Fragrant Liar

The Point

fragrantliar@yahoo.com (Fragrant Liar) — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 06:40:00 +0000

One reason I write this blog is to make a point about being me. Oh, yes. There is a point. You see, I am an, um, older woman. Not so old as to have AARP on speed dial, but old enough that my offspring have offspring. (I warned them, but they insisted on having sex, so now there are kids everywhere.)

These days I share a home with my daughter, her husband, and their rugrats. I work a full-time J.O.B., and my true passion as a writer is realized whenever I choose the risky behavior of getting myself in flow (Settle down, I operate in private and wash my hands afterward). I am the grateful beneficiary of fabulous friends and family who love and support me, not to mention the hundreds of dedicated Fragrant Liar readers and followers. I'm healthy in mind and body, wealthy in vitality and spirit, and wise in experience and common sense (shut up). I'm single—okay, divorced—but in a relationship (refer to surprise FaceBook announcement). While I am unique, I am not uncommon.

Therein springs the point.

We of this day and age are redefining what it means to be in so-called midlife, propelled by necessity to think not only outside the box (not that box, Otin), but outside the bedroom (okay, maybe that box). We want to replenish, rejuvenate, and rethink where we're headed and how many peeps we're taking with us. Our new wealth of connections in cyberspace have emboldened us.

Less than a hundred years ago, our mommy/nana counterparts were on their last ovary. They were overworked, weathered, and worn out by now. If they were unmarried, they were spinsters or widows. Current midlifers have shifted the tectonic plates of tradition, as has every generation, but now the pace of change seems exponential because technology allows us to communicate on a scale we never could have realized back when we were stretching a string between two empty Alpo cans. I'd like to thank the first geeky people who came up with bloggy theorem, but I don't know any. They did this.

I am a revealer. I share with you the details that inform my life, including the entertaining and embarrassing bits—voluntarily, which does strain my credibility, I know. However, my choice of self expression says loudly that no one pigeonholes me (not that pigeonhole, Otin). I speak candidly here because I am "out there," unafraid and unapologetic. (Mostly.) Judge all you want, people.

See, women of my day and age don't wait in rockers with curlers in their hair for the young'ns to visit anymore—although I am in the market for a recliner with a convenient holder for snackage and drinkage and garbage so I don't have to miss a moment of my fave shows.* And kiddos? Call first, will ya? No, we modern midlifers move and shake, even if solely for our own benefit. We seek purpose and fulfillment. We value quality of life and the chance to keep learning and growing. We revel in camaraderie and acceptance of who we are. We choose to not be invisible. We demand that our voices matter.

And that's the point.
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*If I didn't want to get out and have fun so much, I might invent a pleasant catheter experience so my feet never had to hit the floor. Oh, and have you seen the recliner that pops you upright with the press of a button? One second you're in repose, then BOING! you're dancing with Gilles! That one's got my name on it.
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Wicked Red and the Wolf

fragrantliar@yahoo.com (Fragrant Liar) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 18:20:00 +0000

So this is Wicked Red Riding Hood and her Wolf.

Grrrrr . . .

Hope y'all had as much fun as we did, traipsing through the dark, on the hunt for tricks and treats . . .

Wicked

fragrantliar@yahoo.com (Fragrant Liar) — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 14:54:00 +0000

Tomorrow is Halloween. Much as I had my heart set on going pirate this year, something a little more wicked this way comes. I want to improve on my Goody-Two-Shoes persona. You know the one, right?

Wait.

Oh Goodie, I have two shoes . . . Therefore I must be a saint? Who makes that shit up? Sorry . . .

So what sort of wicked shall I be? Here are your clues:

I’m a real family girl.
I love vermillion.
I hang out in dark and dank woodlands. Alone.
The man I’m attracted to is quite big and bad. But I ain’t a-scared.
My, but I am fascinated by his big . . . teeth.

Heh, heh. Real hard, huh? Pics to come after the scary event, and you can judge for yourself just how wicked I turn out to be. Or maybe I’ll let Mr. Fine tell you how wicked I was – if that wolf is still alive after I’m through with him. His bark doesn’t scare me in the least. And I kinda like his bite.

What will you be this year? Not Goody Two Shoes, I hope.

Spanxed!

fragrantliar@yahoo.com (Fragrant Liar) — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 20:10:00 +0000

I needed an undergarment for my new sweater dress which hugs my curves a little too well. However, it was Sunday night when I decided this, and in Marshall’s all I could find was spanx. I admit, I thought spanx might be fun to try, so Mr. Fine bought it for me. Yes, he is fabulous.

First off, this “shaper” on the hanger looks like a body bandage sized for an elf, though the tag said it was LARGE. It fits me from tops of the boobage to mid thighs. I did look stylin’ in my sweater dress, and I wore the ensemble, including the new black bootery, all day. However, there was a lot of tugging involved, as my Lycra contraption wanted to ride up from the bottom and roll down from the top. I gave in by early afternoon and let the girls free since they have little tolerance for compression at a hundred-thousand pounds per cup. The extra elastic around my chest, just below the girly shelf, was akin to wearing rubber bands. But I survived my discomfort for the sake of looking HAWT.

Later that evening, while in my closet, I decided to take off the spanx – over my head. Since wearing this spanx is like stuffing yourself into an elf’s condom, I realized pretty quickly that “over my head” was going to be a challenge. Too late though by the time I had grabbed the hem and pulled it up over my head. This effectively blinded me while pinning my arms across my chest, elbows akimbo, Lycra stretched like a Bay Bridge cable. Stumbling around my closet, in a wrestling match with my spanx, I gave myself a full nelson. If the thing had hardened through ten minutes of struggling, I could have emerged with dusty wings and a penchant for light bulbs. Or I might have tripped over my own boots from extreme disorientation and hapless exertion and died in the corner of my closet. No one would have found me till the next day when my putrefying scent would have overpowered the catbox.

As it was, I nearly dislocated both shoulders in a vintage Houdini escape. Exhausted, with my hair standing electrified in all directions, I staggered to the shower. I stood dazed under the water, mumbling incoherently about glorified girdles and the benefits of publicly displayed muffin tops.

Mr. Fine would have been horrified, so I’m glad he was not around to witness it; though, sadly, my cat Matilda saw the whole thing. This morning, she hunkered down and growled as I waved the spanx in her face in an effort to de-sensitize her. When I left, she was mumbling incoherently about throwing herself in front of a car.

They need to package this stuff with an instruction manual. Heed my warnings, people. Spanx should be worn at your own risk. Today I’m in recovery, wearing slacks too sizes too big and a bulky sweater that leaves me shapeless. Ramping up for: Spanx vs. Me, Round 2.
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How to Freak Out Your Kid

fragrantliar@yahoo.com (Fragrant Liar) — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 16:50:00 +0000

As a single mom of four adult daughters, I have to say there are few greater giggles in life than seeing the looks on their faces when I do things they're not expecting. And trust me, it's not hard to get a BIG rise out of them.

This particular “look” came from my eldest last Friday evening as I raced out of the house for my weekend getaway at a B&B with Mr. Fine. An astonished mix of disgust and horror came over TG's face when she saw me joyfully dangling the shiny handcuffs that her little Destructo had discovered while pillaging my jewelry box.

“Hey, thanks, buddy!" I shouted. "Good idea! See you guys Monday!”

Sweet.
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Wee Wisdom

fragrantliar@yahoo.com (Fragrant Liar) — Fri, 23 Oct 2009 16:03:00 +0000

Miss America’s Poignant Pearl of the Week:

"You know, if you believe in yourself, that’s true."

Deal Makers

fragrantliar@yahoo.com (Fragrant Liar) — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 16:11:00 +0000

I previously published a Deal Breakers post wherein I laid out the characteristics I simply won't tolerate in a man/partner/sex god. Since then, I've been asked many times what the Deal Makers would be. So here they are, in no particular order, if any guy can measure up:

Intelligent. He must get my Spockiavellian logic—and my jokes.

Flutter-worthy. I must get flutters in my stomach when I know I get to see him.

Sexy. He must make me wonder what's goin' on under those jeans—without trying—and he must only have eyes for me.

Pet-lover. Must love dogs, but more importantly, must love cats.

Financially stable. Must have his own bank account. One with something in it. Oh, and a little extra to fly me to exotic locales around the world. And Phoenix. And the moon.

Foodie. He must love to cook. I gotta eat, people.

Humor. He must laugh hysterically, or at least enthusiastically, at my irreverence, and he must never diss it by calling it "baudy." Although, I do like baudy. Nasty is a fun word too. And vagina. Don't you love those words? And he's got to be able to give it back to me. No shrinking irises. Make me laugh, dude.

Travel bug. He must have a "let's get outta here" button, as I am bored of staying home.

Family guy. He must have been there, done that with the young family and the exes. He must feel at ease with all manner of rugrats, including the rowdier ones, like my precious Destructo. I have graduated from sippy cups to wine tastings, but family is True North.

Standup guy. This applies to being who he says he is and walking the talk. Also, I like it when a guy pretends he's on stage and tries to make me laugh. Oh wait, that's #7, Humor. Okay then, I'll go with Standup and Strip. Stripping is good on stage. With or without bump-and-grind music, handcuffs, and tear-away leathers; I'm not picky.

Playful. He must be quick and easy with a smile. He must not be afraid of pillow fights, too cool to dance in the rain (naked, if required by me), or too timid for Spin the Bottle.

Affectionate. In private or in public. No exceptions. If I want a kiss while standing in the grocery line holding a cucumber, I want a kiss! And it better be a pirate kiss too. He must like to hold my hand, just because.

Supportive. I have dreams, people. He must want me to succeed. He must be happy to encourage me to shoot for the stars, despite that they're a long way off, and he must make sure I have plenty of sustenance for the trip (see #6, Foodie).

Tolerant. Yes, I admit. I have quirks. He must be totally enamored with me so he can man-up when I get huffy and cuss (or shoot the bird) in public, which is like almost fucking never, but it could happen and then he would have to abandon his shock and embarrassment and say, "It's okay, baby, your mouth is beautiful and you still rock my world." See how that works?

Adoration. Yes, he must enthusiastically adore every nook and cranny of my glorious fanny, and all my other glorious stuff. But more importantly, he must really, really like me even when I'm not so likeable. Aaaah-ha-ha-ha-ha! As if I'm not a total freakin' saint! Am I right?

Honest. He must be the man he says he is and always tell the truth. He must also be savvy enough to lie to me about my butt or my double chin when that is what I need to hear.

Inspirational. He must inspire trust and optimism and hope for a dreamy future. I don't mind seeing god once in a while, like during sex, but I'm not going to church for that stuff.

A rock. I must feel safe and secure with him. He must protect me from big, hairy, scary monsters. Although I'm a big girl with, shall we say, sass and attitude, he must still have my back.

Self-possessed. He must know who he is and be comfortable in his own skin. Plus, he must accept who I am, and not want to change me or force any sort of religulosity on me. I am a heathen till the end. That probably comes as a shock to you.

Rockin'. Yeah, I said rockin'. He must rock my world with his awesomeness.

I'm sure I left out some other stuff that would be kinda nice to get all rolled up in this one package, but as it is, this is a tough list to ace for any guy. Oh wait . . . there IS one, ObiWon Kenobe . . .

Lookie there! It's Mr. Fine, people, by popular demand. Here's the one guy who passed the Deal Makers test. Of course, the jury is still out on whether he can two-step my ass around the dance floor . . .

Priceless

fragrantliar@yahoo.com (Fragrant Liar) — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 03:00:00 +0000

One highly anticipated trip to Phoenix to see your beloved sister who's also your BFF:
Sublime.

Taking along your new guy and exposing him to the family who knows a thousand incriminating factoids about you -- and they ain't afraid to use 'em:
Crazy.

Realizing your new guy won't hesitate to punk you in front of your own family -- WTF?
Priceless.

Some things money can't buy. For me, it's a boyfriend with an audacious sense of humor and the cojones to use it.

Ahead of My Time

fragrantliar@yahoo.com (Fragrant Liar) — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 01:10:00 +0000

This is me at 17, just before my high school graduation ceremony. Note the exquisite babydoll dress, which I made myself, because I was crafty once upon a time.

Of course, my mother may have supervised and she may have cussed her way through the harder parts, since the fabric was slick as gooseshit (beloved family expression) and didn’t cooperate, and sometimes even the voice of experience struggles to make the magic happen. Ten years were shaved off my mother’s life after the thrill of sewing with satin and silk (plus her voice of experience said something about not being able to stand seeing me in that "fucking thing" afterwards), but then she quit smoking and added a few years back on, so odds are she will still be around to drop it like it's hot on the front porch with me. Right, Ma?

Notice also the length of the exquisite babydoll dress. In a super mini, if you bend over even just a little, the mystery is over. Indisputable fact. No, I’m not namin’ names of those suddenly in the know (like Heathen). But it was 1973. Minis were all the rage and we didn't give a shit about mystery (unless we're talkin' Kolchak in the Nightstalker), especially if it had anything to do with Watergate or Deep Throat. Plus, we could only laugh at every mention of Deep Throat, cuz maturity was for nerds. But just so that history won’t repeat itself, I should inform the modern masses: if you have to drone on and on that you are not a crook? You are one.

Note also the blue eye shadow and the long, wavy hair. Was I rockin’ it or what? Well, except for the pantyhose. I guess you saw the sheen on my thighs? Pantyhose has thankfully gone the way of the 8-track player (although who didn’t love the Doobie Brothers singing China Grove or Jesus is Just Alright on 8-track? Bitchin, man!). But let the record show, I’m Xtremely distraught that after all this time no substitution for pantyhose has been invented. In cold weather, what woman wants to go out bare legged, especially in a mini? People, we can send a freakin' multi-billion-dollar camera to Saturn's rings, but we can't come up with a workable alternative to hosiery? Pathetic.

All this to say, fads go around and then roll back around when designers can say, "Hey, look, something totally never done before!" Babydolls, minis, rainbow eye shadows, wavy hair, and platform shoes (no you can't see them, but they're there!) – all back in vogue. I was so freakin' ahead of my time back then.
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This Number Doesn't Fit

fragrantliar@yahoo.com (Fragrant Liar) — Thu, 01 Oct 2009 21:25:00 +0000

I just turned fifty-fucking-four. Thirty years ago, I looked at my current age as far off in the future, in a land far, far away where gravity was of infinitesimal consequence. Time was something alien and against my primal mantra of I am young, I am invincible, I am the skinny girl with perky breasts. In fact, I thought getting this age only happened to other people, like my parents and ex-presidents and despicable bosses who deserved it. But not me. No, this number does not fit me.

Of course, there are signs that things aren't what they used to be. Where the firm muscles of my arms, torso, hips, and thighs used to broadcast my youthful vitality and catch-worthiness, I am now faced with the voice of Rod Serling, broadcasting that I have crossed over into . . . the Sag Zone. (If you're not old enough to remember Rod Serling, screw you.) The fast-firing synapses of my brain, which once kept my cranial performance and databanks in peak condition so that I could leap complex problems in a single bound and photographically recall who said what about whom and in what tone during a late-night drinking binge and still recall the details three months later, had vaccinated me against making such statements as:

It's past my bedtime;
Just one more and then cut me off; or
But you don't even know him!

These days as I prepare to speak, my measureless experiences crowd into my frontal lobe, jockeying for position to blast off my tongue first. Pick me, pick me, they clamor. And I reply tacitly, First come, first served. One thought breaks through the throng and lines up on the launching pad that is my tongue. It's coming . . . it's coming . . . Wait for it. It's . . . it's . . . gone. I am flustered and humbled by the ever-insidious brain fart.

Or not. See, it's common practice to call it a brain fart, but it's really this: I am so inundated with broad-spectrum knowledge that my advanced intellectual facilities are nearing capacity. Without a back door to push out the inconsequential and traumatic (which prevents us from witnessing excess brain seepage from our geriatrics' ears), I am forced to zip-drive the trivia into a warehouse somewhere around my hippocampus where its retrieval could take days—even weeks—much like rummaging through attic boxes for one's first shooting-the-bird photo. (Yes, I started early, but in my defense, I'd been mimicking my father.)

Now where was I? Oh yes. For me, it's all about the number. When you say you're over fifty, people regard you with a piteous gaze. They try to assuage your assumed bruised ego with commentary like: But you look so much younger! Well, at least I can be thankful for good manners. If only this could be said of one's family. When mine became aware of my fiftieth birthday, it was like I had a big, waxy Number Fifty birthday candle melting all over my head, flaming everyone with the inside information that I had reached a cultural milestone. At forty, I got those black Over the Hill balloons and greeting cards depicting my nipples dangling around my ankles. That was child's play compared to the ridicule I endured my fiftieth year as the recipient of a wall-to-wall Grim Reaper banner.

I guess it might have been easier to accept my age gracefully if I hadn't been throwing myself on the ground, kicking and screaming; but I had just realized I would now be required to check off the 50-65 age box on the forms in my doctor's office—or worse, the 50+ box, a group encompassing me and all those on the cusp of fossilization.

Fifty is the new forty (or thirty!), some say. In fact, this decade is a huge disconnect between who I am, what I look like, and how I process fiber. I feel the same as I did at 29. No, I'm not kidding. The biggest difference is that I'm smarter. People, I regularly wax wisdom all over the place, as you know. I just have trouble remembering . . . uh, wait. What was I saying?

Oh yes. My age cannot possibly reveal the person I am, inside or out. The numbers do sometimes lie, or at least mislead. I'm still fun and fabulous, vibrant and vital, sexy and sentient. After all, I'm only fifty-fucking-four.
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Happy Birthday to Me

fragrantliar@yahoo.com (Fragrant Liar) — Mon, 28 Sep 2009 17:29:00 +0000

That sneaky Mr. Fine uncovered what I really, really wanted for my birthday -- which is tomorrow (there's still time to shop, people!) -- and pretty much thought there was no way to get it, and . . . he got it for me! Peeps, I am going to see JOURNEY! Waaaa-hoooo!

Don't stop believin' . . . Hold on to that feelin' . . .

Is Mr. Fine awesome or what? (He also gave me a 10-Euro bill, which I think means I'm goin' somewhere . . .)

Okay, so sure we still lo-o-o-ove Steve Perry, right? He's THE one and only, for christ's sake. But Filipino Arnel Pineda rocks the house, people! Seriously.
And guess who's opening? Anybody remember Night Ranger? So cool. I . . . can't . . . wait!

To hear the resurrected Journey, go here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FWC9MHgpL8U

Wee Wisdom

fragrantliar@yahoo.com (Fragrant Liar) — Sat, 26 Sep 2009 15:10:00 +0000

Can you say ATTITUDE?

Left to right:
Baby Bandit, Sparkplug, Miss America, the Pistol, and Destructo.

Like Miss America, my Florida nephew, the Sparkplug, just started Kindergarten. That leaves his little brothers Baby Bandit and the Pistol at home without him during the day for the first time ever in their miniscule history. This new reality came as a shock to the 4-year-old Pistol, middle child and suddenly top dog over his very mischievous 3-year-old brother. Only a few hours into his reign, the Pistol was beside himself. He whined plaintively: "I'm stressing out! I miss Sparkplug, and I just can't deal with Bandit by myself."

This is Miss America the morning of her first day at Kindergarten. I blinked back tears as I snapped this shot. Her mother could cry just thinking about it, so it was up to Miss America's father to ferry her to class.

Miss America's Poignant Pearl of the Week:

On looking into the mirror at herself while trying on some new jeans for school:

"I have a glorious butt."

My, my. Where does she get it?

Honeysuckle

fragrantliar@yahoo.com (Fragrant Liar) — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 04:48:00 +0000

There are consequences
for shutting down,
for closing off.
The moment you open up again,
fractionally,
to acknowledge your loneliness,
to give yourself permission to let in someone new,
to love again . . .
That's the moment
your past confronts you,
cascades over you
in icy, whitecapped rapids,
And you don't even know
you can't
stop
the incessant
pummeling
resurfacing
reshaping
of your mossy, roughened edges.

Now I've found you,
allowed you one step forward,
turned you around,
sent you away,
pulled you back in curious,
tentative,
desirous,
defiant,
untrustable gestures that belied my turmoil.
Yet more and more
I want to open up to you
like honeysuckle.
Orange, vibrant, pliable.
Thriving from my honeybee's attentions,
cocooned in each new morning's warmth.

I see the lies I told myself,
the fires I smothered
that I should have walked through,
emerging singed and sooted, raw and achy,
regenerating from the inside out
like the chrysalis.
But there's no going back.
So forgive me,
one more moment
to finish letting go,
saying goodbye,
releasing blame,
before I come to you
ready
for your sweetness.
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Mammoslams and Density Gams

fragrantliar@yahoo.com (Fragrant Liar) — Thu, 17 Sep 2009 22:00:00 +0000

Dear Esteemed Radiologists,

I want to thank you sincerely for the fine work you perform on women everyday. Your high-tech detection devices and keen "hey-what's-that?" skillz are invaluable. When I was in there getting my mammogram -- one of my most anticipated pasttimes cuz Radiology is now like a destination -- I noticed you did away with the frumpy, stiff dressing gowns of my great great grandmother's generation and instead opted for the more modern "mini cape" and its single set of neck snaps.

I have to say that the mini cape makes me feel more like a crusader in need of someone to rescue but with the constant threat of my boobs showing the instant there is a well-aimed burst of air conditioning. One good gust and weeeee! Suddenly you're Marilyn Monroe from your barenaked chest to your clavicle. I realize this apparel allows easier access to the boobery as I turn left, lift and plant, watch the vice grips flatten my mams into doughy sugar cookies, grimace and hold my breath (snap the fucking image already), shed tears and cry out for my mama. Or a double-barrel shotgun. So I don't want to get all up in the tech's grille about that. She's just doing her job, right?

But what I really take issue with are the paper pants. Who the hell's idea was that? I want you to know that I came into the place at 110 pounds. As instructed, I removed my slacks and slid into the industrial blue paper pants for my trip to the bone density table and gained an instant 300 pounds. See for yourself.
I almost passed out. No wonder there are no mirrors in the changing rooms.

But seriously, there's no way that tech could have known if I had somebody else in there with me, a la He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named (pre-corporeal Lord Voldemort), or not. What if that wasn't my real hip you scanned, Missy? What then? And what's wrong with designer paperpants? I have a size, people. I see it in every department store, and it belongs to me. It completes me. This one size fits all mentality, oh revered body scanners, is a load of crap. And, really, how much did this atrocity cost my medical provider?

So thanks ever so much for that cheap shot to my ego. I went home and promptly swallowed a gallon of Rocky Road, a dozen Little Debbies (sorry, Michel, your package will be late), and one gigantor Cinnabon slathered with a pound of real butter and drizzled caramel because I figured I was a lost cause anyway. Thence was supplanted a ton of freakish and unholy Catholic guilt.

And even though you stiffed me out of my rubber-soled, one-size-fits-all tube socks, and you've made me a bigger person, I'll be back in two years. I hope you're happy.

Yours in diagnostics,
Fragrant Liar
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Galveston and the Hazards of Travel

fragrantliar@yahoo.com (Fragrant Liar) — Wed, 16 Sep 2009 03:27:00 +0000

This is the beach at Galveston Island, where I've been for the last few days. Well, I haven't exactly been on the beach watching guys surf the whole time -- oops, did I say hunky guys were lolling about on their surf boards and taunting me with their eight-packs and beach boy good looks? No? That's good. Cuz I wouldn't want anyone to think I wasn't busy being an industrious conference worker. In fact, I was at the hotel across from the beach 99.9% of the time. You're looking at the .1% of freewheeling craziness I enjoyed. Hey, I like to let my freak flag fly.

This is the view from my room on the 15th floor of the San Luis Resort at sundown. One year ago, Hurricane Ike roared through the Gulf and devastated the island. A whole lot of rebuilding has been going on ever since, but many people lost everything. I met some of them. These folks are resilient and determined to come back even better than before. I know they will. It's not the Caribbean, but it's still beeeuuuuuuteeeeful, isn't it?

You know what the worst part is about traveling and staying in gorgeous hotels? Besides nothing . . . No, seriously, it's coming home. Take this evening when I came in. I dropped the luggage and made an immediate pit stop in el bano. I was surprised when I rose from the porcelain throne at how eerily quiet things were. Weird, I thought. Scary weird. Then I went to the sink. I held my hands under the faucet for like ten full seconds, maybe forty, while I pondered whether or not I had marbled cheese in my fridge for quickie consumption. Then . . .

WTF? Why isn't the water coming on? Why didn't the toilet flush? Where's the automatic hand dryer that blows your skin back like Tom Cruise's face on the high-speed train in Mission Impossible?

And that's when I realized -- I gotta do this shit myself? What is the world coming to when I have to handle my own levers? That's just uncivilized.
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G-A-S Spells Gas

fragrantliar@yahoo.com (Fragrant Liar) — Sat, 12 Sep 2009 22:55:00 +0000

When I was five, I spelled my first word. Back then, few kids went to Kindergarten, so I learned about letters and sounds on my own. I was pretty proud of myself when I took my carefully crayoned word in to my father, who was doing his business on the toilet.

Unfazed at my interruption, he said, "Do you know what it spells? G-A-S. That spells gas."

The irony of that moment did not occur to me until just now. (Anyone who read my post, Canning the Muse, will now understand the historical significance.) That aside, GAS was officially my first word, and I got a lot of mileage out of it. I easily remembered the letters' names and the sounds they made, and from that point my older cousins could no longer spell all the sneaky things they were up to. As in, "Hurry, hide the P-O-R-N-O." Cuz I'd just head to the kitchen and say, "Grandma, what's porno?" And the whole world would light up. As an aside, that's how I learned the valuable skill of flustering the shit out of relatives.

By the time I entered first grade, I was ahead of most kids (nobody could lasso syllables like me: "Por-no. Hey, that's two syllables!") And within a year, I was writing stories. My first one, scrawled on a yellow-lined tablet while sitting in my grandfather's real estate office, was about pigs that could fly. Why yes, this is THE story that spawned the internationally famous saying. My mother still has the original, so I can prove it. (You do still have that, right Mom?)

It wasn't until after I got married and began popping out babies that I tried serious fiction (pregnancy at the rate of wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am will inspire you to make shit up in your mind just to get away for awhile). With four kids, a full-time job, and despite an absent and volatile husband, I stole an hour here and there and before long realized that writing was my true calling.

Which brings me to the point of this post. Here I sit, broken-hearted, came to share, and instead I martyred. I'm staring at colored folders containing six plotted novels in various stages of writing or rewriting, completely out of G-A-S. I'm not blocked; my muse is on strike, and I don't know why.

On this perfect rainy writing day, for all I've accomplished at my true calling, I might as well be watching P-O-R-N-O.
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09/09/09

fragrantliar@yahoo.com (Fragrant Liar) — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 18:50:00 +0000

Happy birthday to my firstborn, TG, Miss America's mom, who turned 31 today!

Did you know this is an incredibly unique and crazy day? I mean, besides popping out almost seven pounds of baby girl 31 years ago, as of 7:20 this morning. (OMG, squeezing a watermelon out a hole the size of a kiwi . . . still makes me feel like passing out. I remember saying to the doc, "Uh-uh, I'm going home now"). So, back to unique and crazy. Apparently any grade-schooler can tell you that the number 9 has extraordinarily magical and brain-numbing properties, like this:

The sum of the two digits resulting from 9, multiplied by any other single digit number will equal nine.

What? Oh, yes. It's true. If you're having trouble making friends, you might want to try this because you will be like a god and people will reward you with statues. Like Pythagorus (don't try to say that too fast if you have a speech impediment -- I about bit my tongue off). No really, people will flock to you. Or is that birds? Anyway, let's find a random example. Oh, here's one. Today's date: 09/09/09. Translated to the math continuum or the consortium or the conundrum (is one of those close?), that's 9 + 9 + 9 which equals 27, right? Now add the answer, one digit at a time. Here, I'll help you: 2 + 7 = 9.

I know! Right? Wait now. Hold that excitement for the big guns. 'kay? Let's look at something else totally sort of random like 9 x 62. That equals 558 (Someone told me the answer; she was 5.) I don't have a chalkboard, so you're on the honor system. You're doing this with me, right? Break it down to the lowest number possible, a little dancey kind of jig that goes like this: 558, or 5 + 5 + 8 = 18. No, that's not 9. You people are so impatient. If you keep going down, adding the single digits together, you get this: 18, or 1 + 8 = 9.

OMFG! It's freakin' 9 again. How'd they do that? Not quite as exhilarating as 99 bottles of beer on the wall (unless you've tried that in a single night -- no, I don't have pictures), but certainly just as thought provoking, wouldn't you say? I have a brand new and fascinating appreciation of numbers now. Well, the 9 anyway. I can take or leave the rest.

And now I'll leave you with one last, incredible tidbit -- yes, that was an oxymoron for all you oxymoronics (that's oxy drug of choice + moron = your name here). Ready? September 9 happens to be the 252nd day of the year. So guess what? 2 + 5 + 2 = __. Don't make me tell you!

I wonder what happens when you turn 999 upside down? Of course, I could be getting into geometry with that one or some kind of spiritual PLANE. Am I getting smarter by the second, or what?

I have to go lay down now. I must reserve some energy for cake.

Happy birthday, TG! I love you more!
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Vajayjay to Staycay

fragrantliar@yahoo.com (Fragrant Liar) — Mon, 07 Sep 2009 15:55:00 +0000

What a week. Nestled for five days in the vajayjay of Texas to work a conference, followed by a four-day tech hiatus (and by that I mean no computers, no blog, and no brain drain), and I'm now in staycation status – kind of like stasis but without all the excitement. Okay, that's not quite true (hello-o-o, Fragrant LIAR). I did some fun stuff, spent time with great old friends and contemplated new ones. But mostly I was content to vedge.

Speaking of TRUE, while in the vajayjay, I was determined to catch my favorite guilty pleasure, courtesy of the Gaylord Hotel's HBO, but it turns out their HBO was the "family" channel version. Family? WTF!? Screw family. And isn't "HBO Family" some kind of perverse oxymoron? I want to see vamp sex. For free! Not a disappointment I'll take to the grave, but truly biting.

Besides, I stay in fancy schmancy hotels for the stuff I DON'T get at home, like room service ten times my per diem, wake-up calls that shoot you upright out of bed wondering where the fire is, and total respect from people who think I'm important and call me Your Honor. Never mind that I have to pay out the wazoo for everything from soup to nuts. There's always that per diem reimbursement, pats on the back from the boss, and generous thanks from the truly fine people we serve during conference, including the occasional small contingent of eye candy and potential toothachery which I am loathe to discuss with total strangers in a public forum (hey, email me . . .).

Did I mention that the Gaylord is the size of a continent? Bridging the distance from my room to the convention center was like trekking from Calcutta to Khartoum, on foot. Oh but for a friendly camel with a comfy hump and an in-flight movie.

Since I was deprived of my True Blood fix, upon returning home I hit Blockbuster and rented the first season DVDs (talk about blood sucking; they drain you by the episode). All family members under the age of consensual vampire sex have been relegated to the upstairs shelter wherein Hannah Montana and Sponge Bob rule. Popcorn and red licorice at the ready, I'm headed for Bon Temps.

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Fraggin' It

fragrantliar@yahoo.com (Fragrant Liar) — Sat, 29 Aug 2009 13:05:00 +0000

It's been a hectic and somewhat stressful week, y'all. So all I have time for are Fragrant Fragments. To wit:

I am in the fertile vajayjay of Northern Texas this week, a little hotspot otherwise known as Grapevine, nestled between two thick thighs we call Dallas and Fort Worth. I'm working a conference here -- on call 24/7, I'm told by our outgoing diva, but you can bet I'll be taking time for myself here and there, including watching a little True Blood on HBO in my room. Hello, Vampire Bill, she says in that smoky, sultry way she has when alone to contemplate the merits of blood sucking sexual acts. Oh yes, there are merits. There must be. Sookie likes it.

Mr. Fine took me to see Star Trek on Thursday. I had been wanting to see it but thought its time had come and gone in theaters. Apparently everybody else thought so too, as we were the ONLY two peeps in the place. I was not disappointed. In the flick either. Heh, heh. Just kidding. But, really. Have you SEEN Captain James Tiberius Kirk in all his fiery, testosterone-filled youth? HAWT, people. HAWT.

The big surprise? Eric Bana as the evil-doing Nero. I can only ever see Senor Banadinovich as Hector in Troy. Hubba hubba. I don't like him as the over-tatted bad guy. In Star Trek, he of course is outsmarted in a very Kirkvirile-yet-Spockiavellian way. I must have this DVD when it comes out.

Okay, out the door I go to that big vajayjay to the north, which is really wine country stuck between cowpoke and shopping meccas -- none of which I'll get to enjoy, I'm sure.

Well, frag it.

128 Sticks of Butter

fragrantliar@yahoo.com (Fragrant Liar) — Fri, 28 Aug 2009 02:52:00 +0000

Okay, my peeps, one of my dearest friends and her husband are on a DIET. Man, that's my least favorite four-letter word ever. Well, not EVER; there is one worse word and not even I can manage to get it out of my sailor's mouth – which is really saying something (but not quite). All right, that one time was an accident, but four beers can do that to me. Plus I'm totally not responsible for my actions when my salsa partner is kidnapped mid-chacha. Cumbia this, chica!

Where was I?

Oh yeah, Michelle and Mike are chronicling their weight loss progress for all the world to see on a blog called 128 Sticks of Butter. The best thing about this blog? The writing. Sure, it's entertaining and you want to cheer them into melting off the poundage, but Michelle is an accomplished writer with a great sense of humor. And hey, she gets MY quirky humor – a questionable attribute at best, but redeeming nonetheless in my eyes.

See, Michelle and I have been good friends for about ten years now, and she has seen me through good times and bad. Bad as in royal pain, what were you thinking, you have lost it! Like when my tiara fell off and it wasn't so good to be queen anymore when I beat feet for a new village. Meh, it was only temporary cuz I got a new tiara which is quite shiny and bejeweled (and dare I say mystical if one has imbibed beyond the legal limit), and while not always used for altruistic purposes, I'm sure having more fun with it. The tiara, people -- catch up! Point is, Michelle was there for me. And I'm pretty sure she always will be.

So go check her out, and tell her Fragrant Liar sent ya. And if you could mention that I'd like some of her Etsy stuff for my birthday, that could be cool. Cuz she rocks the crafty world too.
.

Unplugged and Poontangery

fragrantliar@yahoo.com (Fragrant Liar) — Tue, 25 Aug 2009 01:50:00 +0000

Sometimes I'm so engaged in all the spaces and places my thoughts occupy AT ONE TIME (kinda like Sybil, but without the horn rims) that the feeling of overwhelm has an HOV Lane toward my discombobulated cerebral cortex. My usual response is to disengage, to unplug myself from the most system-shocking outlets. That's what I did this last week so I could relax, reflect, and repump the well.

I am an expert in the art of unplugging. Yesterday, I stretched out lazily on the couch in my PJs and watched movies—ALL DAY—while everybody else went to the circus. I hung out with a calico cat stretched across me and a few dozen friends under the cinematic umbrellas of Cinderella Man, Benjamin Button, and Harry Potter (times 2). Oh yeah, we're like THIS!

All that to say, sorry for my absence. But a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. No stilettos involved, sad to say. But Saturday I did manage to hit an old haunt with a new friend, nurse a Corona with lime, cringe at some bad karaoke, and knock in some tricky shots during a rusty few hours of Eight-ball. It was kind of nice to plug back into that scene for a change.

While I was away from you, Disa came by and sifted through my posts. I just wanted to be sure I acknowledged her for the sweet sentiments she left me. You might appreciate this one:

disa said...

成人漫畫,成人文學,成人遊戲,成人電影,成人論壇,成人,做愛,aio,情色小說,ut聊天室,ut聊天室,豆豆聊天室,聊天室,尋夢園聊天室,080視訊聊天室,免費視訊聊天,哈啦聊天室,視訊聊天,080聊天室,080苗栗人聊天室,6k聊天室,視訊聊天室,成人聊天室,中部人聊天室,免費視訊,視訊交友,視訊美女,視訊做愛,正妹牆,美女交友,玩美女人,美女,美女寫真,美女遊戲,hi5,hilive,

Of course, that's just paraphrasing.

In her comments, Disa leaves me linky invitations to check out her porn stash. And gosh, I'm totally flattered cuz I'm one heckuva porn hound, as everyone knows. But as I mentioned earlier, I'm also easily unplugged these days. Sybil, remember? Oh, and Disa, don't let me forget to say thanks for your kindness on my most personal post about my sister who died last year -- oh, and my Father's Day tribute to the most important man in my life. Your cryptic sentiments showed just the right sympathy in tone and nuance, delivered in the special way that only you can. I love how you're there for me. But, Disa, I hope you understand when I say, no matter how many times you visit me, I will be just too unpumped to partake in the poontangery. But I sure appreciate you thinking of me.

Hope everybody is well out there. I'll be around to see you!
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Sorry, Mr. Prime Minister

fragrantliar@yahoo.com (Fragrant Liar) — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 23:15:00 +0000

People, I have tried to curb my enthusiasm, but it’s proving impossible. My beloved Bro-in-law advises me to let my date do most of the talking because, he says, guys like to have your rapt attention and know you’re interested in them.

Hey, I’m with the guy, right? Isn’t that proof enough? But okay, I figure Bro may be onto something since he does have all the requisite male parts – I assume. So there I go trying to shut up and listen up with Mr. Fine and meanwhile my brain is quietly quivering to a cacophonous crescendo. It is saying, “Hey, me too! Oh, oh, oh, I have a story about that, and it’s got all kinds of dark and twisty turns that you just will not believe, and should I grace you with it (any split millisecond now) you will like me mucho mas or naturally be so incomprehensibly impressed you must call TV and radio stations -- or at least write a glowing review in the Statesman.” And pretty soon my brain is bulging with all this earth-shattering stuff, and the pressure builds to the breaking point and something’s gotta give, and post haste the gates burst open and out it all cascades, just like Niagara, and there he goes like a little raft, over the edge and down into the swirling conversational vortex over which I have co-opped ultimate power and from which he may never be extricated but for that one gasp of air that begs more than says, “I have to go.”

This is when I most feel like Natalie (Martine McCutcheon) in Love Actually when she’s just met her boss, the new prime minister (Hugh Grant), and after shaking his hand:

PM: Hello, Natalie.
Natalie: Hello, David. I mean, sir. Shit, I can't believe I've just said that. And now I've gone and said "shit". Twice. I'm so sorry, sir.
PM: It’s all right. You could've said "fuck" and we'd have been in real trouble.
Natalie: Thank you, sir. I had a premonition I was gonna fuck up on my first day. Oh, piss it!
Chief of Staff Annie: Right ... let's fix the country, shall we?
PM walks away, then turns back to see Natalie suffering regret.
Staffer Pat to Natalie: It's all right.
Natalie: Did you see what I did?
Pat: Yes, I did.
Natalie: I just went "blurh" (gesturing that a bunch of horrid crap just came tumbling out of her mouth).

That was me. Minus the horrid part, I think. (sigh) See David and Natalie here.

So it looks like I am doomed, and short of an intervention, anyone who wants to hang with me will have to be okay with a wacky chatterbox. Oh, and Bro also quoted me some scripture about how the most unruly part of the body is the tongue. I just had to laugh. I don’t even LIKE scripture.

Just to clarify, peeps, somehow Mr. Fine is not deterred by my blathering. In fact, he says he likes it. Ha! That is what he says NOW...

Wee Wisdom

fragrantliar@yahoo.com (Fragrant Liar) — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 13:20:00 +0000

Miss America's Poignant Pearl of the Week:

"Everyone likes me.
Except for anyone who doesn't."

48 Hours of Advice: Updated

fragrantliar@yahoo.com (Fragrant Liar) — Sun, 16 Aug 2009 14:13:00 +0000

Who knew the anticipation of meeting someone could make a person so wonky inside? Yes, I said wonky. I have all this . . . stuff just sitting inside my chest, all these incredibly fun and fabulous and frightening thoughts inside my head. Maybe it's because of all the advice I've been given in the last 48 hours:

"Look stunning."

This from a guy. What does this mean? There's no red carpet, no acceptance speech. Remember, simple girl on the outside, maybe some complexities on the inside. I do admit to a fascination with sexy pirates and vamps. But I digress. I need specifics, people. What articles of clothing would equal stunning? Hair and makeup? How do I do stunning? Is this a requirement?

"Be innocent and shy, and in total control."

BWAAAAA-HAHAHAHA. And I thought this guy knew me. Innocent, like Scarlet, sugar. Shy, what is that? In total control, I don't even have that with the remote. Then he mentioned I shouldn't talk so much. Okay, he does know me. I promise to be demure.

"Wear something sleazy so he'll be speechless."

This from a guy too. Sleazy would leave him speechless, all right. Not quite what I'm going for. Can't be too conservative either. So somewhere in the vast expanse of rockin' first date attire there has to be something for me to wear, right? I'm just not sure it's in my closet.

"Wear something black. It will make your skin glow!"

Shheeeyyaaahh! No likey too much sun these days. Miscreant youth spent in way too much sun.

Then there was this conversation with my daughter Scoots, bringing 4-inch turquoise stilettos out of her Smithsonian-style shoe museum . . .

Scoots: You gotta wear these!

Me, trying them on at her dogged insistence: Holy crap, I can't even stand in these. I'll look like a Barbie doll, and I'll walk like one too.

Scoots: No, no. I have a secret. Take flipflops and leave them in the car. Wear the stilettos into the restaurant – ten minutes on your feet coming and ten going. If he wants to go somewhere else, you say, "These shoes are killing me. I think I have something more comfortable in the car." Then you go to the car. "Oh, looky there! Flipflops!"

Me, with blank look: Seriously?

Scoots, taking a drag on her beer: Oh yeah.

Then from my daughter's 20-something buddies:

"Go for the wax job. Guys love it."

First I have to stop laughing. People, this is a first date!

And finally:

"Play up the girls."

Now that I can do. Dinner at 7.

===================================
Update: It was Chardonnay and meteors of the heart-pounding kind. And let's say that when I got home, jumped into bed, and tried to finish off a Stephanie Plum novel, I had to reread the same three pages a dozen times because thoughts of him kept intruding. I likey that boy.

Chardonnay and Meteors

fragrantliar@yahoo.com (Fragrant Liar) — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 22:34:00 +0000

I got slightly buzzed last night. Lightweight that I am, it took only one full glass of my neighbor’s chardonnay to get me that way. I always was a cheap date. Oh, but I’d had a long day, and it was so worth it. I just couldn't look one more minute at a computer screen, so I didn’t accomplish the writing I was supposed to. My writing partner -- she of the whip-cracking, slave-driving, that’s-no-excuse ilk -- was none too pleased. She made me compose a limerick on the fly, via text, as penance. It may have been naughty because she is perverse that way. I swear I can’t remember it.

Around ten p.m. or so, Miss America and I went out on the back deck, hoping to get showered with Perseid meteors. But the city lights washed out the night sky and left only pinpoints of hazy constellations. At least I think so. The Great Bear looked more like a gerbil.

As you know, there are few things I enjoy more than hanging with Miss America. This is why:

Miss America: If we were up in da sky, we could see the Milky Chocolate.

Me: Chocolate and chardonnay? Mmmmmm.

=================================
Update on Mr. Fine. We have decided to meet. But first, I’ve sent him to the place where my alter ego resides. To the irreverent persona who drives this blog. If I'm lucky, our online chemistry won't crater. And hey, if I can’t be on my best behavior here, I think y’all should be. Say hello to Mr. Fine.