bad witch in Wizard of Oz. Factor in what's going on just below my chin and I'm just a few chromosomes away from being a turkey.
5. Boobs. Oh sweet lord where do I begin? Too small, too floppy and definitely not sweater worthy. I'd get new ones but my selfish family wants me to spend my money on food and electricity and stuff.
4. If you ever see me in public and ask if I'm pregnant and I kick you in your no-no place, don't feel like you're the lone ranger. My tummy is not now nor has it ever been flat. Since my youngest child is almost 15, I don't know how much longer I can use the excuse that I had a baby, but I plan to ride that train as long as I can.
3. To tan or not to tan. That is the question I ask myself every day. When I tan I at least briefly feel like I am palatable to look at and will not induce vomiting in random passersby. On the other hand, once I stop tanning - like now - my skin is a lovely color one only sees in intensive care units and funeral homes. Factor in the weird color splotches tanning leaves behind and you can see why people often stop me to ask whether there is a charity I'd like to have them donate to on my behalf.
2. I look good in absolutely nothing, and I don't mean the kind of nothing you're thinking. Clothes look all weird on me like I found them lying in the street and put them on. At 5'5" on a good day, pants are always too long and I have to wear high heels tall enough to impress a hooker. Of course I love those kinds of heels, especially when they're red, but as I am the clumsiest person alive, I fall down even more that usual. At least when I'm on the ground my shoes are cute.
1. My fingers are awful. Truly awful. If you saw my hands in a line up you would think they belonged to a farmer who was too poor for a plow and just dug up 100 acres with his bare hands. I long for the 50's when decent women wore white gloves. Maybe that's what I should do anyway. I could be the writer who brought gloves back to humor.
Crap. Lunch time is over. I'm going to go have some Quaker and ketchup.
I've been reminiscing over some of your old posts, and our many virtual adventures. Things have sure changed over the last three or four years. You accurately predicted the end of my carefree bachelor days (at the tender age of 45) early on, when I first met Jane and you nicknamed her PJ. Why you chose "Poor Jane" when she is SO fortunate to have me, I still haven't figured out. And she likes sleeveless shirts!
I was reading some of your advice regarding "Spaz" and her visit. Good stuff. The episode with "Chaw", as Jami named him, was pretty good too. Just not having as much fun now. And I expected that when the OM retired. Just not much funny stuff to write about anymore. Sad and, as I mentioned, the old Rollahome is gone. I burnt it in three piles, and PJ shoved the remains into a hole I had dug. She seemed to enjoy that a lot.
Gone are my dreams of you and I residing happily in the "Old Rollahome" in wedded hillbilly bliss, eating Liver Mush, for at least 3 or 4 months, until the divorce, or you killed me. I figure I'd never make it past hunting season, bringing in those critters for you to cut-up. Perhaps when I ascend the to the top of the PHL, I can find another 1968 mobile home of the same quality, only with running water. I've gotten used to that now and kinda like it.
It will soon be time for Fudd to start doing float trips, and get this, PJ is going to be working running the commissary boat, helping set up camp and cooking while I am working! I've created a monster. She loves the outdoors. We won't have to worry about that will we. Fudd Dosen't even seem to mind that PJ is going to help when I can't. Should I be concerned here?
I miss the old days. No cares, and responsibilities. No Sisters around 24-7 (that's another story) but not a funny one.
Got any advice?
Your devoted stalker, TSG
Dear TSG,
You know when I think about it, I realize you and I have been together as stalker and stalkee longer than I have had most of my husbands. Which leads me to ask, where are my monthly checks? And why don't I have half your stuff?
Now that we have the legalities out of the way, I have to tell you that I understand why you feel there is nothing funny to write about any more. Marriage is often like having a fork thrust repeatedly in your eye while being asked to talk about your feelings. Personally I'd take the forking over the feelings any day.
The key to finding the funny amid the wedded bliss is to create your own funny situations. I'll give you a couple examples. Sometimes when Mr. Man is asleep, I get a giggle out of shaving off his eyebrows and drawing new ones on with a black Sharpie. Another fun thing I do to bring the laughter back into my life is to crawl up under his car and cut the brake lines.
The last time I did that, we laughed and laughed in the emergency room. Well, I laughed and laughed but with all the tubes they had up his nose and down his throat, he couldn't really laugh out loud. He was laughing with his eyes though.
So you see what I'm saying here, TSG? You have to make your own fun in marriage. Either that or pay Fudd in beer and chew to take PJ off your hands. They can float away to happiness and you can spend much more time doing what's truly important in life - stalking me.
I worry a lot about white slavery. To put a finer point on it, I should say what I really worry about is that I personally will be captured and sold into white slavery.
That would suck.
The slavery part would be pretty awful. But as a woman who has more old wedding rings in my jewelry box than I have sets of sheets in the linen closet, I'd have to say I don't think it would be too much of a stretch for me to get the hang of it.
How hard could it be, really? I mean what? You probably do some laundry, pick up after your white slavery boss, maybe wash his white slavery car or something?
Nothing to it. I could knock that out in a couple hours. So long as I didn't have to listen to him go on and on about his day at the white slavery office and how it's all about politics and he feels like he's suffocating there, I'd be alright.
No, what causes me so much worry about being captured and sold into white slavery is the actual selling part.
I've seen enough Dateline to know that the white slavery trade is one of tremendous competition. I'm afraid I'd be standing up there on the auction block and you could hear crickets chirp. No one would bid.
"This one can't make babies because she's old and her ovaries are all shriveled up, but she is really good at Saturday Night Live trivia."
Nothing.
I'd probably suck my tummy in and try and make my boobs look perky, but I rather doubt it would do any good.
"Come on now guys. Did I mention that she can twirl fire batons while tap dancing? What? Hang on a minute fellas. She's mumbling something.
"Um, looks like the twirling tapping thing was all a big lie she wrote on her blog. She just told me she has no sense of balance and often falls down even when she's not standing up."
There I'd be, holding my stomach in and arching my back, while an auditorium filled with fat cat white slavery guys sat with their check books closed, judging me. Maybe I'd do a little pose down female body builder style, but without the muscles and the vegetable oil, it would be unimpressive.
"Alright listen. I know she's a washed up forty-something who can't make you any babies, or dance for you, and I'm not even going to pretend that you don't see that weird mole on her foot that should probably be biopsied. But she's a human being, dammit and every human being has value. Now I want you to reach deep into your wallets and your hearts and let's get this bidding started!"
Long story short, I'd eventually be sold to some old guy way in the back for $8 and a set of hubcaps for a 1972 Camero. It would be humiliating. Even though he wouldn't expect as much work out of me as his other white slaves because he would think I was a brain damaged, factory second, blue light special, clearance slave, I wouldn't be happy.
Call it a recession. Call it an economic downturn. Call it the Octomommy ain't got no money. I don't care. All I know is whatever you call it, I sorta like what's taking place across the country.
You heard me right. I'm a little tickled pink about poverty and I don't care who knows it.
Here's the deal. I was born a poor, white child in the foothills of North Carolina. How poor were we? We ate mayonnaise on crackers as snacks; we frequently wore hand me downs; and in lieu of store bought toys, we got our jollies by pinching the asses off lightening bugs (fireflies)and sticking them to ourselves and others.
In a nutshell, we dressed funny, smelled vaguely like mayonnaise and looked like we had nuclear chicken pox. We weren't exactly at the top of the guest lists on the birthday party circuit.
Throughout my life and despite my best efforts I've never quite been able to break away from my southern upbringing and "po folks" origin. Oh sure, I can afford peanut butter crackers if I want now and I almost never rip the ass off of anything and stick it to myself any more, but the truth is I still live my life just one or two paychecks away from having to wear shoes that my mentally challenged cousin outgrew.
And you should know he has never been known for his stylish footwear.
But now that stock prices have plummeted and the price of crude oil is nearing the price of vegetable oil, I'm feeling a little less self conscious about Ford Focus driving, coupon clipping, clearance aisle shopping, close to poverty lifestyle. It's not that I want anyone to be as poor as me. I'm not that wicked a woman. I just want them to be almost as poor as me.
Because as you have probably always suspected on some level, I am at least that wicked.
I think maybe I'd like people to be not quite rich enough to charter a private jet, but still with enough money to bail me out of jail if I am arrested for public indecency. (Not purposeful indecency mind you, but if my boobs keep on the course they have set for themselves, I fear they may randomly fall out the bottom of my shirt.)
My ex-wife-in-law and BFF (who may kill me if she actually reads this) is one of the people who sadly is being adversely affected by the declining price of oil. In our relationship she's been the Daddy Warbucks to my Annie. She owns many fantastic things that I do not: honking diamonds, lots of vehicles, multiple houses, and credit cards in an assortment of colors.
Don't get me wrong. She is generous to a fault and has never flaunted any of her toys in a way that would make me hate her or commit felony arson. When we go out to eat, she always somehow manages to get the check and for some inexplicable reason over the years, she's had a pretty insane addiction to cleaning out her house and then backing trucks up to my house with stuff "that's just going to get thrown out anyway...so you'd really be doing me a favor."
Only now the tables have turned a bit.
Although she's definitely not poor enough to make me feel superior, (which I might like to feel at least once in my life...to anyone or anything), her funds have decreased just enough so that I suspect she may be calling soon to ask for my Daddy's famous fried snipe recipe.
Snipe: the other white meat.
I guess this all sounds a little mean spirited when you get right down to it and that's not what I want at all. I love all my friends - red and yellow, black and white, poor and rich and wound too tight. (Rhyming: free with every third humor column you purchase. Reference to childhood Sunday school song: priceless.)
No way I would want anyone any where to wind up on the soup line and Lord knows I wouldn't wish the humiliation of having to wear used hip waders to dollar mountain oyster night at McDonald's (or their prom) on anyone. But I will admit that maybe it would be kind of nice in this country if everyone was forced to be a little less about the bling and the things and a lot more about what's on the inside.
You know what I mean. The heart and soul of a person...and guts and stuff.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ This town is just a few miles from where I grew up. The food featured here (Mack's liver mush) is the best stuff you'll ever get a hold of and something I ate all the time my whole life until I moved away. The TV guy is pronouncing it wrong though! The accent of everybody else though is HOME. I miss it.
