The best-laid plans of mice and men never get laid. I'm living proof of that.
I had my day off all planned out: Tuesday would be My Day at the Zoo. I love the zoo. I haven't been to the zoo in years. Nobody fucks with my day at the zoo.
I would spy on the spider monkeys, drink beer with the bears, stroke the stingrays, badger the budgies, hump the camels, all the while working up the nerve to ride the four-story zip line that would send me in glorious pseudo flight over the petting corral. I would be five years old all over again, except for the driver's license and wrinkles, but those were mere technicalities. It would be a glorious summer day wherein I pestered animals besides my own with a camera and my insane, delighted giggles.
Somebody fucked with my day at the zoo.
Somewhere around the get-the-fuck-outta-here-on-my-day-off hour of 7:30 a.m., an hour that doesn't even technically exist on one's weekend, I was awakened by what seemed to be a marching band but was just my phone. I was just awake enough to mutter "Fuuuuuuuuck..." in a sleep-raspy voice when I saw on the caller ID that it was my boss. There had been an emergency in her family, and could I work for a few hours?
Now, you'll never meet an asshole who's more selfish than I am, but even I have a tiny sliver of decency when it comes to family medical emergencies, having lived through enough of them myself, so work was on and Operation GiggleZoo was aborted. My inner five-year-old went off into the corner to pout and draw pictures of me with a pig nose, and off to work I went.
Though rain had been predicted for the day, it turned out to be sunny and a little cool - the perfect day for a middle-aged woman to go compare necks with the giraffes for a few hours. I couldn't help but fantasize how my day would've gone had I not been called to cashier duty...
Monkeys! I love monkeys!
Aw, dammit, I knew I should've buttoned my shirt before I wandered over here. Sorry 'bout the stray nipples, guys.
Well, monkeys are just rude anyway. I'll go visit the elephants and see if they want these peanuts I shoved down my pants.
Hmmmmm...guess not.
There's a pretty polar bear. Oh, look - the polar bear wants to give me kisses! Butt kisses!
There's no way I could be misreading that signal, right?
Wrong!
Not my best zoo day ever. Even the puma hates my display of too much belly.
"Oh, I want a LOT of lumps!"
The point to all this is...there's no fucking point. The only way I can keep myself from having a pouty hissy fit over going to work and missing the zoo is to imagine massive amounts of animal vomit.
Damn, I just realized I haven't put up a single post this month. I'd like to say it's because I'm much too busy shagging young sluts...so I'll say that: I'm much too busy shagging young sluts.
It's not true, but I can say it.
Things I haven't actually been doing this month:
Shagging young sluts.
Cleaning up the leaves in my yard.
Shagging old sluts.
Cleaning my house.
Shagging anyone.
Cleaning anything (unless you count loading the dishwasher; then I am a domestic goddess).
Earning commission.
Writing blog posts.
Things I have been doing this month:
Turning 44.
Looking 55.
Fighting off a nasty head/chest cold that has left me with the crown for Mistress of Mucous.
Putting a mighty strain on the scales at the doctor's office.
Attending a Mary Kay party and feeling as out of place as a...well, as a man at a women's party. If I could've sunk into the couch and slithered, unnoticed, out the door, I would have done so. I mean, really...I looked in the curio cabinet, and wondered why the hostess had a decorative plate adorned with a picture of 1980s-era Morgan Fairchild made up to look like she should be running the Best Little Whorehouse in Texas; then I realized it was a picture of company founder Mary Kay. What a whore. I thought it best to avoid the makeup and instead bought some Satin Hands. I can't even begin to tell you how disappointed I was to find out it was lotion.
Watching my cats freak the fuck out when my niece brought her chihuahua puppy over to visit. Stella hid in the kitchen cabinet, and when my brother opened the door to get a peek at her, she shot out of there with the speed of a much thinner cat, collided explosively with a bag of returnable cans, and hid under my bed for two hours. She seems to have forgiven me, but I won't be surprised if she pees on my feet during the night.
Feeling the subliminal pull of infomercials that offered me such tempting items as Dual-Action Colon Cleanse and Yoga Booty Ballet. Come to think of it, I'm not so sure those are two different products.
Here's to June, where I hope to finish the post upon which I've been dawdling for weeks, and maybe, just maybe, shag someone worthy of my charms. Trouble is, I never see homeless women in Grand Haven.
Really, the original ad is more overdone and laughable than any parody. If you haven't seen the original "Gathering Storm" flatulence fest, check it out on YouTube.
This used to be such a nice town, a serene town, a place where you could raise up a nice li'l family and your child could dream of growing up to be somebody. Somebody like a mail carrier.
I'm sorry to say that times have changed; it's like the Wild West up in here now, and not even a can of mace and a stout leather bag - a mail bag, I mean - can keep our postal workers safe from the threat of gang violence in the streets of Grand Haven.
Old guy wanders in, wanting product a co-worker ordered for him. I check and it's not in yet; old guy is very cool about it, and I'm thinking, Well, isn't that a relief that he's not bitching at me for something out of my control. What a nice old man. Then he compliments my speaking voice, and I suddenly remember that I've waited on him before, that he is the Talkiest Talkingest of the Talking Old Guys, and that I may be eligible for full retirement benefits before this conversation is over.
He tells me, at length, about his friend with the bright red hair and the melodious voice who used to be a DJ, and about another friend with a booming voice that needed no amplification, the guy who should have been a DJ but couldn't be bothered to learn the trade. Somewhere along the line, he segues into the story of his immigrant grandparents, and how they were made to run up and down the stairs at Ellis Island before being granted admittance to the States (I suspect that it was because watching people run in wooden shoes is universally hilarious, but I keep that to myself), and how his grandmother took all her money out of the bank the night before the stock market crashed in '29, and he doesn't know why they called it the "Great" Depression, 'cause it kinda sucked, actually.
My boss is wandering through and gets dragged into the conversation because she's found the item that was ordered for him. She and I share the thought, in our girlie telekinetic way, that perhaps he'll buy it and vamoose so we can get back to the stock that needs to go up. But no, he's now launched into the tale of how he and his wife ventured into the wilds of New York City in the late '60s, and how, by God, it was really a hellhole, and there were people dancing topless on the tables. I'm wondering, to myself, how I get on the waiting list for this hellhole, and then I remember that some asshole cleaned up Times Square in the '90s, and my little private bubble of breast awareness is deflated as the old guy relates, in excruciating detail, how he and his wife were trapped on the 88th floor of the Empire State Building during a blackout, but "this little Jap" fashioned a battery-powered lamp and led all the tourists down the stairs to the darkened street. I can't help but picture George Takei dressed as the Statue of Liberty.
We edge him over to the counter and manage to ring up his purchase as he launches into his explanation of how the Mexican drug wars could be easily eradicated with some of the US of A's heavy artillery. I decline to mention that the US of A's heavy artillery seems to be already in use elsewhere in the world, as doing so would only prolong the conversation. He asks me at least three times if I've ever been in the military, and I keep thinking, Do you really think anyone would willingly hand me a gun? Finally, miraculously, after the longest 45 minutes on record, he's out the door, and my boss and I are staring at each other, eyes wide with disbelief, exclaiming in unison, "Oh. My. GAWD."
And the thing is, he's a nice enough guy. Not once do I have the urge to hit him or gouge him or tightly wrap his danglies in speaker wire. Really, I feel kinda bad, because it's obvious that no one he knows will hold still long enough for him to get this out of his system, and dammit, it's a family's job to let him ramble at home so he's all rambled out before he's allowed to go out in public.
So, we go back to our work, and there is work aplenty for the two of us. We price, we stock, we hang tags, we sell phones, we sell cell phones, we sell cell phones by the seashore, we do price changes, and before I know it, it's an hour to closing time and my boss is leaving me to close the store by myself. I still have a few tasks on my list, but the last hour is usually slow, and I'm figuring it will be a breeze, a cakewalk, a walk in the park, a walk in the cake. Boss lady has her hand on the door when a familiar vehicle pulls up...
Chatty Grampy is back.
I shriek at my boss and she whips around to see what's gotten up my ass. Then she sees who it is and I can see her getting ready to bolt past him, out the door and into her car, where she will lock the doors and squeal out of the parking lot like she just robbed the place and put three bullets in the clerk. I beg her, "Oh, sweet Jesus, promise me you'll give me FIVE MINUTES and then call me on the store phone, where we will have a long conversation about digital converter boxes and their place in a kosher household. Promise me." She promises me, and I have no reason to doubt the sincerity on her face, though I only see it for a split second before she makes like the Road Runner and she's gone, into her car, a streak and a puff of dust, tire tracks on the concrete all she's left us to remember she was ever really there.
It seems we neglected to preach the gospel of "Do you need batteries with that?" when he made his purchase, and as it turns out, he needs batteries. The battery sale turns into his proud display of a bullet-shaped pen, which somehow turns into a solid half hour of his movie recommendations for me. He likes Jack Nicholson and Diane Keaton together, and also that Jack Nicholson movie "where that one guy is a queer." He basically spoils the endings to several movies which, thankfully, I have no interest in seeing anyway. Surprisingly enough, his most enthusiastic recommendation is The Devil Wears Prada. In fact, he mentions high-heeled shoes and women in high heels so many times during the conversation that I begin to wonder if he's going to whip out a pair of red stilettos and beg me to wear them as I clog dance on his back. I begin to wonder exactly how much I would charge for that.
But mostly, I begin to wonder Where the hell is that phone call I was promised? Betrayal, that's what I call it. When a chick asks another chick to make a fake phone call to rescue her from an awkward situation, it's Chick Law that she make that call at precisely the preordained time. My boss has broken one of the cardinal rules of Honor Among Chicks. I make a mental note to fart in her office chair if and when this conversation ever concludes.
Thirty minutes to closing time, my work list not getting any smaller, and finally, miraculously, another customer walks in. Old guy sees him, grabs his batteries off the counter, and has the good grace to say "Well, you have a customer, so I'll let you get to it." The angels sing for just a split second, until New Customer smiles at us and says "Oh, you guys go ahead, I'm fine over here."
NO! I scream in my head. YOU'RE NOT FINE! YOU DESPERATELY NEED MY HELP TO PICK OUT A CALCULATOR! My attempts at telepathy fail. I will the phone to ring, but its will to remain unrung is stronger, and I swear that the caller ID briefly, silently flashes Sucks to be you. I'm sure New Customer is doing this to me on purpose, this blatant "knowing what he wants and where it's located" nonsense that he's pulling just to fuck with me.
After an eternity of movie plot spoilers, I see New Customer making his way toward the counter, slowly, slowly, slowly, and I practically spit a lung out screeching at him, "I CAN HELP YOU OVER HERE, SIR!" Old guy moves aside and bids me adieu, and I take my time waiting on New Customer, making sure I ask a lot of questions, make a lot of recommendations, assure myself that old guy is really and truly out the door, on his way out of the parking lot. I bag New Customer's items, and then I pick up the phone, dial about four digits, and pretend to engage in a fascinating debate about the availability of lead-free solder, just in case Grampaw Fuck-Me Pumps changes his mind and turns the car around.
It is with the greatest sense of relief that I lock the store, kill the lights, and shut down the electronics; it is with the greatest sense of revenge that I let loose an ass-rumbling thunderstorm upon the office chair where my can't-bother-to-phone boss will sit in the morning.
I shall never again forget to offer batteries with each purchase. Amen.
I've started and abandoned about four different posts since the last one that went up, so I guess it had better be quickies or nothin' at all.
I got my hair did! Squirl's very nice hairdresser (also the stylist who dyed my hair the last time it was done, about a year and a half ago) offered to do it for me pro bono (because who doesn't like Cher's ex?). How could I pass up an offer like that? I went about as wild with the color as I'm allowed to at my present job (where they also make me button my shirt right up to the collarbone; how's a girl supposed to make commission with her cleavage obscured?).
It's called violet burgundy, with just a little Roxy mixed in for brightness, whatever that means. I give it the Bucky Stamp of Approval, which is generally reserved for the finer things in life, like Corona Light, solar-powered buttplugs, and drama-free girls who will put out on the first date.
Perhaps the TV needs to be turned off while I sleep. I recently had a dream where I was in a natatorium, but for some reason, there was snow in there, so as I walked to the main pool, I kept falling into the drifts and found it difficult to stand back up again (I think this is my subconscious mind telling me "Lose some weight, you four-eyed lardass!"). After I regained my feet, I decided to walk in the opposite direction, where I spied a smaller, wading-type pool. Martin Sheen was in the pool, showing some boys how quickly it drained when the plug was pulled. Apparently, West Wing was on TV as I slept, because I walked to the edge of the pool and addressed him thusly:
Me: Mr. President, do you plan to fill the pool with Jell-O Shots? Martin Sheen: Not in front of the minors.
While I have no use for their service (I don't need anyone to tell me my credit is about as solid as a bowel movement the day after Cinco de Mayo), I love the free credit report commercials. You know, the ads with the three dorky guys who sing about how their credit sucks ass big-time? I recently found out that there is a pirate hat in each one of the commercials. Of course, the one in the seafood restaurant is rife with pirate hats, but I've also managed to scope them out in the used car spot (it's in the back seat next to the bass player), the "married my dream girl" spot (on a table next to the singer), in the bicycle ad (on a shelf in the garage where the band is playing), and at the renaissance fair (on the drum kit). But I can't find the one in the ad where the guys are waiters at the hip-hop party. Has anybody else cared enough to spot that one? Do tell, do tell.
I have about had it with this itchy nipple syndrome. It's not wintertime anymore, I'm not wearing steel wool in my bra, and I'm not being stingy with the goddamned lotion. I know that itchy palms mean money is on its way (or, in my case, it means a fresh growth of hair is always sprouting every time I shave), so what do itchy nipples mean? Is the milkman on his way?
Millionaire Matchmaker Patti Stanger has given me a new word for which I find daily use: Bragasaurus. I think it every time I listen to that kid at work open his mouth. Why is the Bragasaurus not extinct? Can't we move that bit of evolution along a little faster? He and I had the following conversation today:
Bragasaurus: (talking about how he's charmed his latest romantic conquest) I really try hard not to brag or talk myself up... Me: (incredulous, to say the least) No, you don't! Bragasaurus: (caught off guard) Uh...well...that's what I like to tell myself.
And then I smashed him in the face with a subwoofer while screaming "Why don't you tell yourself to shut the fuck up?" Well, no, I didn't. But I thought it, and that has to count for something.
I could try to be delicate about it, like the blushing, shrinking violet I am, but for your sake, Internet as a Whole, let me be blunt: I am as good at romantic relationships as Hitler was at celebrating diversity.
After my last breakup, a little over a year ago, I felt so burned that I didn't even consider jumping back into the dating pool. By the time the emotional blisters had receded a bit, I was too broke to consider putting myself out there (let's face it: dating girls is not cheap, not even dating cheap girls). Now that I've been working for a while and finally have the means to take a chick out for a dinner and movie or something else terribly folksy and modest, I find that I just don't have any desire to start all that again. Sure, getting laid would be great, if I can properly remember the mechanics and geography of it all, but that would just cut into my quality time with the cats, and with my Playstation, and with my blissfully thought-free marathons of Bravo reality schlock. I might even have to clean my house, and that just isn't on my list of things to do this year.
So, there I was at work today, bidding goodbye to my co-worker, a young man in his very early 20s who is a nice guy but who is very full of himself and doesn't really have that switch in his brain that tells him when to stop talking, doesn't read those social cues that say "Dude, the customer doesn't give a shit about your long-winded story regarding something that happened in high school, he/she wants to take his/her cable splitter and go the fuck home." He had his coat on, had clocked out, and was just preparing to depart for the day.
At about that moment, a new rep for one of our products walked in. Normally, I squirm and fantasize about gouging my eyes out with a box cutter when product reps are around, because they're usually phony and slick and obnoxious. But I dug this girl on the spot - I'd guess her to be in her early 30s, cute, a very casual feeling about her, and an exuberant personality that didn't seem like a salesman's fakey bullshit. I have to say, I was getting a little vibe off of her. I'm usually pretty dense about that kind of thing, but I'm pretty sure there was a bit of interest there right off the bat. It's been ages and ages since that's happened to me, so I was enjoying the moment, chatting her up...
...and then the Young'n had to step in and fuck up my little moment. He's young and horny, and has the hots for anything with tits and a pulse, age be damned. Not that that's a bad thing, but he just walked right over, inserted himself (ahem!) into the situation, and proceeded to dominate the conversation with what he thinks is his witty banter (it's not). I was desperately trying to develop telekinetic powers, trying to push his ass out the door with my mind. To my utter chagrin, it did not work. She went out to her car to retrieve something she'd forgotten, so I thought I'd throw a hint in his direction by looking him dead in the eye and saying "I saw her first." But no, dense boy just laughed and said he was willing to take my sloppy seconds. Silly me, I should know that hints don't work on people with quadruple-layer skulls.
The little fucker continued to cock block me for the girl's entire visit. He left when she did, and I noticed that he followed her out to her car before returning to his own vehicle. Yeah...I'm sure she was thrilled about that.
You'd better believe that boy is gonna get an earful from me next time we're working alone. Don't fish in my pond, son, unless you want that treble hook in your scrotum.
Here's just about the most unnatural thing you'll ever see in your life.
Picture stolen from my friend Cherie (who is pictured here). I'm guessing this is from 1992, 1993 at the very latest. We were having a Meijer party at the Ambassador in Flint (which is now a Rite Aid...excuse me while I mourn the fireplace and the strong drinks), and my boss at the time decided it would be fun to hand me her baby. Can you see the panic in my eyes? The panic in my hair? How do I hold this thing? What if I drop her? What if her mother won't take her back? I'm still scarred from the experience.
Truthfully, though, if lifting babies would make me that skinny again, I'd go all Mary Poppins on your ass in a heartbeat.
A seed-spitting contest would have been more civilized
Mom's been gone for over two years now, and I still dream about her on an almost-nightly basis.
I'm the last person who would classify my dreams as anywhere in the vicinity of "normal" - if I shared most of my nocturnal subconscious adventures, you'd all probably track me down and team up to lace the straitjacket - but when Mom makes her appearances, it's usually as a casual observer to whatever demented scenario my brain cooks up for my dining and dancing pleasure.
But not this time.
Several nights ago, I dreamt that I was walking down a flight of stairs, and noticed little pieces of watermelon scattered all over the steps, the floor, on the railing...it was MelonPalooza (which would be an excellent name for a topless bar, but I digress). When I inquired as to the source of the haphazard fruit explosion, I was informed that my mother and my sister had gotten into a knife fight. With each other. Apparently, the watermelon was a proverbial innocent bystander, a victim of "I rolled into the wrong place at the wrong time."
Rushing into the adjoining room, I found Mom and Squirl, disarmed and unharmed after their impromptu slashfest. They'd been told to sit down and calm themselves, get control of their tempers, and there they both were, sullen but less stabby expressions on their faces...each with a plastic champagne cork in her mouth. The plastic corks, you see, were to help regulate their breathing and chill them both out. Obviously.
Sure, it was only a dream. Just to be on the safe side, though, I'm being extra nice to Squirl, because one never knows when one's sister might lose her shit and cut a bitch. Or a bitch's melons.
Oh, hell, is it that time already? Time to flip over the calendar, time to flip that underwear, time to clean the litterbox? Yup, it does seem to be a new year already. Guess I'd better write something before my blog is condemned for lack of occupancy.
I've become a little too involved in what the Real Housewives are doing, whether they be in Orange County, New York, or Atlanta. Please, Bravo, do not leave any lag time in between installments; it makes me feel wonderful, as I sit with my generic ginger ale, my no-name chips, and my decidedly un-pedigreed felines, to observe the spectacularly fucked-up lives of vapid women with more money than brain cells. My dream is to one day witness a bare-knuckled boxing match between Vicki from Orange County and Ramona from New York. It might not compare to the random delight of seeing Vicki take a football to the back of the head at Lake Havasu, but it would still call for popcorn, a comfy chair, and the phone off the hook.
Stella was such a tiny, skinny li'l thang when she wandered up onto my porch last summer, looking for food and love and food. Well, lemme tell ya, the girl does not miss a meal around here; I couldn't even begin to locate her ribs anymore. She also feels the need to comment on anything and everything, earning her a theme song of her very own, Kitty With a Lot to Say. Also, following in the litter-dusted footsteps of King Eeyore Bubbies Flippytail, Lord Thirteen Sarsparilla Puffington, Esq., and Duke Friday Aloysius Ptang Ptang Olay Biscuit Barrel Tuxbury, Stella has now earned a royal title: Marchesa Stella Barbarella Foofinella Rotunda.
Disapproval with every glance, at no extra charge!
I've reached the stage in life where I've put up the Cap'n Crunch and replaced it with Raisin Bran. My need for fiber has finally outweighed my sweet tooth. Now, if everyone would please whip out the kazoos and play a lively rendition of Taps in memory of my youthful colon...
Speaking of Taps and asses, it's been about a year since I've tapped anything, ass-wise. All work and no foreplay makes Bucky a cranky bitch. Now taking applications for sluts with low standards. No high-maintenance princesses need apply, but if you've got lots of cash, that'll put your application right at the top of the pile. And by "pile" I mean empty inbox.
The Monitor and the Merry Mac: The monitor on my Mac has officially gone belly up. Its glorious 19 inches will stay alit for an average of five seconds at a time, which kinda puts a damper on any music projects I might be attempting to begin or complete. On the one hand, I could probably replace it for a little over $100; on the other hand, I could use that same $100 to keep the heat on in my house. It's a tough call, but ultimately, keeping the heat on will save me money in replacing burst water pipes and nipple-torn blouses.
Friday's bullying of the other cats has of late elevated him to the status of Evil Gay Boy. If I didn't know better, I'd say he's been emulating Dr. Smith from Lost in Space.
