Saturday I had “a day.” That means I was twice as caustic and toxic as I normally am. I was tired of sitting and looking at the four walls around me. I had been invited to a Memorial Weekend picnic so I went to my friend’s house. P.C.’s ex-girlfriend was there and I insulted her broccoli casserole because frankly it wasn’t as good as his and I don’t like her anyway. I don’t think she got it as she had started drinking way before me.
Once I had a few beers I felt a little better and got in the pool which was butt-fucking cold. I swam around a bit and then got out and sit with my bud, J.A., and we sunned ourselves and shot the shit with everyone. But I was bored and tired and not really in the mood to get completely shit-faced so I came home. I laid down to take a nap and almost immediately fell asleep.
The phone woke me up an hour later and that completely pissed me off. It was J.A. who had warned she would call to interrupt my nap. I didn’t answer. I mentally made plans to bang on her bedroom window at 8 a.m. as payback. Suddenly, I could hear the dog barking, the lawnmower running, birds singing, water dripping and the second hand ticking on a clock I didn’t own. SHIT!
I heard someone come onto Messenger and the sound of someone IMing me. It was the Beaufriend. I told Beaufriend I had to get out of this house. The four walls were killing me. He had plans to meet a friend/business partner but said he would check to see if he could put it off and would get back to me. Hmmmm…well that didn’t work out and I sensed a blow-off. I hate that. I informed him I was getting the hell out of dodge.
I didn’t want to go by myself but everyone was either tired, drunk or not interested and I thought briefly of making the 6 1/2 hour trip to Canada but figured all the bars would be closed by the time I got there which made the trip not only long and expensive but also worthless. So, my second choice was to go to Point Pleasant, WV, about an hour from my house to see if I could locate the Mothman Statue. It seemed like the thing to do at the time.
For those never fortunate enough to visit the bustling metropolis of Point Pleasant, WV, go at night. Its downright spooky. The last time I was there was in college. TNT as the locals called McClintick, the old ammunitions factory which was completely underground. There were igloos that came up out of the ground with spiral staircases leading into the vast government underworld. My understanding is they have since been uprooted and is now some kind of nature park.
The first time though they were still there and I got a glimpse of it. The locals were all hanging out, drinking beer and listening to music and did I mention they don’t like outsiders. They chased us out of there faster than rabbits fuck. My “date” for some reason did a 180 in the middle of the road, oh, it must have been that car chasing us, and sped us back up the roads toward home. YIKES!
That hasn’t changed much. As I drove across the bridge into the city I had the feeling that all the ghosts woke up. I’m particularly sensitive to those things. And having no idea where this damn statue was I drove around like a man not daring to ask directions. As I wound my way through the city I passed an old graveyard, making mental note to return, and groups of locals hanging out. They immediately made me as an outsider. I wanted to tell them that one of my great grandfather’s died on that soil in the first battle of the Revolutionary War and they could all kiss my ass.
However, using my keen sense of direction, I did find the statue of the Mothman and a wedding reception. Goes to show how odd the area is as they would have a wedding reception in an old hotel overlooking the Mothman. I walked along Main Street as intrigued by the locals as they were by me. The bridesmaids were tipsy and the other guests were weaving and singing like sailors. I sat for a while on the other end of the street behind the police station as youngsters staggered by me, obviously feeling no pain.
I made my way back down the street, hoping for an opportunity to inobtrusively photograph this legendary creature but the wedding party had moved outside and I decided I had caused enough of a stir. Obviously I was the sober one. The local young men hanging outside a pool hall were quite friendly. One asked if he could “take a ride” with me. I told him I didn’t feel like going to jail that night. He swore he was 18. I swear he looked 14.
That and the fact he had eyes like the Beaufriend stopped me from the need coursing in my veins to take him and taste the youngness of him and ruin him to any woman from now to eternity. I beat a quick path away from the Mothman and instead went to the cemetary and walked around getting my hem of my jeans wet in the dew, waiting for the cops to come by and ask what the hell I was doing in a cemetary past midnight.
I approached the bridge out of town with the trepidation that I had felt coming in. As I turned toward home, the brown eyes of the young one followed me and Point Pleasant whispered for my return.
I’ve developed a knack for giving friends complexes over my complexes. Something as simple as going down on my beaufriend can give me a complex. I’m one of those women who enjoys being between a man’s legs, anyway I can. Since the yoni was out of commission for her monthly, I decided I really wanted to spend some “quality” time with my man.
Problem (?) is, he’s all into pleasuring me, which is really a good thing when the yoni is in full swing and you won’t hear me complain. But, I do like to reciprocate and not because I feel like I have to but because I really just enjoy it.
But I think it gives him a complex, like he’s so not deserving a woman who loves giving a blowjob and ask for nothing in return. I’m sure if any men are reading this you’re scratching your head in wonder. Me too guys, me too!! How often does that come down the pike? Not nearly enough is my understanding. I’ve had two men in my past tell me they have never gotten off on a blowjob until I got a hold of them….??? Now that makes me wonder, however, I do take pride in my skills and quite frankly, it turns me on.
So, beaufriend is now acting wierded out, and I think he has a complex about it. Then again, I may just have a complex about thinking that he has a complex about it. Now my friends are complaining that I’m giving them a complex.
All this over a damn blowjob. Hee hee, but it was worth it.
Hello friends and others…friends first since they will be reading this first and may be the only folks to read it. So, thanks to whoever you are. P.K.C. I finally put some of my drunken musings in a public forum, check back for more after this weekend. It looks like it will be a wild ride.
For the rest of you..I have a kid and 9 cats. Not vice versa, I am still breathing and typing and yelling at the one kid. This is my extra-ordinary, and I do mean ordinary life. You will find bits of wisdom here, probably a lot of drunken rants that I take for wisdom and a bunch of potty mouth talk that my mother would wash my mouth out with soap over if she found out.
I work in the legal profession. Contrary to popular belief and Erin Brokovitch’s, not all lawyers are back-stabbing, scum sucking parasites, and I happen to work for the only 3 in the world who are not. No one will be named by name, you learn that in a law office, but you may recognize yourself but its purely by coincidence.
I don’t care much for stupid people and I make fun of them on a regular basis. If this is you, pass the brain cell you’ve been sharing with the other members of your family and see if you can figure out how to nail jello to a tree. If you think I’m stupid, you’re brain cell is bouncing and you should drink a case of beer, shoot out the windows of your own pick-up and blow up your double-wide with your meth lab.
I do have a beaufriend…I’m sure you’re feeling pretty sorry for him about now, but truly, I can be kind and loving, just not in the mood right now. Want sex? Anytime baby. Want kind and loving? Take a number. You really believe that out of a woman? What turnip wagon did you just fall off of?
You’re probably feeling sorrier for the child…that would be my darling Hyper-Boy-Who-Hates-School. After 14 doctors and $25,000 in medical bills, not to mention that 14″ head when he came out, gives me the right to call him whatever I want so get your finger off the speed dial to Child Services. There is no child in the world who can tell a better knock-knock joke and he’s so damn cute when he does it! He’s 7 by the way.
His dad, now there’s a Made-For-TV-Movie just waiting to happen. I’m sure you’ll be hearing more about him later…no need to spoil the fun ahead of time.
And then there’s my mother, who attempts to give love life advice although she’s slept with and been married to the same man for 40 years and still cries that she doesn’t know where she stands. Again, I’ll not spoil the fun ahead of time.
So, that’s the introduction, I’ll try not to be so long-winded the next time. Welcome to Anything Goes.
You know its no wonder that America struggles with obesity. I mean, they put the bloody cookie and crackers in the baby aisle, right there opposite from the diapers and the formula are the fucking cookies. If the kids don’t want them then the parents definitely need them.
And let me tell you how I wandered around the store, in awe that I was there with 10 men, 2 of which I’m sure were “partners” if you get my quotes. One fellow was looking at the cheese while I’m perusing the beer. Taking out my handy-dandy cell phone which also has a calculator so that I may compute the cost of a bottle of beer. It was 72 cents. And I pay how much at a bar? Oh, I think I’ll be staying home and drinking by myself more often. Its more fun too. No need for makeup, nice clothes or even underwear AND I get to listen to the music I want to listen to.
Like Damn Yankees, Styx and Winger. “I was a loner, cruising with the wind, I wasn’t lookin’ when you put me in, I had to leave you like I always did, you knew damn well I’d come again. Now I’m falling, where I’ve never been, My resistence is wearing thin, somewhere in the distance, like a long lost friend, oh oh oh, yeah a yeah ah, Lord here I come again. . . come again.”
Don’t care what anyone says, that’s a damn good song, 80’s long hair or not. “When I finally get my hands on you, tell you what I’m gonna do, lay you down, strip you bare, make love to you ‘til the morning comes around.” Now that’s a goddamn love song!!
None of that exceptionally obscene Yanni shit or Celine Dion, “my heart will go on.” Any girl who wants to hear that shit needs her fucking head examined because if a guy can’t throw you on the bed, rip your fucking clothes off and make you happy all night long I sure as hell don’t want him waiting for me at the end of the fucking movie on a goddamn ghost ship. Oh, I forgot, he did rip her clothes off in a corset sort of way. Or was it she? You know, I think he was tryin’ to be all noble, noble sucks, she has to look at him and say “touch me Jack.” Or some stupid something like that. What the bloody hell?
The best love stories though are the ones that include drugs and money like “Scarface” and “Blow.” Al Pacino, Johnny Depp, yeah, I could love them. Of course I wouldn’t mind taking a trip back to say the late 60’s, early 70’s because Robert Plant could really fill out a pair of hiphuggers. And if he couldn’t? Well, I’d be more than glad to hug his hips for him, on my knees. Yeah, he was HOT! Now, well, you need a relief map to find his mouth but hey, we all have our problems.
I digress, back to the grocery store. I almost cracked myself up a few times because I kept wanting to break into song, like the Pirate Song and quote lines from Pirates of the Carribean. (Rolling like thunder, from above I’ll take you there,
I’ll take you higher than you’ve ever been before, Now come on, yeah, You’ve got to, Tell me how you want it (won’t you tell me), Tell me what you want me to do – another fine love song from our friends Damn Yankees).
Once again, I digress. Aside from wanting to call everyone “Captain” and “mate” I’ve taken to acting quite a bit like Jack Sparrow, the weaving part, not to mention the accent. Something between, oh I don’t know, French, English, Australian and Irish. So, I’m walking around, seemingly lost, but I do have a rag tag assortment of shit in my buggy. The mega super supply of toilet paper. You know like 30 double rolls. Its myself and a small child. But hell, I figure everyone needs shit paper, shit happens. And an 18 pack of Icehouse, which is supposed to be for New Year’s Eve, but I got an early start.
Now me, I think its fucking hilarious that I have all this party stuff, the little wieners, meat to make meatballs, deviled ham, cream cheese and crackers, the beer and this huge fucking package of toilet paper, oh and milk, because I needed milk. I must feed the small child in my house milk you see. Just 10 ½ more years and there will be more room in the refrigerator for beer. Oh, you found me out, Mother of the Year material I am not.
Anyway, so, I get this feeling that I’m being “checked out” and not by the cashier. He was your typical teenaged young alcoholic in the making with incredible dark brown eyes with insanely long lashes that I could teach a few things. In other words you young punk, I’ve forgotten more than you’ll ever know. And I know this because I’m a female, therefore I forget nothing and you being male forget everything not directly connected to beer, football, baseball, and basketball, in that order. Of course you could be a little different, it could be beer, hunting, fishing and Nascar or any combination of the above.
I did feel sort of feel like the “odd man out” since I was the only female, until I realized in front of me in the checkout line was actually another female. She could have passed for a man but I didn’t say anything. I just freaked her out by weaving my way past her to grab a magazine and I notice that dark brown eyed, incredibly long lashed cashier was away from his post and I looked at her, in a very Jack Sparrow sort of way, and I said, “ I suppose we’re in a holding pattern here, eh?” Her eyes got very big and she didn’t answer, can’t figure out why.
So, I’m on my way to my car, keep in mind I’m sober and I don’t want to be. I see a bunch of young persons, kids, hooligans, what have yous, hanging out and true to form, I don’t think first of my person, or my purse, I’m thinking, “I will stomp the living shit of anyone who tries to take my beer.” And no, I don’t take medication for that, what’s that word? Oh, um, you know, paranoia. I like being paranoid, keeps me on my toes.
I told you I’m in this Jack Sparrow mood. Well, if you don’t know who Jack Sparrow is then go and rent “Pirates of the Carribean: The Curse of the Black Pearl.” Actually I’m in more of a Captain Barbossa mood. And you don’t know who that is see the second sentence of this paragraph. Anyway, I told my boss today that I was disinclined to acquiesce to his request. He said “in other words you would like to be fired.” I said, “on second thought, I would so inclined to acquiesce to your request with continuous gluteus maximus smooching.” Never try to out-argue the man whose name is on the door, the letterhead and the mortgage.
I just finished my third beer and I’m trying to decide whether I want another one even though it is getting a little difficult to type. I mean, if I don’t, then I have an odd number of beers left. That’s make me wonder about the synchronicity of it all. Aye, it makes me wonder a lot of things. None of which I should put in writing. Okay, maybe I could put it in writing but then what would be the consequences? Probably nothing, because I never get a straight answer anyway.
I think I’ll just smoke another cigarette. I mean, cigarettes are fairly simple, you light them, you suck on them, they go away. Which leads me to the conclusion that all cigarettes are male.
So, that was my trip to the grocery store, savvy?
So, my question of the week, of the month or of a lifetime is what is with the adage, “look on the bright side” or “look for the beauty in life.” What about the simple, stupid, and banal? If you don’t seek that which is commonplace what luck do you have to recognize anything above it?
Look at any issue of Cosmopolitan, one hundred and one ways to love your lover or leave your lover or cook for your lover or something along those lines. I must say that should come after the article entitled, “How to Spot a Clean Man to be Your Lover.” Let’s concentrate on getting one that doesn’t appall us the moment we’re done with the hoochie. This is the practical, and often boring, side of life but an important one.
What about navel lint? Should you really date a man with navel lint? Its logical if a man pays attention to that small, unassuming hole located in the lower middle abdominal wall and has no use whatsoever, then he’s going to pay attention to other matters of hygiene. I would also suggest paying careful attention to the toenails, as what part of the male anatomy is going to be looked at least, unless you have a fetish for such things.
With practicality comes boredom and a certain irritation for conversations that are as stimulating as watching paint flake. By that measure, we are all in the same boat, kinsmen in a rowing competition across the endless sea of life having nothing more to look forward to than death. I’ll not postulate about the existence of life after death, reincarnation, yin, yang, karma, and nirvana, let’s just stick to death, whether emotional, physical or spiritual, eventually it will happen and you may still be breathing.
No one wants to be part of the crowd or normal anymore, that’s why we compete, but in a race that’s going to end the same way, time after time. Imagine though if you were a kernel of corn, nestled tightly in your cob with a hundred other unfortunate blokes and you have been left to plump beyond full, losing your pleasing texture and sweetness, like Great-Aunt Rosemary who really let herself go after she whelped her third brat and now wears polyester and pets her facial hair over the soup. That fuzzy little moustache is going to be the last thing you see before she slams you into her buck teeth, ripping you from your moorings and if you’re lucky, you’ll dribble out of the corner of her mouth, onto her generous bosom, and she’ll remember you as she scrubs away your stain.
An ear of corn is a simple concept that can bring about the most banal of exchanges. Do you, for example, eat your corn side to side or around? Who cares? Who cares whether its named Silver Queen, Golden King, Queer Charles or Sister Mary Goldeneye? A farmer, that’s who. A farmer who would carefully explain the differences between the types of corn and why the Silver Queen suddenly developed a “goldeneye” kernel, which would be due to cross-pollination with a Golden King. Hanky-panky in the cornfield, makes me wonder what Indian corn cross-pollinated with.
What about the slogan “Dare to be Different?” That’s not really hard to do as we’re all different. How about, “Dare to be Mundane?” Some people would find it difficult to be ordinary and normal, your’s truly included. How would you classify something as “different” anyway? Think hard about what would shock you or you would deem to be “different” from everything else, the norm, if such a thing exists. Is simply being mundane different? Is watching sunsets and reciting the phrase, “red sky at night, sailors delight, red sky in the morning, sailors warning” as mundane or as different as looking for rainbows in oil puddles, playing in the rain or singing in the shower?
It seems as though everything has to have a purpose or its not worth doing. I disagree. I’m tired of looking for a forest in a book of matches, a wildfire in a candle flame, and love from a simple smile. I will blow dandelion seeds and expect to see dandelions, play in the rain and expect to be wet. I will find rainbows in oil puddles and recite stupid sayings at sunsets. I will pick ripe corn from the garden, and carve pumpkins at Halloween.
I will be boring and simple, commonplace and normal, banal and practical, just like always and the beauty and brightness, the difference it makes, will come with it.
Blondness overrode brains the first time I saw a sign that said “Signal Ahead.” To me, signal meant “to signal” as in, “which direction are you going dear?” Of course it means that there is a stoplight ahead that may be hidden from view until that 20 miles over the speed limit you were going becomes a real problem when traffic is stopped 1/4 of a mile from “the signal.”
I wish occasionally that little “Signal Ahead” sign would pop up in a dream or in the middle of the road on a tipsy night as a warning that your beloved is about to detour. I remember thinking as a child that “up” was “north” and “down” was “south.” Of course when your relatives live “down South” you can understand this bit of confusion.
Imagine you’re puttering along on a nice easterly course, something like a tornado cutting through Kansas, when suddenly the newest love of your life cuts off the main road and begins heading south. Do you follow? Does a bear shit in the woods? When a man has a sullen look on his face do you ask “what’s wrong?” Of course, like a lemming, you follow.
But where was the signal? There are no signal lights on the road of love, bumps yeah, signal lights, NOOOOO. Why is this? Because we’re inane when it comes to figuring the signals that others send us. We all have our own agenda and read that again if you disagree.
No, no, no don’t hand me that crap about how you want the two of you to agree on your course of action. Be honest and admit, YOU HAVE AN AGENDA. You merely hope the other person’s agenda matches yours or they may be sufficiently swayed, through sex or food or both, together, to agree with your agenda. That’s why we can’t figure each other out.
“Ah ha moments” aside, eventually you get the picture. And then its the same old boring “why didn’t I see the signs?” BECAUSE YOU HAD YOUR OWN AGENDA!! Work with me here! The signs are there, we just choose to ignore them. Then again, it could be like that drip, I seem to be a drip-magnet, the one that always slows down to turn onto to a different street, to go in a different direction and never turns a blinker on and that’s me, the blonde in the black car, yelling, “SIGNAL!”
And while we’re at it, back on that easterly course in Kansas, why wasn’t there a witch of the south mentioned in “The Wizard of Oz?” To keep you from going back to watch the film, you have the Wicked Witch of the East, the house fell on her folks, and we know the WWotW and Glinda, GWotN…South? Hello? Am I the only one of thinks of these things? See, I didn’t signal…isn’t that annoying?