Sunday, June 28, 2009


A week ago today it was raining. It was also my day off and Father's Day. Did I mention the weather sucked? Rather than go lounge in my sister's pool, Mancub and I ventured out for lunch and a movie. Initially we had intended on seeing ... I can't remember. But we were late for the starting time and I'm one of those people who prefers arriving early. I need to be settled in to view the flick and not rushing in the dark theater only to trip over some dipwad's big foot sticking out in the aisle. Due to the time circumstance we watched Land of the Lost. It's a complete sidestep from the television series. However, because it's clear that I have a 12 year old boy's sense of humor, I laughed hysterically right along with Mancub.

The work week was pretty typical. Sadly, the economy is taking a toll on business. I'm grateful to be working full-time (a relative term since full-time is considered working 30 hours.) and my benefits remain intact.

Friday finally brought me sunny day off. Mancub woke from the dead just before noon. I had already arranged with Maureen to invade her backyard with our presence. Though I am a fan of my pasty skin, I decided to try on a little color. Sunscreen is my ever companion in the summer sun and I don't skimp on using it. How I ended up with a great deal of pink is beyond me. I suspect my left over sunscreen from last summer is to blame. Duh. Aloe to the rescue. New and better smelling sunscreen was purchased. All will be right in the world.

Call me She-Hulk. I stopped 18,000 gallons of water from flooding my sister's yard. Yep. I didn't do it with bubble gum or magic, either. While Maureen and Kris were en route to pick up the boys from the movies, I lounged in the backyard reading People. Mancub was inside chilling after an afternoon of frolicking in the pool with the mama. I hadn't been in the chair for more than five minutes when I heard the gush of water. The hose that feeds the water back into the pool had come off!!! With a leap and a bounce (of the boobs) I picked up the hose and stuck it back in the hole. The hose clamp wasn't secure. I could see that it had been barely tightened at the end of the pvc that protruded from the side of the pool. We noticed earlier that the pressure seemed a lot higher than it had on a previous day. I would later learn that Kris had added chemicals and switched the power of the filter to 'high' to mix it. Unfortunately, with the hose clamp barely hanging on, it eventually blew it off.

Drenched and standing in mud (the pool is newly installed), I feared electrocution if I let go of the hose and unplugged the filter. It took all my body weight to hold the hose in place. My thought was that if the switch was nearby, I could reach it with my long, ugly big toe and turn it off. I've managed to pick things up and shut valves off with my feet, surely a switch wouldn't be much of a challenge. FINDING THE SWITCH WAS A CHALLENGE.

I was screaming like an ape-shit banshee. I kept yelling Mancub's name. I prayed a neighbor would hear my cries for help. Nothing. I would have been in serious trouble had I been under seige of chubby chasing ninjas. GAH!

Finally, after 10 - 15 minutes of screaming at the top of my lungs and intermittently laughing and crying at the potential tragedy, Mancub peeked out the patio door and calmly said, "Mom, did you call me?"

Yes, in that 10 - 15 minute time frame varied expletives erupted from my mouth. If the neighbors did hear, they probably passed it off as a torrential attack of Tourette's.

In a total panic I insisted he get his butt over to the filter and find the switch. But first he had to put on his flip flops!! Jeez! I'm standing in mushy mud and, by this time, my arms were weak, and he has to put on his f'ing shoes.

The switch can't be found. In panic I instruct him to find my cell phone and call Maureen. While holding the hose with the left hand, I hold the cell with the right. By that time I am too frazzled to coherently instruct Mancub where to find the switch or which plug will ease the situation. I hand him the phone because, while I do have great upper body strength, I AM NOT SHE-HULK! He's now spazzing that he can't find the switch. So, with a great struggle he manages to unplug the filter.

FINALLY! I can let go of the hose. It remains attached yet leaking.

We go in search of a screwdriver. I find a little, stubby Craftsman flat head that will make do. With the aid of Mancub, I loosen the clamp and slide it further down the pvc pipe and secure it. Though, it's hard to get a lot of torque with such a dwarf sized screwdriver.

Margarita time.

By the time Kris and Maureen return, I was back to lounging on the patio reading People. Mancub was chasing Teddy, the little pooch, around the neighborhood. He made a run for it when I opened the patio door with my margarita. There was no way in hell I was taking off after him. My good deed for the day was done.

The pool installers will be getting an earful. There was a serious potential of losing a lot of water not to mention burning out the filter.

The upside: My arms got a work out.

The downside: My arms ache.

The upside: I didn't turn GREEN in my She-Hulk state.

The downside: I turned RED from not reapplying sunscreen prior to my She-Hulk state.

The upside: I know where the filter switch is located.

The downside: The neighbors think I'm the "insane sister."

The upside: I had material for my blog.

I need a vacation. STAT!

Friday, June 26, 2009

Look over your shoulder, honey!

I heard the news while at work. I didn't cry nor did it feel the same way as when John Lennon was shot and killed. Heartbreak for the children didn't tug at me as it did with Princess Diana was tragically killed in a motor accident. It was as if a little piece of my childhood passed away. And for that, there is sadness.

I've written before that the Jackson 5 helped shaped my personal love of music. It was Michael's "Look over your shoulder, honey!" that developed one of my earliest celebrity crushes. The color of his skin had no relevance. In my little girl mind, Michael was singing for me.

I cut that record off the back of a Sugar Crisp cereal box. It was one in a series. It wobbled on the turntable, but oh how I loved that song. I would wait for that famous line to come on and sing right along.


Fast forward to my freshman year in high school. With time to kill in the afternoon a few of us are gathered around the piano that is on stage in our high school auditorium. A young man who sported an Afro similar to Michael Jackson's is playing and singing. It's a song I had never heard, but caused me to immediately fall in love with its melody. It's sad. "She's Out of My Life." I learn that it's on my childhood icon's record, "Off the Wall." I never purchased the album but would later borrow it from a friend. In old school style, I copied it to cassette tape.

From then on my love affair with MJ would be all about the music again.

It's difficult to separate his personal life from the genius of his music, but I managed as have many other millions. If we judged people based on their behind-closed-doors activity and refused to consume their product or abide by their policy we'd never vote politicians into office, watch movies, listen to music, read books, look at art ... we'd never have friends and we'd shun our families. Agoraphobia would be first nature.

I'm not about post mortem hero worship. Don't get me wrong and please don't think I'm justifying any wrong doing on his part. What I am saying is that his melodies evoke emotion that takes me to a particular place in my life. I am not a psychiatrist and I'm not qualified to make observations about his alleged warped childhood or adulthood.

I am a music fan. If you have issue with that, well, all I can offer is this ...

mamasay mamasa mamacusa!!

Thursday, June 25, 2009

A tall drink of water

OK, I'm a tall chick. I'm not a rail thin supermodel tall chick. Let's just say my curves make an entrance before I do. There's no secret that I battle with my weight and the weight usually wins. That's not what this is about.

I recently signed up on dating website. I'm not revealing which one because I do like to keep some things private. In my profile I state that I am a plus-size "thick" woman of 5'11". Due to my height and size I prefer a man bigger and as tall if not taller than me. I have taken about as much flack for such a preference than I can bear. Men who are shorter seem to give me guff for "setting such a specific parameter therefore limiting the dating pool."

Now, my argument is that many women who are much shorter than I prefer men who tower over them. A lot of men that I know who are taller than me prefer petite women. I don't throw a fit and tell them they are fools for having such specific desires. I accept it as a preference. We all have them in the grand scheme of mating and dating.

This is not to say that I haven't dated shorter men. I have. Their personalities were so dynamic that I didn't give much thought to seeing the top of their heads rather than looking directly in their eyes or up at them.

Here's the rub on the whole issue about height and dating: Points are not scored by telling me I'm insecure and lacking in confidence. Do not tell me I'd be worth the climb as if I'm Mount Kilimanjaro. Doing so makes me envision Jane Goodall with a chimp on her hip. Not the picture you want induce if you're making an attempt to woo me. Informing me that we're all the same height when horizontal is a worn out phrase that was never amusing or remotely enticing. Stop it.

It's not as if I've specifically painted a picture of a man whom I want to spend my life with. I don't limit hair or eye color. I don't care if a man has hair. There is no definite weight or body type to which I am attracted.

The bottom line of this rant is that I'm not the insecure dude with short man syndrome. Putting a woman down because she knows what she prefers is not a means of exuding one's self confidence. In my profile I lay it on the line. It's there in print that I prefer tall men. I don't hint around about it. I'm a freakin' Amazon woman! So, if you're a shorter-than-me guy why bother? Fine, they think I'm cute and found other aspects of my profile charming. Groovy. They tell me. I say thank you. Then, I get blindsided with objections to my height preferences. It's not as if I'm the only woman left on earth. There are thousands of women out there looking for a knight in aluminum armor ... as tiny as it may be.

I k n o w the dating pool is getting shallow with each year that I age. I'm fully aware that beggars can't be choosers. But I am not begging! I've lived a single life since '99. I've done quite well with only an occasional date or a brief relationship. You see, I don't n e e d to be in a relationship to feel normal or happy. I w a n t to share my life with someone because I'm a damned amazing woman and that should be shared, don't you think? *snort*

image borrowed from where she claims to be the tallest woman on earth ... nice platforms, babe.

Sunday, June 21, 2009

When I was a little girl I dreamed

When I was a wee little lass I had dreams. They weren't monumental nor were they about saving the world. There were no delusions of grandeur about impacting the world with my vocal prowess. With limited intelligence, there was never a chance I'd solve the universal questions. My average qualities kept me grounded. My parents never pushed me in any one direction. They hadn't mapped out my future.

So, as I set out into adulthood, I wandered and just took a path that seemed comfortable. Sometimes that path was well tread upon. Periodically, I'd traverse the unknown and stumble upon disappointment and disillusionment. Always a lesson to be learned while taking the road less traveled.

Never in my dreams as a little girl did I envision myself as a single mom. I dreamed of a lovely home complete with the dreamy husband. Then, my needle off the record moment occurred. Divorce, debt and disembowelment of dreams. No matter. My parents might have never given me distinct direction, but I did learn how to manage and survive when faced with crisis and change of plans or lack thereof.

As a single mom I pray that I am teaching my son that nothing can keep us down.

Today, I dedicate this song to my siblings and myself. I love you.

Saturday, June 20, 2009

"Happy Father's Day, Marissa"

When someone wishes me happy Mother's Day in May, I smile and gush a little over the joys of being Mancub's mom. There's no denying that I feel I was born to be a parent. Little did I realize when I became a mother that I'd fill the role of both parents. Mancub's father and I divorced in '99 and, for the most part, I have carried the load of taking care of business. They'd spend time when I was working on weekends, but if I wasn't working Mancub was with me. Financially it all rests on my shoulders, as well.

So, in 2005 we packed up what we could carry on a plane and moved to Illinois. Mancub's father didn't follow as hoped or tentatively planned. He packed up what he could carry in a van and moved to Texas. Since that time there is little visitation and periodic communication. Mancub welcomes any and all that he can get from his dad. Yes, when he isn't looking I roll my eyes and try not to gag. It's trivial to me, but monumental to the boy.

Each year when Father's Day makes its appearance on the calendar I become squeamish. Do I remind Mancub that he's welcome to call his dad? He's his father, but Cletus is not what I envisioned as a dad for him. I'm disappointed in my choice, but there isn't a lot I can do.

Well, there is a lot I do. I bought him his first razor and taught him to shave his face. I'm desperately trying to teach him to ride a bike. I may not be able to teach him how to swing a bat or throw a football, but I have to be enough woman to wear the pants in this household. Mancub's father is welcome to be part of his life as much as he chooses. I have no control over the amount. That ball is in his court. While it's easy to not have disputes over the manner in which he is raised, I pray for Cletus to wake up and smell the coffee. He's missing out on someone phenomenal ... and I get all the glory.

Today, my friend and co-worker, Jennifer, was leaving to spend the day with her husband on their anniversary. Before she left she motioned for me to come to her. With a handshake and a 'guy hug' she wished me a very happy Father's Day. This isn't the first time a friend wished me a happy Father's Day, but whenever it occurs I well up with tears. I'm more deeply touched with such a sentiment than the wishes on Mother's Day. That's not to say that those sentiments aren't warmly embraced. It's the fact that people recognize that I am both parental roles to my son.

Mancub did buy his dad one of those sound cards. It's sitting in a pile awaiting postage. Perhaps I subconsciously failed. I did take him shopping for the car 4 weeks ago, though. Partial credit?

I want to take the opportunity to wish all the fathers that read my blog a very joyous day. I hope you're active in his/her/their life. It doesn't take a village to raise a child. It requires love that comes from home ... even if that home only has one parent.

Happy Father's Day!

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Here and There

Today ...

... I saw a woman with her hair colored, cut and styled like Kate Gosselin of blah blah 8 kids yada yada. She was a pregnant woman who, while ordering her food in the food court sounded like Meg Ryan in "When Harry Met Sally." She was accompanied by a man whom I assume to be her husband -- he seemed whipped and or brow beaten. He cowered as she proceeded to order. Presumed child numero uno barely uttered a word as mama ordered for him/her, too. I don't know if the kid was a boy or girl. I was fixated on the exhausting order of the cockatoo head. The woman couldn't have been more picky or precise about how much ice in her Dr. Pepper, the number of olives and tomatoes on her burrito "no beans, please," or how crispy she desired her Potato Ole's to be cooked (for those not in the Taco John's region, they are essentially flat tater tots with seasoning sprinkled on top). I have to mention that her nose was sharply angled exactly like Lois Griffin's shnoz on The Family Guy. Such things don't usually draw my attention, but she could cut glass with the tip of her nose. Just sayin'!

OK, I paid a little too much attention and maybe I felt compelled to tell her that the hair style didn't work for her and that in the short time I was in her presence I felt the urge to smack her upside the head for bearing such a confused hair cut. However, I do not abuse the elderly, pregnant women or children. Not literally. Only in my mind where it's safe. I was certain the poor girl working behind the register was thinking about smacking her, as well. The girl was working solo and hadn't started making my food because Ms. Particular was babbling. I suspect our reasons for wanting to reach out and flick Lois Picky Pants in the angular casaba weren't the same, but who cares. It didn't happen beyond our thoughts.

Judge me. Tell me I'm cranky, evil and just down right horrendous. It's OK. Facebook tells me I'm a demon and so badass that I'll die by means of cutting off my own head in front of a school bus.

I can take the heat.

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

I prefer a little sugar on my crow

Last Thursday (June 11) I paid a visit to The Deal Divas' blog on because writer Stephanie Hayes covered the recent cosmetic prescription to hit the scene. It's being promoted by Brooke Shields. The claim is that this product will help eyelashes grow thicker. Latisse is the brand name. The blog post is short and provides links for information about the product. No, I didn't click and read. That, apparently, was my first mistake.

My second mistake was voicing my opinion on money wasted for cosmetic reasons without having done research first. I didn't realize that research was required to comment on a blog about fashion. I assumed the information I needed was contained within the content of the original blog item. I blindly jumped up on my soapbox. I should know better, but I was irritated for whatever reason ... probably from being bombarded with Enzyte commercials that day.

Today I returned to see what the Divas were offering up and I discovered that I struck a nerve with some of their readers with my thoughtless and unresearched comment. Clearly, I was out of line because three comments were directed at my remark. Most of the comments that followed mine were polite with information that the drug wasn't originally designed for eyelash growth but for glaucoma relief. The final comment directed at me was made by a woman (I assume she's a woman as I can't do research) who goes by the name Mrs. Mike. To you I say, "your comment wasn't only rude, but gives overkill new meaning." There are a number of things I'd like to say but it's probably best I just eat crow and learn from the lesson that homework is a never ending process in life.

With the knowledge that Latisse was not intended as a cosmetic prescription -- developed by Allergan -- I wonder what other over the counter items or prescription drugs were developed with an entirely different remedy in mind.

Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?

What do my dreams tell me?

Sunday was spent mostly resting. I'm not one for naps and if I happen to zonk out it's not intended. A cat nap at best, but Sunday brought a new name for nappyland. I slept for three hours and felt as though more could have been had. Seeing the clock jolted me awake as dinner needed to be prepared for Mancub. I always feel guilty when I'm home and not making the most of the time spent with him. We may be grounded to the house due to lack of funds, but quality time can be watching a movie or program on television together.

My return to work after four days off was relatively uneventful. I wasn't hit with a barrage of news about things gone awry. One associate told me it seemed that I took more time off and that I was missed. That's always a welcome thing to hear.

Once I got home from work around 7:00 PM, I quickly prepared mini-burgers for Mancub. Having only eaten my lunch around 2:30 I wasn't feeling hungry. Since I hadn't had my Shakeology for the day, that chocolate drink served as a filler until real hunger set in.

Mancub and I watched Beetlejuice. Considering Michael Keaton only had about 15 minutes of screen time, he made that movie what it is. Great movie even today. Quality time with my son. I really get a kick out of him loving movies that were popular from my youth. Now I understand why my Mom loved watching old movies with the kids.

Bedtime beckoned around 10:30. Of course I didn't go to sleep immediately. I turned on Forensic Files. When I started to fall asleep during the second installment I flicked off the tube and fell into slumber. That's when the weirdness began.

I don't usually have vivid recollection of dreams. So, this will be spotty at best. There's rarely a continuous flow or storyline in my nocturnal mental releases. I wish they played out more like a mini-sode. So, if you're ready, here goes ...

The dream begins in what appears to be a school. A college setting to be exact. I know this by the other students milling about and the type of courses being discussed. I'm with a man who bears a striking resemblance to Christopher Plummer circa The Sound of Music. I'm not sure if I'm a student or an employee of the college because I am in the office of this man and we are canoodling behind closed doors. I feel a great sense of mutual admiration and comfort. He asks if I have concern over our age difference. To which I reply that age is merely a number and I'm happier than I've ever been with another person.

Jump forward. I'm in a stair case that is open. I can see other people climbing the stairs on floors above me. I spy the subject whose arms I had been entwined in previously. I smile and wave. He gives a flippant, casual wave. The kind of wave you give to someone you either don't recognize or don't want to openly acknowledge to those around you. Also, the man's image has gone from Christopher Plummer to this man. Yep. Dean Wormer. Oof! I awakened with question in my mind. Maybe eating that egg white and spinach omelet at 9:00ish wasn't a good idea.

I know I had another dream once I fell back to sleep. Recall is about as clear as the bottom of the river after a heavy rain. So, you'll have to be content with that goofy arsed dream with Captain Von Trapp.

Sunday, June 14, 2009

We're Not Gonna Take It! Relay for Life 2009

Yesterday was a fabulous success. I have no idea what the financial tally ended up being. The success comes from family coming together to walk for such a brilliant cause: Relay for Life: American Cancer Society.

Our team, Hunger For a Cure, was one of 150 teams. I overheard that our local event increased the team number by 30. Now I know why it was nearly impossible to find a reasonable parking spot. Walking isn't a problem until you're toting a big, honkin' metal Coleman cooler full of ice and water bottles. OK, so I didn't actually tote it. I pulled up near the main entrance and my nephew Michael met me at the gate.

During the opening ceremonies, former American Idol Season 7 contestant Luke Menard performed two songs. His family is local to Kankakee and he is also a cancer survivor. Everyone felt blessed to have him present. He played guitar and sang two songs. My mind is completely drawing a blank, but he sang compassionately and beautifully. I was on the track and didn't get an opportunity to snap any photos of him while he performed. A barrage of fans quickly surrounded him when he stepped off the grandstand. Again, I made an attempt to speak with him and get a photo, but there were young kids scrambling ahead of me. Maureen told me he performed a second time when I made a run to K-Mart for sodas and cash at the ATM. Poopy.

What I consider another highlight is the invitation to participate in a Cancer Prevention Study. With cancer being too prevalent in my family tree, I happily signed up. A short personal survey and 4 vials of blood later, I am part of a study to hopefully prevent cancer. I feel pretty damned important!

When Mancub and I paid a visit to the concession stand for fresh fruit, I bought raffle tickets for various goody baskets. With consideration to the numerous walkers on site, I had little hope of winning, but it's raising money for a good cause. Late in the evening the teams began drawing tickets and announcing winners. Several announcements later I had stopped listening. After the Luminaria (to honor those with or who've succumbed to cancer) more winners were named. "Marissa Rapier" came over the loud speaker. Our team started hooting and hollering that I had no idea what it was that I'd won or where I was to go to claim my prize. WOO!! Go me! I won! I won ... a three month membership to Gold's Gym. The certificate was tucked into a basket with a huge, vibrant blue and yellow beach towel. Sweet! I needed one of those while sunning myself by my sister's new above ground pool! Yes, I will be wearing super strength sunscreen.

I have to admit that I'm ridiculously intimidated about walking into a gym. I know it's a place for people to improve upon their personal health, but I'm fat. There are intensely in shape people there. Hopefully they'll take pity on me and not laugh when I nearly collapse after 5 minutes on a treadmill. What would be even better is if they offer a training service so I'm not left floundering as I had at a place the Village People chanted wildly about in the '70s. I digress. I'm truly thrilled to have won something that will benefit me greatly.

I loved spending time with my family and all the other families and friends who all have a personal connection to cancer. It's unfortunate, but it's a fact of life.

I didn't take a ton of photos. But of what I took, I hope it gives you a glimpse into the day. Thanks to those of you who did sun dances to encourage the clouds to skedaddle. It worked!

My little nephew G-man loved being up on the shoulders of his cousins. He was so fond of it that after the boys tired of running around with him perched up high, he asked a boy who was playing catch near our campsite if he'd be a willing set of shoulders. He was hilarious! During the shoulder ride with Michael Twisted Sister's "We're Not Gonna Take It" was playing. G-man was scrunching up his cute mug and mouthing the chorus of the song. He's quite the little comedian.

With aching feet and an over tired body, I once again I thank you all for your support in this endeavor. Never give up the fight. Never let go of your "Hunger for a Cure" because we are making great strides to walk all over cancer and beat it.

Friday, June 12, 2009

Make it snappy

I've entered a photo contest. I do not proclaim to be a good or even mediocre photographer. My pics are taken on a cute, pink Sony Cybershot that I got on sale at Target. It suits my needs. So, please don't expect to see award winning snapshots. I'm just having a good time and it takes my mind off having a car with jacked up a/c.

The sponsor of this scavenger hunt like photo contest is Eaglehawk. The rules were simple (thank God because I have a hard time following rules and instructions.)

Here are the required items: Baseball, Flag, Corn, Dog, Cow, Train, Turtle, Out of Control, Pizza, Heat, House, Roses, Wheel, Jungle Gym, Squirrel and Bottle

Mancub had to dig this out of his closet

This was snapped while driving around a historic neighborhood

Look ma! No hands.

It's stuffed, but it's canine-like.

This is the post mooing form of cow: Meatballs

This reflects physical training ... if ever utilized.

Cowabunga, Dude!

Silver attacking an innocent ruler. She's insane.

Yummy! Monical's Pizza

Yes, that's the flame from my stove.

This is a Frank Lloyd Wright house in historic Kankakee.

Roses from an arrangement.

Mancub's bike wheel

Also taken in historic Kankakee. Cobb Park along the Kankakee River

This little dude is lucky he's not pavement pudding. He darted in front of the car.

My weapon of choice. I do not suggest mixing it with All Bran lemonade mix. Just sayin'.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

Take a load off, Rissy!

In dire need of a pedicure, I bravely post a photo of my feet. I hate feet. Particularly my own dawgies. They don't match and they are huge. Ick! However, I am making a statement:

I am off work for four days and boy am I going to make the best of it. I officially put my feet up and just enjoyed a few moments of solitude.

After going to the auto shop to pay for repairs on my car, I am totally broke. Zilch remains in my paltry rainy day fund. La Banque du Cochon is currently emaciated. The alternator was corroded and I ought to consider myself lucky to have never been left stranded on the highway. Because the alternator was shot, the car ran solely on the already strained power of the battery. With 1,000 miles over the 3,000 recommended oil change, it was also time for an oil change. Add to that list, my a/c stopped working back in early autumn. It was blowing air, but the cold was void. Alas, my Saturn needed serious attention.

I'm not bitching about having to put forth the money for repairs. I had the money socked away. Of course I was hoping Mancub and I might be able to escape for a day or two to an amusement park. We're currently experiencing crappy weather that would have put a damper on a good time at a nearby establishment of fun and frolickery. I'm sitting here wearing a sweatshirt, jeans and socks. June is not busting out all over! It feels more like April.

I had requested this weekend off from work to participate in the local Relay for Life. I hope the weather is far more agreeable then than it is now. Although I managed to exceed my goal, I will continue to take donations. Many thanks and offerings of gratitude are extended to those of you who donated, walk with me in spirit or participate in a local Relay for Life event.

So, even though I'm lounging around contemplating how to make the most of my time off while only finding receipts, a random button and several pennies -- not totally broke -- in my wallet, I am doing a dance of joy.

Saturday, June 6, 2009

I'm a regular girl


You know you want me. Oh yeah. Sexy, tipsy and regular. It's the side of the cougar television never tells you about. Rawr ... now, can you point me towards the ladies room?

Thursday, June 4, 2009

The psycho vein is pulsating!!

It's no secret that I'm a single mom. I support myself and Mancub without any help from his father. This isn't a bitch session about that. I made my bed and now I sleep in it. I'm here to declare that I'm friggin' tired and need a dot gammed vacation from the work place. I'm sick of all the internal shiznit that takes place. I know I'm not alone, but I haven't taken more than a couple days off in a row in a long time. I might internally combust if I don't get some relief.

I appreciate having employment. Don't get me wrong and don't for a second believe I am looking a gift horse in the mouth. I'm on my feet all f'ing day long and I hurt. I ache.

Again, if I'm not permitted to just forget that place for an extended amount of time we might need to call upon the finest CSI team in the country. JUST SAYIN'!

I turn to Queen of Disco Donna Summer to sing it!

And once she's done singing, Mr. Mercury and the boys can take over:

And while I'm at it, I think Todd Rundgren should have a shot at explaining how I feel on this very day:

I'm not able to afford a fancy get away. I might only be able to dip my toes in a kiddie pool in my own back yard while I sip margaritas and read a trashy romance novel. It's not about physical location. My mind can transport me anywhere I want to go. Naturally having a cabana boy that isn't my neighbor the Garden Gnome would be preferable. Let's not even put that thought into further motion. GACK!

OK, so maybe my fantasy isn't fine-tuned, but at least I have a good humor about it.

"You've come for the cabana boy job? You do realize it doesn't pay. You'd be my beckon call boy for free. I work hard and I need a break. It would be heaven to have someone cater to my needs just for a few days ... no questions asked. I mean, things like making my drinks, fetching me fresh fruit, cooking light dinners. Perhaps a nice foot massage and a pedicure .... Oh, perks? Hmmm I wasn't thinking about your needs ... Ohhhh, perks for me? As in "extracurricular nighttime shenanigans?" ... if you're up to it. Sure, I'd be willing to oblige..."

The applicants:

Daydreaming is healthy.

Tuesday, June 2, 2009


Rather than waiting for two weeks of laundry to accumulate, I decided to drag a couple small loads to the local launderette this afternoon. I won't be off work again until Sunday and by that time I would run out of nicer underpants, black socks and slacks.

The laundromat is adjacent to the Phillips 66 station. I get a free soda or coffee for doing my laundry there. Yeah, I know. Chill on the envy monster. You all can't live my high-glamour lifestyle. Vicarious living, baby.

I was the only patron on the wash and dry side. While my clothes were agitating I read excerpts from Chuck Klosterman IV. For me, that book is great when you don't want to get too deep in a plot. It's just articles taken from his various gigs with Esquire, Spin, etc...

I found myself quite parched and while I don't always partake in the freebie soda, I decided today was the day. I wish they offered water. I really need to lay off the soda. While I was attempting to get the right ice to soda ratio in my cup, a young woman and (as I'd learn later) her grandmother toted their baskets into the laundromat. This is where my reading ended.

It's not that they were being disruptive. It's not as if reading Klosterman requires silence or deep concentration. I was distracted by the attire of the young woman. I would guess her age being late teens or, at most, early twenties. Her back was to me when she first garnered my attention. She was wearing two skin tight shirts. They showed off her spilling muffin tops splendiferously. I'm sure that's the look she was going for. However, that's not what caught my eye. What made me double take was the odd stain on the lower part of the shirt. It was an elongated splotch
. Damn me for not managing a stealthy photo. I've often had big drippy splotches like that on the front of my shirt when I eat a sloppy chili cheese dog or any such food that oozes when you bite into it. This was on the back. The stain location was approximately the lower back area. I've provided an artists rendering of the rear endery stainage.

I continued to observe.

She wore tight, lemony yellow (stained) knee length sweat pants. Naturally, they had lettering blazing across her tuchus. LOVE. Except the 'V' was replaced with a heart.


She turned to face me and I noticed her gushy goo belly was flopped over the top of the sweat pant waistband. The layered shirts were just long enough to cover the fleshiness of her protruding belly, but I wasn't fooled. I have yet to discern if she was pregnant (which wouldn't give much credibility to my theory on what the lower back area shirt stain was. heh.)

Another question on fashion trends: When did it become acceptable to flop one's gut over waistbands and just let it all hang out? I realize Vanity Fair glorified the nakedness of Demi Moore's pregnant body, but snap back to reality, people! I suppose beer bellied men have been letting it all gush out; women wanted their turn to do the same. It's STILL unsightly.

The young lady (pregnant or not) pulled her quarters for the machines from a purple bag with gold stitching. I recognize that bag! CROWN ROYAL! I have a few of those suckers jammed in a drawer in my kitchen. I felt it was wasteful to throw them in the trash; yet, I have yet to find a purpose for them. I thought maybe one day I'd take up quilting and stitch together a spectacular throw blanket. Or perhaps I could cut open the bags and then sew them together to make large pillows to kneel on. You know, for when I go insane and take up or make u[ a new religion.

It's June. It's cold. I could cut glass.

Following in the steps of music critic and man about town -- Sean Daly -- I need a playlist to turn up the heat in Illinois.

It's June 2 and the current temperature is 48. FORTY-EIGHT DEGREES FAHRENHEIT! It's quite ridiculous that I have to wear a light sweater when I ought to be grossing out teen agers with my old lady arm flab waving at them as I drive by with my car windows open while wearing a tank top. I should be at the water park where I attempt to park my chaise lounger close enough to the water that I simply have to slide into the water without exposing my dimply, veiny legs. Full exposure of my legs has been known to instill horror in small children.

This is ridiculous. And don't you dare throw this up in my face when I'm whining that I can't seem to get cool enough when the temperatures in August are pushing well beyond 100 and the humidity is 1000%.

Summer here, Summer not