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Sexting? Really?

2 Dec

S, T, and I have been friends since the days of rex-style roller skating. We basically grew up together and like most longtime friendships, they are still there even when we move away and fall out of touch.

Facebook allowed us to find each other again and so the three of us set a date for a girl’s weekend. Just girl’s, groceries and gab. And a new tattoo to commemorate the renewed friendship. And cocktails. Lots of cocktails.

S lives out of state so T and I picked her up at the airport on a Friday afternoon and we headed to a swanky bar to catch up with each other (and by catch up, I mean catch up with S… she started celebrating the upcoming visit somewhere over Texas with a Jack and Coke, or three.)

T and I had no problem catching up – quickly. It all started when S got a sext message from a guy she recently started dating. I have no idea what his real name is, she only ever referred to him as “sweet cheeks”. I thought that was very romantic and kinda not expected – I mean she had only recently separated from “ass hat”. Ass hat is her ex-husband and this moniker totally fits him so naturally I thought of sweet cheeks as this charming man bearing flowers. I was wrong.

Sweet cheeks did bear gifts, just not the kind you would tell Mom about. His gifts tended to focus on his most charming feature – his (how do I say this in a blog?) longshoreman, wilson, tool, pork sword, sausage, willy… well, you get the picture.

And so did we. Several in fact. Sweet cheeks sent the gift that kept on giving the night before the trip {wink}.

In a picture. On her phone. By text message. With some colorful and equally charming odes to it. I would know, I made her share it with me. And then I drank another martini. Wanted to light a cigarette if I’m being completely honest.

What struck me as odd was not the tool itself in the photo, it was the tool that sent it. He is in his forties!

What is wrong with people that they would send sext messages in their forties?? On the other hand, is it wrong for me to have been highly amused by it? To maybe have stared a bit too long at the longshoreman?

What did it say about S that he felt she would want the ode to his wilson?

I’ve given this a lot of thought. S is crazy. And I do mean that in the best way possible. She’s a wild, uninhibited, in-your-face crazy bitch. She inspires others to be wild and crazy too so I totally see why sweet cheeks sexted her. Still.

Sweet cheeks lasted a couple of months – however his gift will be treasured forever.

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Fight or flight?

22 Oct

Nature’s response to acute stress – should I stay or should I go now?

When faced with a threat, our primitive and automatic response is to basically run and hide or to stand and deliver. Or in my case, to do both. At the same time.

You see, my own inborn response system tends to overreact. I can’t help it. I’ve tried. I’m like a grazing giraffe sensing a lioness licking her lips nearby. I lift my head up, cock my ears, and sniff the air. And sensing danger, my initial reaction is to run. And then to stay. And then to run.

Which is how I found myself yesterday. I’m 2 days post op, wearing my hot cocoa Life Is Good pajama set and fuzzy slippers. Standing at the sink washing my lunch dish, I see a waft of smoke near the back fence.

“Hmmm. That’s odd – I wonder if the guy behind us owns a tractor?” (Yep, that’s my first thought.)

Then the second waft of smoke goes by.

“Wait a minute… That guy doesn’t have a tractor…”

I grab my eye glasses and try to keep them perched on my nose (hard to do with a splint on your face.) But I go out back and around the side of the house where I see 10 foot plumes of flame and smoke.

I turn left, I turn right. I yell at the dogs – “GET BACK INSIDE”. And omg for the first time ever, the dogs listened to me. They don’t understand “Outside bad doggie” when they do something naughty, but they run INSIDE when I’m OUTSIDE telling them to go back. Go figure.

Anyway, my inner super hero kicks in and in no time flat, I’ve got both dogs inside, the doggie doors shut, and I grabbed both phones. Quickly dialed 911 with my right hand, and the hubby with my left.

I’m running down the hall double-fisting the phones.

911: “What’s your emergency?”

{stalling, hoping the hubby would pick up so I would only have to tell the story once…}

me: “THERE’S A FIRE!!!”

911: “Ok, ma’am, stay on the line…”

hubby: {picks up but I think it’s his bluetooth I’m talking to, not his ear…}

me: “GET HOME RIGHT NOW – THERE’S A FIRE!!!”

hubby: “what?”

me: “OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD… JUST GET HOME!!”

911: “ma’am what’s going on?”

{I’m outside now, with phones glued to both ears and my eyeglasses perched cockeyed on the bridge of my splint, running toward and away from the fire}

911: “ma’am where’s the fire?”

me: “It’s in the backyard, the pool equipment.”

(I was no longer screaming. BUT TALKING LOUDLY.)

hubby: “What are you saying?”

me: “I. SAID. THERE.IS.A.FIRE!!!”

{crap, I should have used the land line to call him – freaking cell phone connections.}

911: “ma’am you have to calm down. how close to the house is it?”

me: “I don’t know, 10 feet?” (I ask her because while I know when something isn’t perfectly aligned, I can’t tell you by how much. Hoping she knows the right answer I guess.)

me (to hubby): “Where’s an extinguisher…”

hubby: “Grab a hose… grab a hose.”

me: “There are no hoses.”

{I don’t know why I said that. We have hoses every 10 feet in my yard. Truth is, when faced with a great idea, I think I tend to deny it’s a good one…}

me: “OK, hold on both of you…”

I toss my glasses, cell phone and home phone into the grass. Run to what had to be the furthest hose, stepping in poo by the way and turn the water on. Grab the end of the hose and start running back. It’s amazing how something as simple as water can extinguish a fire. Wow. I feel silly now.

I put the hose down, pick both phones up and announce “OK, the fire’s out.”

I thank the nice 911 lady and hang up. Pick the hose back up and continue to douse the smoke. Just in case.

In the distance I hear the wail of the fire engine. It gets closer. I tell the hubby the firemen are here, gotta go. Hang up. Not sure what he said as I disconnected though. He might have said something like “open the gate…”

Since my yard slopes downward, I can see the truck arrive – but not pull into my driveway. Crap. Forgot to tell the 911 lady the gate code. Double Crap.

Ever the water conscious gal, I run back to the bib and turn off the water, then grab my phones and glasses then run to the front. Run to the gate and press the code. By now, I’ve run out of breath, and see myself in their eyes.

“Nice nose job” I’m sure they’re thinking. For the record, I didn’t have a NOSE JOB. No cosmetic work – this time around. I had “reconstructive surgery”. There’s a difference. But I looked like shit.

My inner girlie girl was reminded of the last time I met strangers in my front yard, while wearing ratty pajamas and having unwashed hair. Flashbacks suck. There would be no conciliatory shoe shopping to make up for the humiliation.

And for whatever reason, the fireguys decide to leave the truck with lights-a-twirling on the road. Facing the opposite direction, smack dab in front of our gate. Sigh.

Me and the boys start making our way to the fire’s epicenter when the hubby arrives. Thank GAWD.

I know this about me – I do. I am that girl. You know the one. She leans on her daddy and then her hubby to fix things. I’m as much dismayed by this fact as I am thankful for it.

But now that the cavalry has arrived in all their manly glory and work boots, I decide to exhale and go inside.

It would take me the next five or six hours, two pain pills and a glass of wine to calm down. And see the humor. And the poo. Sigh.

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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