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I really am a bad girl

24 Apr

For those of you who know me in real life, you will SOOOOOO not be surprised by this story. And for those new friends, you will probably not be shocked by AAANNNYYY of this story.

See, when I was younger, I was a hellcat. Woopsies.

This is the story about when I got my brother arrested (yes, J A I L) when we were in high school.

It goes down like this:  Friday was a teacher “work day”. So Thursday night was par-tay time. Except, I was  on restriction at home for causing trouble and whatnot.

Anyhoohaw, our gang decides “let’s go to the movies tonight!!” and I’m pondering how the hell do I do that when I can’t… When it dawns on me that I am not on restriction from babysitting…

*thinking thinking…*

Here’s reason #3,243 that I never wanted a child. She’d have my smarts. And my stupids.

So… I formulate my master plan:

  1. Scan the phone book for the name Smith
  2. Write down said name “Mrs. Smith” and her phone number on a piece of paper for the folks.
  3. Steal 3″ high heels from mom’s closet (she was a shoewhore)
  4. Put on Bonne Bell Bubble Gum lip smackers lip gloss

As I grabbed my handbag and started to leave, I hear my older brother behind me.

BRO: “Oh hey, I can drive you.”

Wha? He was being nice to me. A teenager.

Me: “OK. Bitchin.”

I had him drive me about 10 houses down from my friend Juli’s house.

Me: “Oh hey, yeah, here it is. OK. Thanks. Bye.”

BRO: “Later.”

He waits at the curb of some random house I picked. Holy fartin what the heck?  P.U.L.L.   A.W.A.Y.  I scream inside. I knock on the door, and a nice man in a wheelchair opens it.

Me: “Hi (I might have flicked my hair), can I like borrow your phone?”

WCM: “Sure.” (No weirdness, either btw. A genuine non-freak.)

I wave over my shoulder at my brother and enter wheelchair man’s house. Dial Juli and giggle “I’ll be there in five minutes!”

Our gang proceeds to have a great time at the movies and we’re all giggling and smoking cigarettes and whatnot. But… I don’t go home on time. Woopsies.

Dad gets concerned when I’m not home at the noted time and decides to call Mrs. Smith.


Becoming suspicious (I got mad smarts from Dad, mad antics from Mom) he has my bro go get me. You know, to make sure I’m ok.

Bro arrives at the wheelchair man’s house. Knocks on the door.

WCM: “Can I help you?”

BRO: “I dropped my sister off here earlier to babysit. Ummm is she still in there?”

WCM: “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

OK abbreviated version – Bro thinks there is something nefarious going on and poor wheelchair man has no idea the trouble I have caused by letting me use his phone. Poor thing.

Bro is tall and muscular (and blonde – big Swedish guy) and after several ping pong tosses of “No, She’s Not” and “Yes, She Is”, he pushes past the door and WCM is ‘accidentally’ pushed out of his wheelchair.

WCM starts panicking and threatens to call the police if BRO doesn’t leave immediately. BRO responds something like “Oh yeah, how about I call them for you.”

Sirens a-blazing, here come the po po.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I come waltzing in the door. When bro isn’t behind me, Dad asks where he is. “I dunno”, I reply *confused*. He squints at me. Cuz he knows me.

Dad jumps out of his barcalounger and says “Take me to where you were babysitting.”

Rut roh.

I take him to WCM’s house and we arrive just as bro is being cuffed and stuffed into the back of the po po car.

OK, so I really am a bad girl.

All charges were dropped of course. He still talks to me. We even STILL laugh over all of this. Cuz after all, he is my bro and the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. He’s a trouble maker too. Probably why we STILL laugh over this.


Ironic not bionic

9 Apr

Chatting with a friend the other day, I realized folks don’t know about my brush with the brush. And by brush, I mean foliage on the trail.

It all started when I saw that Coke commercial. You know the one with the chick roller skating? This is a special kind of skating.  Quad skating with a twist! I used to do that shit when I was all badass back in da day. Rex-style skating with T and S. So I immediately bought a pair and had them shipped.

Now, I didn’t buy smart shit like wrist and knee pads – oh no no no. Not this gal. I be invincible. I am after all BOLD.

Anyhoohaw, my coveted skates arrived and the hubby tells me not to use them til I buy protection.

ME: Of course not. Have a nice day.

HUBBY: I mean it.

ME: *smiling* See you later.

So I worked from home back then and my boss worked in Texas. So at 3p pacific time, I grab my skates and head to the trail. Schwing!!

I’ve got my iPod on old school R&B and it’s all fun and games until I hit the fucking acorns. I’m ass flying through the air and I know this aint gonna end well. I land wrist first to protect my precious backside.

I’m sprawled half on the trail, half in the foliage. I knew my wrist was shattered about 30 seconds after I landed. And I’m winded.

Dude on a bike goes riding past me. Doesn’t try to stop. I squeak out “helllllppppp” in this tiny voice. But he hears it thank the good lord baby Hayzeus.

BIKER BOY: Oh, I didn’t see you there. I thought you were a dead dear.

ME: *ok, I’ll let that go* Hey I broke my wrist. Can’t move. Do you have a phone?

BB: Yeah sure.

I call 911. Panting miserably now the shock has worn off.

ME: *spying his water bottle* Can I have your water?

BB: Yeah sure.

In his defense, what a great guy, but a man of few words.

911 drives on the trail with sirens blazing. Ambulance dude refuses to give me an IV and some serious drugs. I’m begging. I’m pleading. I’m crying. I might have tried flirting, but I think it would have gone unnoticed because of the twigs and pebbles in my hair.

At the ER, they jack me up on morphine. For the record, this is NOT my drug of choice. Not that I have one. A choice that is.

Turns out my trip down memory lane and into the shrubs along the trail were gonna require surgery, 2 (yes tw0) titanium plates and 8 (eight, yes 8!) inch long (yes 1″ long) screws.

So while I’m held together with sooper strong hardware, my software (aka brain) could use some better parts. And by parts I mean better common sense.

The irony is this: After crushing my wrist, I put the skates in the spare closet where they are now collecting dust and holding the memories of misplaced trust. And maybe some dirt and pebbles from the trail. I refuse to visit them. They are on time out. Like me.

Pandora’s box

3 Feb

Lawdy lawdy lawdy. This gal is over fawty.

I’m okay with that, really. Especially since I discovered the joys of Botox.

And in other news… I find myself wanting to know the meaning behind almost everything. It’s like I’m 40-something going on 8.

I’m always asking WHY. Why is it so cold in this house? Why am I not sleeping more than six hours? Why am I drinking a whole bottle of wine?

The constant litany of mundane questions bouncing around my head like a pinball machine is driving me crazy. And feeling a bit like the drip, drip, drip of an ancient water torture.

In reality, I know the answers of course. And my guess is, for those that know me, you do too. (3000 square feet of tile flooring; stressed; cuz I haz a fabulous wine cellar!)

So what’s really going on in my fruity pebbled brain? Besides the constant drone of little worker bees buzzing me with silly questions, I suspect I’m just starting to question… wait for it… wait for it… almost there… yep. LIFE.

Another four letter word we LIVE, LOVE and HATE at regular intervals. As a 40-something chick, I am questioning everything from my purpose at work to my choice in novelas.

In fact, one day I was so bored curious about something, I went to the online Confucius.

As I typed WHY  several interesting options appeared. And with my ADHD distracting me, I no longer cared about what I originally wanted to ask. Instead…

Google's answer to Bing?

“Why is a raven like a writing desk?”  I wish I had clicked that…

“Why are nerds unpopular?” Huh, what’d I miss?

How about “Please Rob Me”?  It shows us a listing of all empty homes out there. Sure. Why not?

Anyhoohaw, all this yap yap yapping about WHY this and WHY that got me asking another question… “Will the answer matter?”

I gave that a lot of thought. So, yeah… NO – I don’t think it will matter one bit if I get the answer to “Why is Snooki such a nasty ho?”

Take it from Pandora, some boxes just shouldn’t be opened.

To goatee or not to goatee

8 Jan

At the risk of blatantly offending my male friends who still sport the facial short hairs (you know, beards, mustaches, goatees…) I feel compelled to ask:  Why?

Frankly, when I see you boys wearing the mouth-encircled-hair, all I can think of is a big ole hairy bung hole. I mean, I imagine that’s what a hairy bung hole would look like.

And yes, even the hubby had one like a decade ago, but it was always impeccably groomed. And I’m referring to the goatee here (just in case anyone was confused.) But there were times when I’d see a crumble or two – and I’d point it out – and he would proudly smile and proclaim his flavor savor was doing him a favor for later. Or something like that.

I myself like a man without facial hair – except neatly trimmed eyebrows that is. And no nose hair. And for the love of gawd, trim your ear hair. And while you’re at it, you know that back hair? Get rid of it already.

And I do realize you boys are wearing the fuzz as fashion statements, much like some of you still wear your cell phone strapped to the waistband of your jeans, but I promise you, just cuz you can grow it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t mow it.

So I’ve compiled a list of looks to avoid-

Avoid: The landing strip (which btw was intended for playboy centerfolds if you catch my drift)

Avoid: The chin strap (this look died along with Honest Abe)

Avoid: Scraggly pirate look (unless of course, you are a dirty sailor living full-time on a pirate ship never coming into contact with other humans)

I still don’t think I got my answer to WHY some guys like these looks, so I’m chalking it up to one of life’s greater mysteries. Akin to who shot JFK, the chicken vs the egg debate, and why mayonnaise was ever invented.

A new dawn, a new day

1 Jan

And I’m feeling good. Except for this screeching headache. And lack of sleep.

As I ponder the death of 2010, I reflect back on the year that went down fighting. When 2010 first arrived, she brought with her a shitload of baggage, wearing her support hose and thunder-wear so I knew she was in for the long haul. She moved right on in never asking, never apologizing. 2010 was like the zit I had before Prom – big, red, and fugly.

While 2010 was a wily bitch, never directly insulting me – she was  absolutely mocking me (ME!) and sniggering while I was all akimbo. As I look back now, I wish I had been more Duke Nukem and less Patty Duke when 2010 started punking me.

So as the new year knocks on my door, insisting 2010 move her crap out, I realize I have some choices about how long I’ll put up with 2011’s antics. I can either sit down and take it like a wuss; stand up and take it like a man; or channel my inner Xena and throw a weapon at the problem.

I like the latter the best. And I’ll take any opportunity to rock a warrior princess costume. As long as it comes with 4″ gladiator heels that is.

I could sooooo wear this outfit!

My Moby Dick

7 Nov

I’m in the final two weeks before my first major website release.

It’s consuming me right now. Eating away at me from the inside. Twelve hour days are not uncommon – in fact – they are to be expected. Emotions are running high for all of us as we realize, we are in fact chasing our tails.

Or tales. Lack of sleep and too much tension are making me paranoid. I feel like I’m chasing a ghost. Questioning every move I’ve made since January when it all began. Waking up at 2am reliving the past and anticipating a doomsday on 11/18.

At 4am the other morning, I thought to myself – I’m battling a huge monster. Why? I didn’t create or conjure this monster, so why am I wading in these waters about to be swallowed by the whale? Hence the title of this blog post.

Like the narrator, I feel played although I’ve been going along with the adventure. I buy into it – this release is my own Moby Dick – it’s taken on a surreal yet real life. I find that I’ve turned it into a living being.

At 7am I realize I’ve let the ghost in. But I also see the dawn of light entering and realize – it’s not a monster. It’s a website.

And the website might be a huge white whale, but it’s still bits and bytes. And fancy graphical design. And while I am a bit under water right now, I’m not being swallowed whole. I can breathe, I can swim. And I can surf.

What happens in Vegas… part 1

30 Sep

We arrive at the Wynn in the early afternoon and quickly decided – it’s time for a drink! The hubby and I made our way down to the casino in search of some swanky cocktails and a snack or two.

You totally forget how the casino’s don’t want you to eat – just gamble baby. But as we meandered to the Encore, we found a place worthy of stopping for. The drink I ordered was called something silly like “Refreshingly Splendid” but it had mint and lime and cucumber and soda water – reminded me of some of my more happy spa days out with the gals.

The drink arrived and I tried to drink it. I swear I did, but I’m not a vacuum – my suction does not rival Dyson (sorry hubby). Each attempt felt like I was about to blow a capillary or two or three. I almost passed out from lack of oxygen. I tried to drink it the old-fashioned way, you know, without a straw, but there were so many small pieces of mint I quickly saw the dangers in doing so. Who wants to walk around in chi-chi ville with green crap in your teeth? Not me. So I gave up.  Ordered a glass of chardonnay. And it was yummy.

Slightly fed and definitely recharged, we started to think about where to go for the first night in Sin City. My new brother-in-law (yeah, I know you’re reading these!) has lotsa friends with connections – so we were put on the VIP list at Haze (a swanky nightclub at the Aria.) Decision made.

I got all dolled up with hot pink tube top, black cropped cargo pants, and 5″ gladiator stilettos. The hubby was looking pretty dang fine as well – and we felt pretty good – I absolutely felt that I was rocking the right look.

We  strutted into the club – and OMG my worst fears were realized – every chick from age 20 to 60 was wearing the slinky mini dress. And huge heels. Heels that I would give up the remaining enamel on my teeth for. Glittery heels, ones with feathers, with zippers, and other bling oh my. In the back of my mind, I could hear my inner Wicked Witch cackle and covet those ruby red slippers of theirs.

I felt self-conscious for all of about 5 minutes until I realized……. my style was all me. It’s who I am – how I feel – and after finishing that journey toward the Emerald City (err escalator toward the VIP line), I  felt renewed confidence in my own skin, and my skin tight cropped cargo pants. And 5″ gladiator heels.

I had asked the question of why it’s so important to dress to impress and I felt I had answered it. Dress to express yourself. Oh crap, did I just quote Madonna? No offense Madge.

Stayed tune for part 2 – wait til you hear what happens at Haze. This stuff can only happen in Vegas.

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