tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-310020682024-03-13T19:25:56.142-07:00To Do: 1. Get Hobby, 2. FlossHere's what I need to do:
1. Get Hobby
2. Floss
...Blogging just gets in the way.mist1http://www.blogger.com/profile/15225983360910803121noreply@blogger.comBlogger269125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31002068.post-2895164111048248172007-09-14T07:42:00.000-07:002007-09-13T20:59:48.225-07:00Steph's Brothers<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/Run2xfC60vI/AAAAAAAAAac/czVyGUR3dSI/s1600-h/candle.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/Run2xfC60vI/AAAAAAAAAac/czVyGUR3dSI/s200/candle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5109886582236304114" border="0" /></a>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.<br /><br />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, "<span style="font-style: italic;">Steph, where are the f*cking towels?</span>" are magical. I am always happy to bring a freshly folded towel into the steamy bathroom.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />I'll miss Stephanie. It's hard to find a good friend with four attractive brothers.<br /><br />Mist 1mist1http://www.blogger.com/profile/15225983360910803121noreply@blogger.com212tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31002068.post-91431445626236171292007-09-07T06:21:00.000-07:002007-09-06T19:59:56.026-07:00The Cure<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/RuC55r5UPYI/AAAAAAAAAaM/4D7vNBxY7A4/s1600-h/pink+ribbon.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/RuC55r5UPYI/AAAAAAAAAaM/4D7vNBxY7A4/s200/pink+ribbon.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5107286378124950914" border="0" /></a>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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />She twisted her face in thought and said, "<span style="font-style: italic;">I never really got into The Cure. Is there another band that I could race for?</span>"<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br />Mist 1mist1http://www.blogger.com/profile/15225983360910803121noreply@blogger.com93tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31002068.post-14119107218804297652007-08-29T13:32:00.000-07:002007-08-29T10:44:30.700-07:00F*ck Shui<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/RtRd9b5UPUI/AAAAAAAAAZs/C1G2ekNdo8I/s1600-h/ceiling.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/RtRd9b5UPUI/AAAAAAAAAZs/C1G2ekNdo8I/s200/ceiling.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103807587759177026" border="0" /></a>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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">Tranquil Retreat</span> to <span style="font-style: italic;">Amateur Porn Paradise</span>. I was not satisfied.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br />Mist 1mist1http://www.blogger.com/profile/15225983360910803121noreply@blogger.com122tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31002068.post-57234742251022854402007-08-08T06:08:00.000-07:002007-08-07T21:01:34.662-07:00Purse Impressions<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/Rrk0UYwUTjI/AAAAAAAAAY0/QLGZ1Ei2TRA/s1600-h/man-purse.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/Rrk0UYwUTjI/AAAAAAAAAY0/QLGZ1Ei2TRA/s200/man-purse.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5096161978193563186" border="0" /></a>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). <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. "<span style="font-style: italic;">What am I going to tell him to get out of a second date?</span>" she asked me.<br /><br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">Tell him his shoes didn't match his damn purse,</span>" I responded. <br /><br />I wish that she would consider dating him another time. I'm dying to know what he keeps in him man purse.<br /><br />Mist 1mist1http://www.blogger.com/profile/15225983360910803121noreply@blogger.com117tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31002068.post-84927363798449077922007-08-01T06:52:00.000-07:002007-07-31T22:50:07.615-07:00No Love, Courtney<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/Rqgo6YwUTiI/AAAAAAAAAYs/L2LDVHL8RM8/s1600-h/drug+bugs.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/Rqgo6YwUTiI/AAAAAAAAAYs/L2LDVHL8RM8/s200/drug+bugs.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5091364362284977698" border="0" /></a>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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Mist 1mist1http://www.blogger.com/profile/15225983360910803121noreply@blogger.com115tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31002068.post-36735943109696454842007-07-25T06:48:00.000-07:002007-07-25T00:03:32.675-07:00Change of PaceLately, 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?<br /><br />This blog is temporarily in your hands.<br /><br />Mist 1mist1http://www.blogger.com/profile/15225983360910803121noreply@blogger.com118tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31002068.post-30785387873132551222007-07-24T09:36:00.000-07:002007-07-24T09:36:31.500-07:00Pants and Entertaining<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/RqYgBVGVnuI/AAAAAAAAAYk/n_B7UUVTTSc/s1600-h/pants.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/RqYgBVGVnuI/AAAAAAAAAYk/n_B7UUVTTSc/s200/pants.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5090791636004609762" border="0" /></a>I'm sleepy from <span style="font-style: italic;">entertaining</span> into the early morning hours. After all that <span style="font-style: italic;">entertaining</span>, 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 <span style="font-style: italic;">entertainment</span>. Good <span style="font-style: italic;">entertainment</span>, day or night, makes me retarded and unable to write. <br /><br />Removing my pants always helps me think.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />I like to <span style="font-style: italic;">entertain</span> 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 <span style="font-style: italic;">entertaining</span>.<br /><br />During the <span style="font-style: italic;">entertainment</span>, 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 <span style="font-style: italic;">entertained </span>enough.<br /><br />I will not answer my phone if it rings while I am being <span style="font-style: italic;">entertained</span>. It's rude to talk on the phone without pants when engaging in <span style="font-style: italic;">entertainment</span>. Anyone foolish enough to answer the phone while I am <span style="font-style: italic;">entertaining</span>, will find that all <span style="font-style: italic;">entertainment</span> will abruptly cease. When the phone call has ended, I may not feel like <span style="font-style: italic;">entertaining</span> any more. Occasionally, I can be persuaded.<br /><br />For a change of pace, I like to lie on my back without my pants and do nothing but enjoy the <span style="font-style: italic;">entertainment</span> and the view. Sometimes, I'll even take a moment to <span style="font-style: italic;">entertain</span> myself.<br /><br /><br />Mist 1mist1http://www.blogger.com/profile/15225983360910803121noreply@blogger.com51tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31002068.post-82076765614275798122007-07-23T06:22:00.000-07:002007-07-23T02:15:59.206-07:00Wine Dog<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/Rp2HJn4NsoI/AAAAAAAAAXY/p_D0CufqFL8/s1600-h/CIMG1341.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/Rp2HJn4NsoI/AAAAAAAAAXY/p_D0CufqFL8/s200/CIMG1341.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088371753391862402" border="0" /></a>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. <br /><br />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. <span style="font-style: italic;">There is no way that any product can possibly handle a stain like that</span>, 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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />Mist 1mist1http://www.blogger.com/profile/15225983360910803121noreply@blogger.com65tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31002068.post-6666362401972286272007-07-20T06:09:00.000-07:002007-07-19T20:41:19.684-07:00Upside DownI'm not here today. <a href="http://burtsstache.blogspot.com/2007/07/vodka-training.html">I'm here</a>.<br /><br />I am weak now. Please, let me rest.<br /><br />Mist 1mist1http://www.blogger.com/profile/15225983360910803121noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31002068.post-18918900109270239332007-07-18T06:53:00.000-07:002007-07-17T21:12:31.583-07:00Inner Ear/Alien Spawn<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/Rp2Q2X4NsqI/AAAAAAAAAXo/qK8OlxbgUKs/s1600-h/inner_ear.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/Rp2Q2X4NsqI/AAAAAAAAAXo/qK8OlxbgUKs/s200/inner_ear.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088382417795658402" border="0" /></a>Double ear infection + Vertigo = No post today.<br /><br /><br />Mist 1mist1http://www.blogger.com/profile/15225983360910803121noreply@blogger.com67tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31002068.post-81082995779571733732007-07-17T06:09:00.000-07:002007-07-17T02:55:42.852-07:00Amoxicillin Wars<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/Rpx7wn4NslI/AAAAAAAAAXA/RD5EXBuknDE/s1600-h/piercer.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/Rpx7wn4NslI/AAAAAAAAAXA/RD5EXBuknDE/s200/piercer.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088077754290516562" border="0" /></a>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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br />Mist 1mist1http://www.blogger.com/profile/15225983360910803121noreply@blogger.com67tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31002068.post-56185345057178486742007-07-16T12:31:00.000-07:002007-07-16T09:34:31.304-07:00You Can Do It, Chris<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/RprxSn4NsjI/AAAAAAAAAWw/dPcYYbmTI60/s1600-h/keg.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/RprxSn4NsjI/AAAAAAAAAWw/dPcYYbmTI60/s200/keg.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5087644031313097266" border="0" /></a> 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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />Chris raised his voice, "<span style="font-style: italic;">I can't pour a beer back into a keg and I can't pour the Crown and Coke back either.</span>"<br /><br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">Sure you can, Chris. You can do anything if you put your mind to it. I believe in you.</span>"<br /><br />Mist 1mist1http://www.blogger.com/profile/15225983360910803121noreply@blogger.com49tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31002068.post-54745847364656177982007-07-16T06:26:00.000-07:002007-07-16T02:49:40.728-07:00Is it Monday?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/Rps-_H4NskI/AAAAAAAAAW4/dCzV9L60y18/s1600-h/QueenBed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/Rps-_H4NskI/AAAAAAAAAW4/dCzV9L60y18/s200/QueenBed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5087729458212614722" border="0" /></a>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.<br /><br />Mist 1mist1http://www.blogger.com/profile/15225983360910803121noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31002068.post-4546944346353127872007-07-13T06:28:00.000-07:002007-07-12T23:24:41.812-07:00Back In My Skin...Mostly<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/RpcQyH4NsgI/AAAAAAAAAWY/VjxKtgEnmso/s1600-h/CIMG1328.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/RpcQyH4NsgI/AAAAAAAAAWY/VjxKtgEnmso/s200/CIMG1328.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5086552757432594946" border="0" /></a>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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />I Mist y'all. It's good to be back.<br /><br />Mist 1mist1http://www.blogger.com/profile/15225983360910803121noreply@blogger.com86tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31002068.post-45708440912532154472007-07-06T06:59:00.000-07:002007-07-05T20:43:38.852-07:00Pop Quiz<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/RoS8iWKJHrI/AAAAAAAAAU0/KhUkf2dC-Hs/s1600-h/sanibel.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/RoS8iWKJHrI/AAAAAAAAAU0/KhUkf2dC-Hs/s200/sanibel.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5081393577830457010" border="0" /></a>Multiple choice:<br /><br />I am<br /><br />a.) In rehab.<br />b.) On vacation.<br />c.) Incarcerated.<br /><br />See you in:<br />a.) 28 days.<br />b.) A week.<br />c.) 25 to life.<br /><br /><br />Mist 1mist1http://www.blogger.com/profile/15225983360910803121noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31002068.post-43426699414980804982007-07-05T06:07:00.000-07:002007-07-04T22:06:45.557-07:00Independence<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/RonR3GKJH2I/AAAAAAAAAWI/Eig90n3loYY/s1600-h/shotgun+shells.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/RonR3GKJH2I/AAAAAAAAAWI/Eig90n3loYY/s200/shotgun+shells.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082824398940479330" border="0" /></a>Everyone has a relative who passes out naked in the yard or falls into the pool. In my family, I am that relative.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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, "<span style="font-style: italic;">Congratulations on your break up...</span>" and the inside message was, "<span style="font-style: italic;">I still think we should have drowned him in the river like we did them puppies when we was kids.</span>" 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.<br /><br />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, "<span style="font-style: italic;">it feels light.</span>" She hollered, "<span style="font-style: italic;">Lil' Man, git the Hell up off that floor and git these girls a beer.</span>" 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />We decided that this was a good time to leave.<br /><br /><br />Mist 1mist1http://www.blogger.com/profile/15225983360910803121noreply@blogger.com62tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31002068.post-66598876099337534882007-07-04T06:50:00.000-07:002007-07-03T20:28:46.670-07:00Tuck<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/RonlEGKJH3I/AAAAAAAAAWQ/8Gx7eM1W9rA/s1600-h/CIMG1299.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/RonlEGKJH3I/AAAAAAAAAWQ/8Gx7eM1W9rA/s200/CIMG1299.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082845512999706482" border="0" /></a>Last night, I told Lisa to get Tuck fixed. "<span style="font-style: italic;">I am tired of looking at his dangly pink balls all the time,</span>" 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. <br /><br />Tuck sat up and looked at me. He tilted his head to the side. I thought that look meant, "<span style="font-style: italic;">Lemme smell your butt again,</span>" but in hindsight, I know that it meant, "<span style="font-style: italic;">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.</span>"<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Good thing I bought them in yellow too.<br /><br /><br />Mist 1mist1http://www.blogger.com/profile/15225983360910803121noreply@blogger.com52tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31002068.post-84480561907468425712007-07-03T06:14:00.000-07:002007-07-03T01:32:01.836-07:00Finding Stuff<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/Rn_qCBNKkYI/AAAAAAAAAUI/fxSsISZWhfU/s1600-h/garbage+disposal.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/Rn_qCBNKkYI/AAAAAAAAAUI/fxSsISZWhfU/s200/garbage+disposal.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5080036225101500802" border="0" /></a>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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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; <span style="font-style: italic;">animal</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">mineral</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">cosmetic</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">flammable</span>, and <span style="font-style: italic;">sexual</span>. I sifted through the pile. I found lip gloss (<span style="font-style: italic;">cosmetic</span>), packets of Splenda (<span style="font-style: italic;">flammable</span>), old chewing gum (<span style="font-style: italic;">mineral</span>), and dental floss (<span style="font-style: italic;">cosmetic/sexual</span>). There was nothing in the animal pile.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. "<span style="font-style: italic;">Why do you have a potato in the freezer?</span>" he asked.<br /><br />We searched for hours. We did not find Wiggy.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Mist 1<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Mist 1mist1http://www.blogger.com/profile/15225983360910803121noreply@blogger.com73tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31002068.post-30214115721465224032007-07-02T06:20:00.000-07:002007-07-02T05:55:43.181-07:00Wildlife<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/Roi8wmKJH1I/AAAAAAAAAWA/kvVLp4JxV_k/s1600-h/snake.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/Roi8wmKJH1I/AAAAAAAAAWA/kvVLp4JxV_k/s200/snake.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082519722550435666" border="0" /></a>Sometimes, I watch porn. I like the dialog and the intricacies of the plot and the shoes that the girls wear in interesting positions.<br /><br />Until recently, I was ignorant to the bestiality genre of pornography. Fortunately, <a href="http://www.avitable.com/">Avitable</a> has opened my eyes to a whole new world; a freakishly horrific, and probably illegal new world.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />My therapist recommends that I limit my contact with Av, but did not say anything about contact with snakes.<br /><br /><br />Mist 1<br /><br />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? <a href="http://shooshoofly.blogspot.com/">Me too</a>.<br /><br />PPS: At Av's suggestion, <a href="http://www.avitable.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2007/04/snaked_fucker.wmv">here's the link</a>. 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?mist1http://www.blogger.com/profile/15225983360910803121noreply@blogger.com90tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31002068.post-29504493732891674922007-06-29T06:27:00.000-07:002007-06-28T20:14:19.118-07:00Over Draft Beer Protection<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/RoRnDWKJHpI/AAAAAAAAAUk/2YrSWkqw6iE/s1600-h/CIMG1260.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/RoRnDWKJHpI/AAAAAAAAAUk/2YrSWkqw6iE/s200/CIMG1260.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5081299586766151314" border="0" /></a>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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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, "<span style="font-weight: bold;">Next Barteller Please</span>" would be clearly posted. <br /><br />Occasionally, there would even be clerical errors in my favor and I would get an extra shot.<br /><br />Of course, the business hours need to be addressed. <br /><br /><br />Mist 1mist1http://www.blogger.com/profile/15225983360910803121noreply@blogger.com100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31002068.post-48037056024837327562007-06-28T06:58:00.000-07:002007-06-27T21:30:43.811-07:00On the Clock<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/RnIAfBNKkMI/AAAAAAAAASo/OafDHv3iC8Y/s1600-h/stopwatch.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/RnIAfBNKkMI/AAAAAAAAASo/OafDHv3iC8Y/s200/stopwatch.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5076120262899568834" border="0" /></a>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.<br /><br />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, "<span style="font-style: italic;">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.</span>"<br /><br />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, "<span style="font-style: italic;">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?</span>"<br /><br />Speed dating only allows five minutes to get to know someone. That's just enough time for introductions and to squeeze out a courteous, "<span style="font-style: italic;">it's not you, it's me</span>" or "<span style="font-style: italic;">we can still be friends</span>." At the end of the evening, we compared notes. We learned a lot about how to date in five minutes. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Courtney:</span> 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. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Joelle:</span> 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.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Karon:</span> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />I thought it was pretty good.<br /><br /><br />Mist 1mist1http://www.blogger.com/profile/15225983360910803121noreply@blogger.com86tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31002068.post-46824450683569858932007-06-27T06:41:00.000-07:002007-06-26T21:18:34.867-07:00100<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/RoHc0GKJHoI/AAAAAAAAAUY/rT0B6J28NfA/s1600-h/fractal.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/RoHc0GKJHoI/AAAAAAAAAUY/rT0B6J28NfA/s200/fractal.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5080584642215091842" border="0" /></a>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, "<span style="font-style: italic;">I think it's time we thought about commitment.</span>" 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Mom sighed, "<span style="font-style: italic;">it sounds like you're ready for marriage,</span>" she said.<br /><br />I know Dad likes coffee, but I never knew that he had a bowel problem. <br /><br /><br />Mist 1mist1http://www.blogger.com/profile/15225983360910803121noreply@blogger.com116tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31002068.post-75650443238719779492007-06-26T06:00:00.000-07:002007-06-25T20:18:00.977-07:00My Left Eye<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/RoCDKhNKkZI/AAAAAAAAAUQ/5mv45wUKukY/s1600-h/eyelashes.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/RoCDKhNKkZI/AAAAAAAAAUQ/5mv45wUKukY/s200/eyelashes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5080204596409438610" border="0" /></a>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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br /><br />Mist 1mist1http://www.blogger.com/profile/15225983360910803121noreply@blogger.com95tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31002068.post-68640646006692441642007-06-25T06:08:00.000-07:002007-06-25T11:11:15.166-07:00Stages of Grief<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/Rn87eRNKkXI/AAAAAAAAAT8/_h-7e6OCOYA/s1600-h/CIMG1279.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/Rn87eRNKkXI/AAAAAAAAAT8/_h-7e6OCOYA/s200/CIMG1279.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5079844295897944434" border="0" /></a>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<br />Wiggy's passing in my own way.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Denial</span>. 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.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Disgust</span>. 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.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Bargaining</span>. 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.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Vodka</span>. 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.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Nudity</span>. 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.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Hangover</span>. 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br />Mist 1<br /><br />PS: <a href="http://www.apileofdogbones.com/index.php/site/hiatus/">A grief more real than my own</a>...please show a little love. Visit <a href="http://www.avitable.com/2007/06/22/for-dawg/">Avitable</a> to show a little more love.mist1http://www.blogger.com/profile/15225983360910803121noreply@blogger.com83tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31002068.post-48227905945479698582007-06-21T06:10:00.000-07:002007-06-20T20:16:10.072-07:00Empty Cage Syndrome<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/RnnsLBNKkVI/AAAAAAAAATs/m_CKtxH5bOg/s1600-h/cage.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_8JiZ59noHI0/RnnsLBNKkVI/AAAAAAAAATs/m_CKtxH5bOg/s200/cage.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5078349728883315026" border="0" /></a>I used to live with a geriatric albino guinea pig.<br /><br />Now, I live with an empty cage.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />R.I.P. Wiggy. You were some pig.<br /><br />Mist 1mist1http://www.blogger.com/profile/15225983360910803121noreply@blogger.com98