Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Surely It Isn't Supposed to Be This Easy

I have lost count of how many dates The Candidate and I have been on in the last two weeks. I'm no fan of whirlwind romances, but I have to admit that it is nice. I find myself slipping into the all too familiar thoughts of "Uh Oh, this is too easy..." and waiting for the shoe to fall. I am still in the "checking out" phase of dating, but honestly, the quality of man that would be required to distract my attention away from The Candidate as this point rises every day.

I am posting this here, on my "normal" blog, because I am hesitant to filth up my dating journey blog with daisies, puppies, and sunshine. I can't bring myself to aim the cattiness beam at The Candidate. That blog isn't about what happens when I stop to take a rest on the road to Mr Right...not that I have determined that The Candidate is Mr Right, mind you; but he is pretty much the only guy I am seeing now.

Last night we met at a Mexican food joint in Millington, our new halfway spot. I have shed myself of a couple of formal dating rules in favor of being casual. We decided to grab some dinner and margaritas at the last minute, having spent the majority of the weekend in each other's company. The positive thing about that is that I actually wanted to see him again so soon. Having had a tiring day at work, I decided to test the comfort level and go full casual. Jeans and a t-shirt, hair in a knot, leftover work make-up. The Candidate beamed at me as if I had selected something from the "back of the closet collection". He liked my hair in a knot!

After dinner, we lingered over our pitcher of margaritas, discussing uplifting topics such as crazy family members, death, and end of life care. No, we weren't plotting anything, just peeling a few layers back to see beyond the Dave Chappelle quotes and music preferences. I kept an open mind, not immediately jumping ship at the differences in values. We interwove that conversation with funny little tidbits about the drama of dating. I began to notice that The Candidate dropped hints here and there, but remained reserved enough not to jump on those hints like a hungry Rottweiler.

I like to think of my life as cake. Cake is great by itself, or at least it should be. A relationship is the icing on said cake. Cake doesn't need icing to be good, but it does make it better. Sometimes. But, no amount of icing is going to make a bad cake good. Don't believe me? Substitute salt for sugar next time and then spread a can of frosting all over that mess and tell me how that works out. I have been perfecting my cake recipe for a while now, and I must say...it's good. Now that I am tweaking the recipe to include frosting, I must keep in mind that the basic ingredients must remain the same.

After all that lingering last night, we sat on the tailgate of his truck and enjoyed the cold front that was passing through. I was fiddling with my Iphone and I decided to snap a picture of us, one of those candid "la la la look at us" kinds of pics. As I turned the phone back around to view the result, I saw that in the pic, The Candidate was grinning. A man who actually smiles in photographs and then says, "It's a Celebration, Bitches!" is a man worthy of my time.

Sunday, June 27, 2010

Al Gore, The Continental

Al Gore invented the internet, global warming, and now...the catchphrase of Summer 2010: Release the Chakra. This is one of those times when I kick myself for not wandering off to NYC immediately after my college graduation and camping out at 30 Rock in order to gain notice and Lorne Michael's favor...I soooo could have exploited this in a 3 minute sketch. For those who might have missed the story, Al Gore got a massage in Portland, Oregon a couple of years ago...and some masseuse got an experience that will make her cringe at least 5 times a day for the rest of her life. Here's the story: http://gawker.com/5571265/did-al-gore-make-unwanted-sexual-contact-with-a-masseuse

How unfortunate. I actually voted for Gore in 2000. I kind of thought he was cute. I didn't care about his grandiose claims of inventing the internet. When he "lost" the election, I was disappointed. This country needed a handsome, mild mannered man to lead us. Bill Clinton ruined the handsome man as President notion, but Al Gore might have salvaged it. He was square, but cute. He and Tipper were "normal". You just knew that once away from Tipper, Al Gore would cut loose and drink beer. He might have even listened to some Skynard. I forgot about Al Gore. Then, I saw "An Inconvenient Truth". DAMN, Al Gore got old. In fact, I thought the inconvenient truth was that Al Gore actually died 6 months before filming and they used his cold white shell. After determining that he was still indeed alive, I removed Al Gore from my "cute men that I hope succeed" list...bumping Mickey Rourke up a few notches...you're welcome, Mickey!

Then, I heard about the demise of the 40 year long Gore union. Al and Tipper were calling it quits. Knowing something was up, I waited patiently for the big reveal. What would it be? An affair? An addiction? A political scandal? I was a little disappointed to hear the news this week. Al Gore wanted a new age happy ending. And when he didn't get it, he turned into "The Continental". Christopher Walken fleshed out this overbearing self-important creep for years on Saturday Night Live: http://www.nbc.com/saturday-night-live/video/the-continental/274956/

According to the report, Al Gore, while she was packing up, grabbed her in "an inescapable embrace" and "caressed my back and buttocks and breasts." She distracted him with a box of chocolates (really!) which backfired when he tried to get her to eat them out of his hand. I find it hilarious that the masseuse tried to distract a horny Al Gore with chocolate. And, instead of slapping them out of her hand...he went for the chocolates anyway, trying to tie them into his seduction. The masseuse mentioned that when she arrived, Al Gore was wearing a shorty robe and he hugged her a "tad too long". She said she didn't know if the robe was open or closed, and that Al was "rotund". So, good call on the chocolate diversion tactic, sister! During this horrible dance macabre, the masseuse claims: "he turned to me and he immediately flipped me flat on my back and threw his whole body face down over atop me, pinning me down and outweighing me by quite a bit. Get off me, you big lummox! I loudly protested to him and I struggled with my whole body to shove him as hard as I could to roll him off me..." LUMMOX??? She called him a lummox? Why not Galoot? Or Oaf? How about, "GET THE HELL OFF ME YOU FAT PHUCK!"? Or even better, "Hey! What's Tipper doing in the closet??"

After being force fed Grand Marnier and Al Gore's tongue, the masseuse somehow made it to the door. Being the Phoenix that he is, Al Gore quickly recovered and made one final steam roll before she could get away. Upon returning home, the masseuse found on her slacks what could either be Al Gore's inconvenient truth, or soap; she couldn't tell which.

I am not certain of the validity of this woman's claim, but just the idea of Al Gore pulling "The Continental" routine make me want to vomit up last night's supper. And, what about poor ol' Tipper? A thousand showers, with real soap, couldn't wash away the visions of her dear sweet heavy lidded eyed husband pushing the Grand Marnier as if it were "Champognay". She is likely wondering where in the Hell this global warming was during the last 40 years. While she was out chastising us kids for listening to rap music and Judas Priest, Al Gore was probably out releasing his Chakra onto pants everywhere.

In closing, shame on you, Al Gore. I was having a fantastic sunny day on Thursday, and then you ruined it. Your antics made me cringe and I am so disappointed in your lack of discretion. Could you not have called your friend, Bill C, for the number of an escort service that would "service" you and keep it on the DL? There is no recovery from this. Much like Richard Gere and the gerbils, every time I hear your name, I will not think of the gentleman of yester-decade; I will instead wish you had kept your soap dispenser in the bathroom. And, if I was that masseuse, I'd change my email address. Her inbox is destined to be filled with spam and viruses from now on....because clearly, you don't phuck with the Father of the Internet; and because she didn't, she will pay dearly.



Sunday, June 20, 2010

Unconventional Father's Day Gifts

I am about to go to my dad's house to celebrate the 36th annual Father's Day Celebration. And by celebration I mean a couple of hours of sitting around, sparse conversation, general disinterest in any gifts presented, and finally, a relieved good-bye; which includes setting up a lunch date for when things are back to normal. A promise to meet for lunch on a day that isn't so loaded with fatherly appreciation. I appreciate my father, I just do it better on 364 days out of the year.

My dad isn't into holidays, often forgetting even the "big" ones. He doesn't enjoy celebration, for the most part. Actually, that is incorrect. My dad does enjoy celebrating things. A lunch after a good report from the cardiologist. A lunch after my new job offer. A breakfast after I successfully returned home from NYC. Small every day things. If each of these "accomplishments" called for a cake, a card, and a visit...he would be just as disinterested. My brother and sister have yet to realize this (which cements my belief that I am the only one who really "gets" my dad), and still barge in on the obligatory days loaded down with gifts he doesn't want, cake he won't eat, and extended family he doesn't want to see. So, I work around these visits in order to have some low key time with dad. I can't just let the day pass, my guilt prevents that, so I visit with him and try to do something for him to make his life easier. That something stopped including filling his home with junk and frou frou several years ago.

I could open a pawn shop with all the ill advised gifts that I have bestowed on dad. A VCR. A boom box. Kitchen gadgetry. Shorts. Bedding. Movies for the never used VCR. CDs for the rarely used boom box. Books on tape. All met with the usual "you shouldn't have spent any money". In my younger (debt ridden) days, this reaction infuriated me. But then, it clicked. I got it. His lackluster enthusiasm can be attributed to two things. Number one, these are things that will work perfectly while I am present; but the second I leave, the item will become inoperable. It will warrant a phone call from him and then a long complicated explanation of why the print on the cd needs to face up for it to play. I went so far as to take pictures of the controls on the electronics so that I could quickly, in help desk fashion, diagnose what he is doing wrong and correct via the telephone. Honestly, much as I love my dad, it is like instructing the Incredible Hulk in how to fold a fitted sheet. He finally just began accepting the gifts and placing them in the room that holds all things he has no interest in...the spare bedroom, which also holds his never used rolling walker (I tried to tell the doctor...), his mother's old family bible, the spare bed pads from his hospital stay, and several silk arrangements left over from various family funerals. I don't even bother with a card anymore. I keep his files for him, and often find the cards shoved into the same piles of junk mail, alongside invitations from AARP and American Express. Secondly, I think deep down, my dad is afraid that I have run my credit card up to the maximum (which I WAS guilty of over a decade ago) and he will somehow be held responsible for the bill.

This year, it's in the bag. My dad presented a need and I listened. He will receive two gifts from me today.

Last month, my dad showed up for our weekly pill party with an unusual request. I arrange my dad's pills in a pill box once a week; because given a bag of bottles and instructions, my dad would never be able to take the right pill at the right time. As I arranged the pills in a fashion that, hopefully, will keep him alive and alert for years to come, my dad asked if I could trim his eyebrows. "No sweat", I reply. I gathered my grooming tools and went to work on the forest on his forehead. I plucked and cut, dividing the monobrow into two thickets. He then asked if I could trim his sideburns. "Sure, no problem", I replied as I leveled them up. "How about my ears?" was next. I cut the wiry hair over his ears. "No, I meant the hair INSIDE my ears", he said. Houston, we have a problem. I was using regular scissors, not any sort of professional (safe) utensil. It was weird enough placing my hands on my dad's head, something I can honestly say I don't remember ever doing. But, helping him cheat age by clearing out the ear canal...I can't. Unplussed, he then requested assistance with the nostril hair. No can do. I apologized and advised him that his barber could assist with that. On my last visit with him, I noted that things had gotten out of hand...or out of nose, I should say. This Father's Day, my dad will be the recipient of a Norelco facial grooming device, one that can handle all the trouble spots...ears, nose, eyebrows, and side burns. I fully realize that this is not a device my dad will likley operate on his own, and I can't say that I blame him. His hands aren't as steady as they used to be and putting something up his nose that has rapidly spinning razor blades on the end of it is probably ill advised. However, this device certainly beats my kitchen shears, and so not only am I giving him this device, I will offer my services as his groomer.

The other gift will make his life easier as well. I will wash his dog. Actually, it is my dog, but my dad has had custody of Rusty for 10 years, ever since Rusty redid the carpeting in my apartment and digested 1/4 of my coffee table. The cute pup that my dad took in is now a large brown sow. My dad is kinder to that dog that he ever was to us kids! Rusty has a daily diet that includes bologna, vienna sausauges, dog food, dog biscuits, and ice cream. Therefore, Rusty's slim and trim (easy to lift) hounddog physique died about 9 years ago. I gave up trying to advise my dad in proper pup nutrition about 8.5 years ago. Rusty has a thick brown coat that attracts dirt like white on rice. My dad usually bathes Rusty each week, using a hose and a scrub brush. Basically, Rusty simply stands in line, behind the car and the lawnmower, as things my dad has to wash. Since his surgery, my dad is unable to lift or bend over; therefore, it is now difficult to distinguish Rusty from the dry red dirt background. This upsets my dad, he likes a clean house, a clean car, and a clean dog. Dad can manage the house and the car. Rusty is out of his control though. Therefore, this morning, I will don my own car washing uniform and wash that dog.

I am sure that the prodigal siblings will show up just after I have finished with Rusty, and I will look a hot mess (literally); but I couldn't care less. Whatever. I'll know that their cake will spoil and their gifts will be assigned a location in the room that time forgot, but clean Rusty and nosehair free dad will be sufficiently celebrated. No card necessary.

Saturday, June 12, 2010

Harriet's Big Day Out

Harriet the Dog sat at my feet as I booked my appointment to get prettified on my birthday.  As I ticked off the services: wash, blowout, manicure, and pedicure; she studied me intently.  Hanging up the phone, I said to her, "What?".  She went from intent sitting position to belly to the floor lying position and looked up at me through her thick brow; allowing a long sigh to escape.  And then, I got it.  So I backflipped through the yellow pages and found the number to a pet groomer and placed the call.  Harriet was now back up to intent sitting position. 

I have never taken a dog to a groomer before, and by the looks of Harriet, she has never darkened the doorstep of one either.  When I got her, she was billed as a rough coat terrier.  Ms. Harriet wore her wire coat with pride and would spend days not acknowledging me if I dared "trim" it.  Basically, I thought she liked looking scruffy.  Harriet resembles a loaf of bread, a marble loaf; if the bread was made from hair. 


As the receptionist rattled off the included services in the grooming package: shampoo, cut, nails, ears; I nearly spit out my coffee at the last one.  "Oh, and anal glands too."  Ok, I know what anal glands are, and I guess some part of me knew that the vet will "take care" of those at various points in a dog's life.  But, it was sunny outside and I was having a great day; therefore, the surprise attack of something so heinous and dark caught me off guard.  I reviewed the services as I wrote them down, leaving out the last one, more for Harriet's dignity than my disgust.  The receptionist reminded me again of "The anal glands".  I swear I heard thunder roll outside.  "Yes, that too" I sputtered.  Harriet looked at me curiously, as if to say, "What?  What too?"  I spared her the dread and decided to let the groomer review the procedure for her.  I am going to be the type of mother that hands her child a book when the "time" comes. 

For the next two days, both Harriet and I looked forward to our upcoming appointments.  I placed the small magnetic calendar that I received as a Christmas gift from my realtor at the bottom of the fridge, so that Ms. H could keep track of how many more days.  (Disclaimer:  I realize that dogs are not human and have no capacity for reading calendars, but acting as if they do makes life so much more fun, trust me.)  She actually seemed excited and took special care not to get too dirty outside. 

The morning of the appointment, as I sat drinking my coffee and planning my annual Blow-It-All birthday jackpot shopping spree, Harriet took her usual resting place (not a morning dog, at all), only glancing up at me every so often as I made my way around the house gathering coupons, lists, giftcards, and the like.  Occassionally, I would hear a long sigh escape from under her shaggy beard.  Finally, after I had everything in the car, I grabbed my keys and she sprung up, with a "WTF" look.  She was confused because usually the morning ritual culminates into me picking up her limp dead weight body and placing it behind the baby gate, with promises to return home at lunch.  Her look of betrayal said, "You forgot I existed, you bitch."  I held up her leash and her joy was boundless.  She ran to me, a wiggling loaf of bread, and I reminded her that today was "The Day"!


More confusion ensued as I encouraged her to ride shotgun.  Normally, Harriet travels in a crate, but not today.  Today, she would take the co-pilot seat.  Although this was due more to my laziness and lack of desire to wrestle the crate from the garage; I allowed Ms. H to believe that it was all about her and her preference.  She happily jumped in and off we went.  As we rode along, listening to talk radio (Harriet does not enjoy music), I considered telling her about the anal gland issue.  She settled into her seat and watched our progress on the navigation map and looked so happy and relaxed that I decided not to address it. 

We arrived, I filled out the papers, she was weighed (like a weight watchers weigh in, in front of everyone. I caught the sideways glance at me, as if to say, "Now, your turn, Cookie").  I bid her farewell and began my day of decadence.  I began at Target (my mecca) and was shocked that it took me 3 hours to wear out my giftcard.  Satisfied with my haul, I left there and treated myself to Shrimp and Grits at Buckley's lunch box.  I appreciate a quick lunch and this was the quickest ever.  The dish was good, better in New Orleans, but satisfying.  From there, I cruised over to Oak Court.  I had an agenda there, at Macy's, but decided to make Macy's my last stop.  After reviewing the offerings of Dillards, American Eagle, Trade Secret, and the like, I returned to Macy's with my special birthday coupon in my sweaty hand.  I had my eye on a couple of purses.  Actually, I had both eyes on one purse, a new patent candy colored Dooney and Bourke.  With my birthday money plus my coupon, I still would have had to fork over nearly $100 for this prize, and I second, third, and fourth guessed my way out of it; settling instead for two confectionary purses from a mid level brand.  Approaching the cash register, I whipped out my coupon and the clerk wished me a "Happy Birthday!", then told me to swipe my Macy's card.  Thinking that was kind of presumptuous, I corrected her and showed her my wad of cash.  "Oh, you have to use your Macy's card to get the discount".  REALLY?  Thanks, Macy's, for the non gift.  I cut up that card months ago after bickering with a card representative over being double charged for some underwear on my statement.  And really, for those that don't know, there is nothing more dignity depleting than arguing over drawers with someone wearing a headset.  So, feeling a tad bit deflated, I made my way over to the Lush counter for my obligatory bath bomb purchases before heading out. 

At this point, I received a text from a friend inviting me to grab a beer after shopping.  I had one more stop to make (Fresh Market...hooray!) and then I knocked back two Dos Equis and spent the rest of the afternoon checking my watch, counting the minutes until I could pick up her majesty.  When the alarm sounded, I collected my things and made a quick getaway.  Driving over to the vet, I felt weird.  I realized that in all of my 36 years, I had never felt the influence of alcohol in public before 4pm.  Not that I was drunk, I wasn't, it was just strange to realize that I had truly just had a truly leisurely day.  The sedative effect of the alcohol, combined with the stifling Memphis heat made me feel pleasantly sedate.  I arrived at the vet and leaned over the counter to report that I was there to pick up Harriet.  It was then that I had the realization that my breath may very well smell of beer.  All of a sudden, I felt a panic that they would not let Harriet go home with someone who had obviously laid up drinking beer all day.  As they paged Ms. H to the front, I envisioned a secret button being pushed under the desk, to alert the staff not to bring her up, but to instead call the police.  I decided that I was being too social worky about it, and wondered if I had accidentally smoked pot.  The vet tech came out moments later with a dog.  Wait, who is that dog?  I didn't recognize the shorn pup.

I slipped Harriet's new collar on and couldn't decide whether to bust out crying or laughing.  She didn't look anything like the scruffy loaf I dropped off hours ago.  This dog was sleek and clean.  And compliant.  I signed for her and paid her bill, hoping I had the right Harriet.  As we left, I led her over to a grassy area, figuring she would want to sniff, and wanting a little more time to reassure myself that it was indeed, Ms H.  Harriet wanted nothing to do with the grassy area, walking right over to the car as if to say, "Hurry.  Let's go.  They squeezed my ass.  I don't want to file a report or anything, but I am just telling you because I think you should know.  You just paid cash money to the people who squeezed my anal glands."  Harriet climbed into the car and took her seat.  I used this opportunity to snap a picture to send to my mom and my guy friend that this was actually Harriet.

Harriet was impatient with my lolly gagging, and was just ready to get the hell out of there.  I asked her if, all in all, she enjoyed her day.  She gave me a terse "phfffffft. whatever. yeah, kind of." and with that, I put the car in reverse and backed out of the space.  Looking both ways before crossing the busy highway, I glanced once again at the new/old dog in my passenger seat.  It must have been one hell of a day, and perhaps she ended it in the same fashion as I had...with a sedative:


Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Good Riddance Laura, You Bitch.

When I was 8 years old, I had a walkman.  Actually, I doubt it was an actual Walkman, probably more like a Coby or Emerson.  Anyway, it was an FM radio with headphones that I could clip to my rainbow belt.  I loved to listen to it, and I knew every song that came on B97FM out of New Orleans.  When I say every song, I mean EVERY song.  Each one.  No matter how obscure, if it was released as a single, I heard it.  And memorized it.  I was an emotional kid and I took music very seriously, and literally.  There was one song that would come on, and I would rip the headphones off my head and run get under my mother's arm because this song is quite possibly the saddest song ever.  I couldn't handle it.  I heard it all the way through one time, and knew that I must not ever listen again.  Ever.  I would cry and cry and my mother would try to explain that it was just a song, it didn't mean anything, blah blah blah.  But no, I was inconsolable.  "Think of Laura" by Christopher Cross made me want to die, at age 8.  What sealed the deal was that "General Hospital" used this song to score a montage of Laura (of Luke and Laura fame) flashbacks when she DIED.  Not being accustomed to the concept of a montage, it was more than my 8 year old mind or heart could handle.  I was afraid to turn on the radio, scared that the weepy strains would come on and then it would be too late.  A level 5 meltdown was sure to ensue.  The song was never popular (Gee, wonder why?).  So my question is this...If this song was never a popular hit, WHY IN THE HELL AM I BEING SUBJECTED TO IT IN WALGREENS 28 YEARS LATER????

I run into Walgreen's, as I do most every day, to pick up a couple of things.  This trip included buying nutrional shakes to supplement my dad's diet (because I am his dietician now, apparently).  I walk in to the tune of "Build Me Up Buttercup", a non offensive song.  I even hum along, cheerfully, as I stoop down to examine the nutrional shake offerings.  I am in no hurry, just taking my time picking out the most decadent looking ones.  And then I hear it..."Laura".  "Hey Laura".  "Laura".  Christopher Cross is mewing over the PA system.  OH NO! OH NO! I HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE!!! I exclaimed silently.  But, shit! I promised those shakes today and if I don't get them, my dad will lose more weight and become more unhealthy and it will be all my fault.  No.  It will be all Christopher Cross's fault.  I jerked up the first 12 pack I could get my hands on, completely disregarding my dad's preference or taste, as well as nutrional value; and headed for the check out.  Maybe I can make it before the first chorus.  DAMMIT!!! Is this "Senior Discount Day"??? FACK!!!  The old broad in front of me carefully leafed through her super shopper coupon book, matching up the coupons to the items on the counter.  La la la la la Leisure.  I am sweating now, and I can feel the tears begin to sting my eyes.  I contemplated just dropping the shakes and running out the door, but I do want to return to this Walgreen's in the future.  I considered just plunking down a twenty on the counter and bypassing the slow pokes.  And there's the chorus....

"Think of Laura, but laugh don't cry, I know she'd want it that way...hey hey"

Jesus.  I tried  to anger myself.  I thought about stupid men.  I thought about Gary Glitter's Rock and Roll Part 2 not being a real song.  I thought about drop kicking the old miser in front of me.  Nothing was working.  And there it is again....

"Think of Laura, but laugh don't cry, I know she'd want it that way...hey hey"

I try to think of other whiny Christopher Cross songs.  "Gonna ride like the wind, before I get old da da da da da da da", "And now I will never be the same without your love, I'll live alone and hide myself from behind my tears...and I....."  WTF? How am I the Christopher Cross lyric master?  I always hated Christopher Cross.  "When you get caught between the moon and New York City, I know it's crazy, but it's true"  What does that even mean?  Grandma Tightwad finally collected her fleet enemas and her Revoln Moon Drops and got the hell out of the way. 

The clerk asked me if I wanted to partake in today's special of Butterfingers, 2 for a dollar.  I answered her in a loud, distracting voice, "No. No I would not.  See, I am buying these shakes for my dad because he needs the extra calories since his recent open heart surgery, these are not for me because I don't need additional calories" (IS IT OVER YET?  NO! KEEP TALKING) "Now if you were offering say, packs of Marlboros, 2 for a dollar, I'd be all over that.  But, I guess you can't do that (IS IT OVER YET?  WAIT...YES!! SWEET JESUS!! IT IS OVER)"  I then shut my gotdamned mouth and felt instantly embarrassed at what had just transpired.  I then heard

"Jitterbug *snap snap* Jitterbug *snap snap* You put the boom boom into my heart...."

Really?  Now that I am about to leave, wet faced, the people left in Walgreen's get to enjoy WHAM!?  Walgreen's lost a lot of money today due to this muzak mishap.  I had at least 30 minutes to kill.  I could have dropped some serious cash in there had I not been run out by Christopher Cross.  Perhaps, had the rotation been reversed, I would have wandered over to the make up aisle, and then the shampoo aisle, and finally, topping off my basket in the quick snacks aisle.  But no.  I was forced to think of Laura.  But, it doesn't matter what Laura would have wanted.  Because instead of laughing, I cried. 

So, fack you, Laura.  I'm glad you're gone.

Monday, June 7, 2010

Pool Etiquette

Growing up, there was a pool in my hometown that was run by the CEA.  The Callaway Educational Association was a group that aimed to segregate and separate the children of my hometown, but as a young teenager, I didn't understand all that.  The way it worked was that parents had to be "sponsored" by current members and if the children were deemed promising (read: white) enough, and the parents could afford the dues, then the children would be allowed to swim at the pool in the Summer.  We were also permitted to use the rec building (rainy days) and the library (they had "Helter Skelter"!).  There was a public pool for everyone else.  Each child was given a membership card that must be presented upon request.  Funny, I never had to present the card.  Knowing what I know about "The Association" now, when I ran across this card a few months ago, I felt like I had found my old white hood and cape.  I now belong to the city pool here in my quaint little town, and while it is not segregated, there are different hours for "patrons" and the public.  This past weekend was opening weekend and I took advantage of the nearly $200 annual dues and attended patron hours.  It became clear after a while that Patron memberships had either been hugely discounted or simply handed out at the local Sav-A-Lot.  Here are a few things that I experienced this weekend, not in any sort of politically correct form:

Someone saved the whales.  And they deposited them at the city pool.  Sure, I had the yearly anxiety just before leaving the house about my year older figure and my age appropriate swimsuit.  I chose a sensible one piece in blue, knowing in the back of my mind that the Florida rule would be in effect.  In Florida, the amount of skin coverage decreases in proportion to the amount of skin one has.  I sign in, find my lounge chair, and cue up "The Carrie Diaries" by Candace Bushnell on my Iphone.  There are a few kids playing in the water.  Everyone seems to have a firm grasp on how to act.  That is, until the whale delivery occurred.  Next thing I know, a large woman plops right down on the concrete on the side of the pool, right in front of me.  She has two kids in tow, both equally plump and well on their way to their heritage of Type II Diabetes and heart disease.   This woman seems to know everyone there, both children and parents.  I hear her mention (loudly) that she is a teacher.  This woman could not have been any louder or brash.  She was downright rude when scolding the other children, but indulgent with her own.  Clearly, her kids were the only ones allowed to have fun.  What a nightmare that must have been for the other kids, to have to deal with this whale August through May, only to have to deal with a less clothed version of her June through August.  She spread a towel right on the concrete and beached herself.  While her kids hogged all of the swim fun apparatus, she laid there, dreaming about supper.  After approximately 10 minutes of swimming, her fat faced daughter demanded a snack.  The whale hoisted herself up, after pulling her massive leg to her chestal area and rocking back and forth a few times.  I swear I thought a bunch of toddlers were going to run up and try to ride her.  As she was rifling through her bag, the daughter screamed from mid pool that she wanted TWO bags of chips, not one.  "TWO MAMA!!!"  Of course she got two.  She always gets two, apparently.  After a while, Mr Whale showed up and it all became very clear.  Mr. Whale was cute and fit.  And miserable.  He is also a teacher.  I imagined them starting out as a young couple, newly minted degrees in hand, strains of "We've Only Just Begun" swirling around them as they marry and begin a family.  Fast forward ten years and here we are...Bertha is pushing 275, too busy indulging the kids to get her roots done, and always talking 3 decibels over a socially acceptable level.  I bet she makes him empty her ped egg.  I said a silent prayer to myself, "Please, please, please, don't let that happen to me...I'll do my part, I swear". 

Pink was there!  A large family filed in, after arguing with the clerk that they "just paid for the membership yesterday".  The mom had a punk hairdo and she looked exactly like Pink.  She had a silver lame bikini on, but at least she had the body for it.  Her husband was bald and fat, and had a braided beard.  There were some young teen girls with them, and a couple of 8-10 year old boys.  I can't put my finger on it, but there was something amiss here.  Dad was inked up and mom had the requisite tramp stamp.  Dad was waaaaaay too involved in the fun of those teen girls.  The boys ran around like banshees, with steel straight spines; the mark of some sort of family tree branch quirk.  The whole family was creepy.  They had bath towels, which I was pretty sure came from an Knights Inn.  The teen girls sat off by themselves, probably trying to decide if "it's okay to tell".  My innate social worker antenae went up immediately.

Next up, there was a goth woman in a black swimsuit.  She had the whitest skin I have ever seen.  Not that one must be tan to be attractive, but seriously, her skin had a blue tint.  It wasn't a beautiful creamy white, it was fish belly white.  And, marred with cystic acne on her back.  Bacne.  She got into the pool and all her goth started running down her face.  Mascara at the pool?  Really?  So, from the front she was a very large version of Alice Cooper; from the back, the surface of the moon.  I decided to steer clear of her while in the pool, afraid the heat and the chlorine would irritate those eruptions.  Turns out, it didn't matter.  I spied goth chic with her head cocked in an awkward position and her left arm wrapped over her right shoulder and that is when I realized...SHE IS POPPING THAT STUFF.  Right there in the middle of everything, this woman decides to let go of some of her infection.  AAAAUUUUGGGGHHHH!!!!!  I would have rather seen a band-aid float by.  I have never exited a pool so fast, except for the time I spotted Ronnie James Dio at the pool in St Pete, but this was no Ronnie James Dio.  This was a biohazard.  It was a scene from "The Garbage Pail Kids" playing out right before my eyes.  I hurredly gathered my things and got the Hell out of there. 

How I miss those lazy days at the CEA pool.  Watching the cool kids jump off the diving board.  Wishing I had the nerve to take the swimming test to get my "fish" (the tag that says it's okay for you to enter the deep water).  Enjoying a melting Snickers bar and ice cold Coke with my best friend, Tina.  Times sure have changed.  I won't let the horror show of opening weekend disway me; I'll be back every weekend.  I've got 26 more chapters to go in "The Carrie Diaries" and I sure hope it gets better. 

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

Just When I Thought It Was Safe...

Lately, I have found the many of the firm plans I made have crumbled around my feet.  I will format this post in a "Just When I Thought It Was Safe" format:

Just When I Thought It Was Safe To say out loud how much I want to join the roller derby but the only thing holding me back was my upcoming school schedule, my class gets cancelled.  Why does the Universe feck with me like that??  I am a 3 omen kind of gal.  When the first omen presents itself, I usually disregard it, if I even notice it (Omens are far more recognizable in hindsight).  I equate the first omen with a whisper...something I probably misunderstood (Did he say "Can I borrow your Kroger card" or "Can I call you some time?" When I am not paying attention, my hearing is awful).  The second omen is more like a poke.  Something I actually take note of, and consider.  The third omen, is like a shove.  I definitely notice and act.  The third omen is usually undeniable.  So, either the Universe just whispered to me, "You should totally try roller derby" or it breathed "You should totally wear your hair curly."  This bears watching.

Just When I Thought It Was Safe To quit dating and just be happy with the people currently in my life, I meet some guy who throws it into a tailspin.  It is far too early to say what is going on here, but I don't feel the usual dread and dodginess that normally accompanies meeting someone new.  I don't even know if I like this guy yet, but I am not repulsed by the notion of finding out.  I feel as though I am on the verge of something big here, not necessarily with the guy; but with something.  I can't put my finger on it, but it is a feeling that some things are about to change and my rigid comfortable life is about to be blown to bits.  This may be a good thing.

Just When I Thought It Was Safe To make new friends and schedule activities to fill up my free time, my free time has dwindled down to very little.  I had forgotten how much free time is lost with work.  And now that Saturday and Sundays are my "free days" again, I am not so open to giving them away like business cards.  For example, I obligated myself to SATC 2 last weekend and felt like I had lost 8 years in two AND A HALF hours.  I couldn't help but think wistful thoughts about the chaise lounge time I was missing out on.  I further obligated myself to additional plans for the upcoming weekend, then remembered that this weekend is the opening of the city pool.  City pool time is extremely important to me.  It is a time for me to immerse myself in water and dry in the sun, rinse and repeat.  All day.  Only to come home looking like a fresh from the oven biscuit and stretching out in the shade for a long summer's nap.  This is my idea of Heaven and there is only room for one in my Heaven.  So, being social and friendly is on Summer break, starting this weekend. 

Just When I Thought It Was Safe To let go of my first true love, my best friend sends me a picture of his HUGE wife snapped covertly on her cell phone.  For this prize, I have pledged my best friend the window bed at Shady Acres Rest Home when we move in.  My first true love dumped me at the 4th of July Fireworks Extravaganza on the banks of West Point Lake in 1991.  He dumped me for a skank named LeeAnn and I will forever harbor ill feelings towards this man (boy) stealing bitch.  They eventually married and I like to think that every day he wakes up next to the sow that she turned into and wishes he had made a different choice all those years ago.  In a twist of fate, his wife is the Summer school teacher to my friend's middle school sons.  She also directs the traffic.  I have renewed hope that he is miserable.  Here is proof:


Awesome.  And yes, I am petty. Sue me.  I loved that guy. 
So, there it goes.  Here's hoping for a not-so-safe Summer!!