Category Archives: sex

Miss Me Yet?

I get it.

The dryer eats socks.

The refrigerator eats cat toys.

The couch eats change.

The bottom desk drawer eats crap I decided at some point was necessary for my life at work.

Fine.

It.

All.

Makes.

Sense.

What I don’t get are the things you see on the side of the road. Or better yet, along the sidewalk.

Forever lost to someone.

I’m not talking about wads of gum or cigarette butts. Nor am I talking about toothpicks, or more specifically those weird harp on a stick looking ones. Actually, they might be a little tiny guitar for a gnome. I didn’t think anyone actually used those. Boy, am I surprised!

Side note: I would also like to make mention, over the last two weeks, there has been an ungodly increase in the number of bandaids along my walking route to work. It doesn’t matter if I’m coming from my beloved ferry or the newly discovered train route. There are bandaids EVERYWHERE. All stuck to the sidewalk (as opposed to the lamp-posts).

They’re rubber slugs that have given up and collapsed.

Right there.

Between Congress and Seaport.

Done.

Expired.

Small ones, regular ones, circular ones and some that are large enough my cat could wear it as a bonnet. My lizards could use it as a hammock.

Johnson & Johnson must have seen an uptick in their bandaid sales in Boston.

What’s with the bandaids? There’s a hell of a lot of bloody blistered feet in town.

And don’t be telling me it’s from the Boston Marathon. That was April 20th and we’re now in June. (insert buzzer sound here)

But, if you were to look at some of the footwear….it makes sense. I was behind a girl today who was not so elegantly hobbling on 4 inch wedges. She had a swagger like Captain Jack Sparrow.

He, by the way, is adorable. Swagger…..Me Now….Meow.

She, swaggering like a squirrel, who just painted their toenails with silver glitter polish and can’t stop admiring them enough to take a step….not so adorable.

FOCUS! Christ, it’s exhausting to watch!

I’m just saying.

If you can’t walk in the shoes, don’t buy them. They make you look like you have no sense of balance and you’re trying to walk a tight rope with giant marshmallows strapped to your feet. You have no clue where your next step is going to land and you’re all over the sidewalk.

But, I digress.

Thank you for your patience.

What I can’t figure out is all the random shit left behind.

The other day. Route 3. A giant stuffed tiger was on the side of the road. I’m talking a kids toy, not a treasure hunter’s dream from Asia. It’s literally miles between exits. How did it end up out there? Then, of course, my mind begins to wander. Was some small child crying they lost their tiger?

I was sad.

Sad for the kid.

Sad for the tiger.

Will this tiger end up on the front of some trash truck? You know what I’m talking about. Will he be happy? I did once see mannequin heads on the side of a trash truck. I didn’t have a chance to snap a photo but damn…that was creepy yet surprising awesome.

Obviously, I’ve watched Toy Story too many times.

Walking you see all kinds of random things. Random enough that I have thought to myself, more times than I’d like to admit….”If I was homeless, this would be a score.”

I’ve seen baby bottles, blankets, shirts, socks, fleece pull overs and tarps. The tarp would be a score as would the fleece pull over.

But then there are the things I see where I scratch my head and just have to say….WTF?

Earlier this week…on my way to grab a sandwich for lunch I came across a shoe on the sidewalk. A perfectly decent loafer. A left one at that. IMG_1886
HOW DO YOU LOOSE A LOAFER?

I’ve seen shoes along the highway. The only thing I can think is someone gets pissed and throws the other person’s shoe out the window when they’re sleeping. Ha. Ha. Ha. So funny. Fucker. Wait till you go to sleep and I’m going to take a permanent marker to your face. Then we’ll see whose laughing.

I’ve seen a right sneaker and then a mile down the road the matching left sneaker. Okay, they obviously left them on the roof of the car and drove off.

Then there are the random flip-flops. Alright. Well, not a huge loss. It’s a flip and a flop. Meh.

But a brand new left foot loafer? You’re going to miss that. Especially if you are currently wearing the right one. Walking down the side walk. With a limp. Duh. Where’s my shoe?

What the hell is going on here? Aliens. Blame the aliens. Always blame the aliens.

The shoe didn’t even have time to get it’s white parts dirty! It makes no sense. Of course, I took a snap!

The other thing that baffles me are the people who move and randomly leave their belongings along the roadside. Are they leaving breadcrumbs to find their way back? If you don’t want to move, don’t. Shouldn’t be a newsflash.

I feel, one of two things could be happening with these cushions….

1. The owner of the couch wants a new couch. Easiest way to get a new couch. Loose a cushion.
2. It was an accident. In which case, sitting on a bunch of duct taped phone books is going to be unfortunate.

Just saying.

Today is Friday and on the way home, I stop at the grocery. I run in and then when I come out, something catches my eye. I look over one space to the left. IMG_1946

Are you kidding me?

Who looses their PILLOW?

This isn’t a fluffy, throw on the bed as decoration type of pillow vis a vis Marilyn Monroe. This isn’t a porn star’s, I need some lift and support, type of pillow. This is a regular, put your head down and go to sleep type of pillow.

First off, what are you doing with a pillow in the grocery parking lot?

Secondly, why is it in the shopping cart return?

Then I think…..ohhhhh, if I was homeless, that would be a score! (what is wrong with me?)
And next, I snap a picture.
Of course.

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It’s a Bloody Hickie!

Okay that came up at a dinner with good friends a few weeks ago.

“….a bloody hickie!”

Hold the dogsled…a what?

These friends live thousands of miles away from me.

When I heard they were coming to town and asked if dinner was possible, I nearly burst into tears I was so happy.

True.

They are kind.

They are genuine.

They are real.

It does my heart good to know when these people are coming…a big sigh of relief washes over me. No matter what chaos my little row boat is facing. No matter if I’m riding an ostrich of insanity. If I’m having a week of walking the fire of idiotic nonsense. It’s going to be okay, good people are on the way.

I can be me. No judging.

Arriving to dinner in rubber boots, jeans, fleece jacket and messed up hair – this crowd would have said, “hell yeah!”

It’s comfortable.

Like going to the beach on a Sunday. It calms me. The sound of the ocean. Floating on the water. Watching the waves. Looking for fish. Aaahhh.

But most importantly….back to the bloody hickie.

Why do people do what they do to themselves?

I drive down the highway and there are billboards….upgrade your breasts. Lift your butt! Tuck that tummy. They offer photos to show proof.

The problem?

The original boobs looked just fine to me.

The original butt. I don’t know which one I am supposed to like – they both look nice. One is thiner than the other. Isn’t that what we want?

No.

This is Miami.

Well, hell. Give me a break.

I’ll give you the tummy ads. They need those.

Why don’t they put the men up there with 40 pound man boobs? Hello? Plastic surgeons! You are missing an entire market!

You don’t see a snap of a man’s ass up on the billboard…with the tag, “Lift it high, lift it proud!”

Have penis sag? Not a problem. There’s a solution for that, let us show you how.

Something isn’t right.

Our bodies. Costumes we wear on earth. (can’t wait to see my angel outfit….or at the rate I’m going I could be collecting some horns.)

Okay so over the last few weeks I’ve had two zits on my collar bone.

Yep. Front and center. Right there. About 2 inches apart.

I have made up a story about them. They’re from a piercing gone bad.

“Yes, I’d like to have my collar bone pierced please….Mr. Tattoo Man.”

Maybe not all piercing professionals are tattooed, however the one that did my……well, he was well tattooed.  In Vegas.

Since I’ve been staring at these two bumps for what seems like eternity, I’m now actually considering a collar bone piercing.

I mentioned it to my other half the other night and he nearly spit up his wine.

But then I ponder the eternal question…………………………………………..WHY?

Why have my collar bone pierced?

Okay 7 ear piercing? Fine. Nipple piercings? Possibly.

Tongue? Too painful, but okay for oral excitement…if you can get through the piercing….good on you. No. Wait. Good on me!

Have you seen this guy? Okay, watch the link. FANTASTIC.  And oddly sensual.

The oddly colored hair doesn’t interest me. Everyone does it. No challenge. Nothing bold about it. Meh. Like a hairball on the carpet.

Zombie Boy? Well now he’s something. (Hint: see the link above)

It started with boobs. Fake books. Woman needed (and still want) bigger boobs. Ok, I’d go one size larger. But what happens if you want to return them?

Fake eyelashes? Eye lash extensions? Odd. There’s a Group On currently…if interested. Do men get eye lash extensions?

Hair extensions. Which, if you’re going to wear them, I don’t want to see the little strips of tape. Get a lesson on how to wear your hair! MEN – warn your woman if her tape things are showing. (Yes, that is the technical term thank you. After all, your woman is a reflection of you!) And what do you do when you’re getting ready to roll around with the hottie? You have to have a disclaimer: “Excuse me but my hair isn’t real?” Otherwise, he may pull out a chunk and we’re into a horror story in 20 seconds flat! But how do you even bring that up in a conversation? I know someone and I asked her that question.

Yep. That’s basically it. Hey….something I need to tell you.

Really? At my age? In that position? I have other things I need to worry about. News flash……the hair on my head isn’t one of them.

Of course, I have been tempted many times to try extensions.

If I had to confess about them to my romance cover novel superstar….I’d say something like….”Unlike those you see in the Pirates of the Caribbean movies, I may not have a glass eye, peg leg or octopus whiskers….but my hair is fake.”

Ear lobe disks. That’ all I’m saying.

If I could get something done to my physical self…..I’d ask for height. Run Forest Run!
As a shorter person with top shelf grocery aisle issues, I’d be fine with 4 more inches.

Four inches can do a lot more than you think.

Just saying.

Live Life Like Your Favorite Panties.

I’m one of those people – at the worst possible moment I’m going to be the one that can’t help herself and will burst out laughing.   It won’t be one of those dainty Miss Manner’s kind of laugh either.  We’re talking full on cackle call, tear fueling and breath gasping type of laughter that leads to getting your self into trouble with the nearest authority figure.

I was always in trouble in school for talking….laughing.  Detentions and study halls.

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

It……was…..funny!

The worse time, was always church for me.  I grew up Catholic.  I know.  Say no more.  The whole seriousness of the visit got me.  Perhaps it was the lecture we got before even going into the church got me going.  Yes, see I went to a Catholic school, so by default we had regular church services.  Before we even left the classroom and right before we entered the church we’d get the same lecture by the Sister.

“DO NOT embarrass me!”

Anyone that says to me, “DO NOT __________”  Well, that’s not so much an ultimatum as it is a challenge in my book.  I get it and I respect it but my goodness.

I

can’t

help

myself.

Lighten up a bit.  Something would just catch in my crawl and next thing I know I wouldn’t be able to contain myself.  I’d have myself and those either unlucky or lucky enough around me in fits.

No.  My mouth is NOT big enough to stuff my fist inside.  I’ve tried on numerous occasions to stifle the giggles.  Oy.  Once I start I can’t stop.  It’s terrible.

So today when a friend called me and mentioned about a meeting she had to go through at work I suggested she wear these goofy eye glasses I bought her for Christmas.  Everyone needs a lighter moment or two in life.  She thought I was nuts.  I kept telling her the same thing:

THEY PROBABLY WON’T NOTICE!  TRY IT!

We talked later in the day and guess what?

She did it!

Unknown

I was most excited to hear she had actually done the challenge and the best yet – they LAUGHED.  Shut the door!  Good god, people laughed!  The horror and yet they SURVIVED!

So worth the giggles.

We all get so wrapped in being so serious and working.   Lighten the load and take a breath once in a while people.  It’s good for you.

Just like wearing your favorite pair of panties.  You know the pair.  I bet you have several pairs.  I do.  Why be miserable and wear a pair that going to be pinching or chafing you all day long?  It’s not worth it.  Wear the pair that makes you happy.

Like I want to spend 1/3 of my day adjusting my ass?  Panties riding up my butt.  Have to adjust.   Now they’re creeping to the side.   I don’t have the patience or the time for this.  Why be miserable?  And these people, men and women, who think they are casually picking their roos out of their ass – aren’t fooling anyone!

SURPRISE!  I SEE YOU!

It’s like the people who come into each day being miserable.  It’s not worth it.  You create your day from the moment you open your eyes.  Are you wearing grandma panties or a thong?  Be happy, be comfortable – go with what moves you.  Why be miserable all the time?  It’s not worth the aggregation.  Trust me.  It doesn’t do you any good and nobody around you enjoys your negativity either.

Oh wait, let me guess, you’re wearing your underware backwards?  That would explain a lot actually.

Maybe you prefer the granny panties – fine.  Then get rid of those fucking thongs cause you’re attitude sucks when you wear them.

If boy shorts are your thing – excellent.

Boxer or brief – yahoo.

Free balling – that’s fantastic!

However, if you are the kind of person who rips the elastic out of their panties and you know who you are – that isn’t cool.  You have an issue.  We need to get you in touch with some special therapist and get you turned around.

Garter belts with stockings – yes.

Suspenders with panties – no.

NOTE:  Unless you’re PeeWee Herman and have some type of weird fetish happenings then we could discuss with Boy George in Group Sessions.

Go with the flow.  Enjoy the laughter.  Relax a bit and know it’s okay to share a grin or two.  Life is too short to be mean and miserable like the Grinch.  Besides, it’s not good for wrinkles….and nobody wants wrinkles.  Unless you’re a Shar Pei dog….they want wrinkles.

For example….my kinder half is gone starting tomorrow for a week.  Some people would be annoyed and upset.  Not me – I get the entire bed to myself!  I get to eat whatever I want!  Maybe I will go to the movies! AND I may choose to spend all day Saturday on the beach!  Perhaps I will adopt a pygmy goat!  The possibilities are endless.

The point is…..laugh.  Laugh a lot.  Even when it’s not the “right time” to laugh – do it any ways.  There’s a lot of worse things you can do in this life….seriously!  Laughing during inopportune moments truly isn’t one of them.  Take the risk.  Roll the dice.  LAUGH.

Be silly.

Choose to be happy – like your panties!

Hard Bodies Apply. Yes, You!

When I lived in Juneau, Alaska…… strip clubs, porn shops and Hooters restaurants were not readily available.

Occasionally one of the local bars would host a “topless poker tournament” and of course a friend and I couldn’t help ourselves. We went.

The same bar flew in “HOT! HOT! Strippers from Anchorage!” Again, we couldn’t help ourselves and we went.

Twice.

These same “HOT! HOT! Strippers from Anchorage!” Also came to town as the ring girls for the sponsored UFC style fights. I, of course, went to those (and sat right next to one of the judges…ringside.)

Needless to say, these woman were a disappointment. I think the topless dealers were mothers of ten, who breast-fed until the kids were able to form full sentences.

Their nipples were dragging on the felt.

Who enjoys that?

The “HOT! HOT! Strippers from Anchorage!” While cute – in their early 20’s….were not anything you would expect to see in say….a strip club.

They had paunchy beer guts.

They had cellulite.

THEY WERE IN THEIR 20’s!

Girls in their 20’s are supposed to be trim and tight. Then again, this is Alaska. There is a reason, besides the cold, we are covered up in wool and rubber clothing 11 months out of the year.

Some time in between these adventures in Juneau we had a tourism convention in Anchorage. Leave it to me to pour everyone into a cab late one night and head over to the strip club in Anchorage: The Bush Company.

Yes.

Yes, I did.

It was a lot of fun.

The women – were “better.”

Not Vegas standards.

Not even midwestern standards.

Definitely better than topless poker tournament dealer in Juneau, Alaska standards.

We bought a couple of lap dances for various members of our party – those people know who they are….ahem. Of course, we picked out the best looking dancers in the lineup. I was not one who received a lap dance – thank you.  I don’t need that drama.  But appreciate the gesture.

Now I am living in Miami where very little is left to the imagination.

VERY.

LITTLE.

Here is my latest issue. Which was discussed at length today with my “kinder and gentler Mister.”

As we were driving along….there pops up a Hooters. Now, one of our missions on this earth is to find the best chicken wings. Granted, at home we are vegetarian / vegans. Out of the house we will go for fish or chicken wings, a pizza now and then. On a really bad day I will call home and tell him, “I need a cheeseburger…..meet me at …..”

THAT is my weapon of choice.

CHEEZZZZEEEE burger.

Just dip me in the blue cheese, and let me lick myself clean really. CHEEEZZZZZZEEEE burgers are my weakness.

Last meal on earth?

CHEEEZZZZZZZZEEEEEEE burger.

At any rate. We go past the Hooters, which I have been to numerous times before throughout my life span.

What is the deal though? Why is it…you get a Hooters with the woman in the shorts and tank tops.   Really?  I’d like a well-built man to serve me some time. He doesn’t even have to serve me a meal – just bring me drinks.

The Mister says, “Yeah it’s called Chippendales.”

No.  It’s not.  What I want doesn’t exist.  I don’t want the dancing and the grinding….that’s extra nonsense that detracts from the beauty of the body.

It’s embarrassing for him and for me. I don’t need that agony. Thank you. Or else he’s gay.  Or he has a girlfriend who is stalking him outside and the whole thing goes to hell in a handbasket in 17.4 seconds.

NO thanks.

Women have beautiful bodies. Soft curves. 

Men have hard bodies by nature. They are strong and protective creatures. I don’t want to see a man who pumps enough iron that he can pull a tractor-trailer – that to me isn’t attractive. You know the “Arnolds” of the world.  I don’t want to see the veins popping out of their necks.

That isn’t hot, sexy or anything in between.

I want a well-defined, nicely built man with a charming personality to serve me a drink.

Shirtless.

With abs.

And those nicely cut muscles along his hips……those ones…… you know the ones I’m talking about ladies.  Those muscles …..as a man would say, “hips I can grab on to” muscles.

M E O W.

Men have a plethora of bars, strip clubs, peep shows, restaurants …..all hosted by exotic women. Barely clad in anything resembling a uniform. Let’s not even get started on the magazines.

MEN!

You know exactly, what I’m talking about here.  You go into the club.  The ladies greet you.  A gorgeous woman give you whatever you ask for.  She smiles and asks how has your day been?  Hair is being flipped.  Eyes are wide.  Lips are licked.  Oh my.  Totally interested in you.  Cleavage is exploded, oh so sweetly.  Innocently.  A touch on the forearm or thigh.   Yes, whatever you want.  How was your day – oh that sucks….so tough.  A laugh and giggle.  Another big smile.  Can I get you a drink?

Jameson – check.

Double vodka – check.

Budweiser – check.

Chicken wings – check.

Completely and totally into you.  Whatever you say and ask for can be yours.

I WANT THIS!

Yet in reality…

What do women get?  Jack shit.

Certainly not the same level of peep shows, bars, strip clubs, restaurants or other establishments…hosted by nearly naked men. I am sure they are out there, but not nearly to the same degree. It’s no wonder women are going after the pool boys!

Why is that do you think? Men are visual animals no doubt.

The Mister says this is because, “Men aren’t going to feel comfortable going into a woman’s version of a Hooters.”  Yeah well you  know what men?  You need to buck up and grow some thick skin and get into the game.  Woman have had to fluff and puff, pull and tuck, nip and inject themselves to mold themselves into what you find sexy and gorgeous.

Grow a big hairy pair and get some fucking confidence in yourself and get out there.

You know who has confidence in themselves?

Europeans.  One word:  Speedos.

If you need the name of a great waxer, let me know.

Or, could it be that woman simply don’t have time for the lusty skin bullshit?  We simply have more important things to do? Would we rather spend our time elsewhere? We never gave that type of establishment the type of recognition it needed?

Or are we voyeurs behind masks of annonineminty? What the hell?! Imagine, if you will. …. If we were cut loose in a sex club. I’m just saying.  Chaos and mayhem.  Would you be the one hiding behind the curtain or jumping into the swing?

Look at all the bacholorette parties every year and the must have requirement: the for-hire male stripers. THAT says something. Open an old fashioned phone book and look up “escort” try and search for MALE. You’ll have to wade through 25 pages of female before you can find anyone sending out the boys.

You can pick out men with hookers more easily in a bar than a cougar with a pup.  WOW!

Honestly.

Whatever the reason, ladies, we need to be enjoying the view. Pure and simple.

Every day, I pass by giant billboards for mens entertainment clubs: Tootsies. Scarletts.

I pass by sex shops. There’s one the name just make me laugh every damn time, “The Sexy Box.”  Yeah, well, the only time it was busy was right before Valentine’s Day. The other I’ve seen billboards and have driven past is “Hustler.” You’ll be glad to know….they also sell….”couples” gifts. Well, thanks.

I’ve been in sex shops. The one thing I regret is I didn’t buy the penis straws when I saw them. Seriously. Saw them in Juneau – didn’t buy them. Now I wish I did. Damn.

HA!!

Ladies, The boys are going to “the bar” to watch the game. To meet the boys. To discuss a business deal. Yatta yatta yatta. Whatever, that’s fine. It’s their inner caveman coming out. Let them go and oogle. Fine.

Well you know what?

We may only get the pleasure of the ridiculously bad PlayGirl magazine. The yearly calendars with firefighters or the Chippendales. But….there is a great photographer out there….check him out.

Michael Stokes…..find him on Facebook  and his book on Amazon.com:  http://www.amazon.com/Masculinity-Michael-Stokes/dp/386787428X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1347800523&sr=8-1&keywords=michael+stokes Amazon  Amazing.  It’s time to stand up and say

Yes, please, I’ll have a martini…make it a double.

1957665_667444109981115_1651410991_o      1599914_662549387137254_2100850160_o  1147096_651967231528803_850012628_o

Is that a Hose in Your Pocket? The Continuation.

Again:  Names have been changed to protect the guilty.  I still love you and don’t be angry.

 

All good things to me include:

Long walks on the beach.

Drinks at sunset.

Slow dancing in the moonlight.

Dancing on table tops.

And oddly enough….

Poking things with a stick…..that don’t need to be poked.

Sometimes, I can’t help myself….

 

Sound the alarm!  Sound the alarm!

 

URGENT!

 

URGENT!

 

The Nose has returned to the Martini Bar!

 

Yes, boys and girls, get you’re sticks out cause we’re going to go poking around.

Sit down.

Strap in.

Hold on.

Order up two shots cause we’re going for a ride and it’s going to be rough.

M E O W.

(Better make that a double M E OW and get out the hand sanitizer.)

 

THE PREVIOUS evening The Nose and I spoke for a bit and should you need the details, you’ll need to consult my previous blog.

Back in the saddle and looking for love, The Nose was deploying his creepy muskrat of the ocean moves and prowling the throat of one middle aged woman sitting at the bar.  This was off-putting, yet quite intriguing as The Nose was a vile and filthy creature who was very obviously an openly gay man and this was a public place.

Have I fallen down that damn rabbit hole….yet again?  I’m down this hole so often you’d think I’d have frequent flyer privileges at this point.  Upgrades?  Why yes, thank you.

Well, how is this going to turn out?

Popcorn anyone?

Immediately, this little spit-fire (that would be me for those of you who are ADD or ADHDA or whatever and can’t follow along) has sounded the alarm The Nose from last night has returned and he is making out with a woman!

Every single person I alerted had the same response:  WHAT?!  Are you sure?  Where?  How can that be?  Making out with a woman?

All eyes were plastered to what is now a FOURSOME at the end of the bar.  Please, let me introduce to you the players, who will become oh so important for you to know:

The Nose.  The Middle Aged Woman.  The Other Man.  The Younger Girl.

Cue the mystery music….

Time marches on and we’re all having fun.  Of course, this is how it always starts right?  I look down the bar…towards the Fab Four.  The Nose…..is kissing the neck of The Other Man.  Up his neck.  His ear.  Biting his ear lobe.  Back down his neck.  They’re laughing.  Okay.  I can handle this.  It’s fine.  Two lovers.  Okay, they’re together.  Well then, who the hell are these two ladies? The Nose is now all over The Middle Aged Woman again.  The Younger Girl is giggling and laughing.  The Other Man is clearly entertained.  I’m so confused.  Maybe the four of them are traveling together?

I have no idea.

I don’t care.

I’m going back to my drinks and enjoying the evening.  Minding my own business.

Suddenly Bernice motions for me to come and join her and our friend Cece from Alaska.  Both of them look like they’ve been told they’ll have to repeat eighth grade and the teachers only speak Latin.  WTF?  Bernice grabs my arm and tells me in a very German like manner to:    S I T.    SIT   DOWN!

Like an obedient petite Pitbull, cause I’d like to think that’s what I would be if I were to be a dog, if there were such a breed, …with rhinestone studded PINK collar of course – duh – I sit immediately.

WHAT?!  WHAT?!

Bernice and Cece both without saying a word just point to the bar.  I turn my head to the left.

HOLY FUCK!  ARE YOU?!  MOTHER!  *&^%^$  *#&)!  !!!  &^%$^$!!!

Let’s just say, I don’t need to see such things….. at EYE LEVEL.

The Nose…..

I can’t.

My eyeballs have been scorched out of their sockets.

The Nose has….

I mean really….

Eye level.

My tear ducts have shriveled up into twigs.

The Nose.

The Other Man.

At MY eye level.

The Other Man….has his hand down The Nose’s jeans…..fondling his ass!

Now they’re going to switch!  Let me put my hand down the back of your jeans.

R E A L L Y….

It’s porn right in front of my eyes.  (Now if it were a hot couple, okay.  But not this.)

>>>> time out <<<<<<

>>>>> I have to put my head between my knees <<<<<<<

.

.

.

.

.

.

Okay, so I’m all for going down the front of the pants.  Yes, I said it.  I’ll give you that.  It’s fun for you and me….especially if you can get away with it in public…..There’s all kinds of fun things to be found in the frontal regions.

M E O W to the tenth degree.

But your ass….in public?  Really?  O M G.  Did you smell that?  What was that odor?

Behind closed doors, ride that ass like it’s a fucking bucking bronco boys.   I don’t need to see this display at the bar.

Smelling salts anyone?

Oh for fuck’s sake.

.

.

.

.

Immediately, I launch myself out of my seat…..and land about 40 feet away, hyperventilating and leaving Bernice and Cece to deal with this performance which continued for quite some time.  I ordered another martini, downed it and enjoyed yet another.

About ten, fifteen, twenty minutes later…..Bernice and Cece managed to pry themselves away from their seats (I don’t know how they lasted so long in their spectator box seats – ahem) but they eventually joined the rest of us.

This is when I learned another friend of ours, having discovered The Fabulous Foursome….wanted to “push the envelope” with The Nose.

WHAT?  I mean who fucking does that?

Randy.

He can’t help himself.

He decided he wanted to see if he could he convince The Nose to buy him a drink.  Yeah sure and if The Nose says yes, Randy becomes a sex slave for the night.  THEN what the hell do you do – OMG!  The night would have lead to wild acrobatics in front of floor to ceiling mirrors and a swing above the bed.  Double bends and feet behind heads.  Hold this while I bend this over that.

Images gone wild in my head…..one moment please…..

Randy no doubt, sauntered up in his expertly designed and detailed blue suit and asked if The Nose would buy him a drink…..looking oh so cute and batting his baby-blues as only Randy can do…..making your knees go weak.

Survey says:  DENIED.

It’s okay Randy, we still love you and still think you’re cute.

Next drink is on me.

After hearing this story we turn around to see Cece at the bar chatting up The Middle Aged Woman.  Good god people, leave The Fabulous Foursome alone!  Clearly they are only into themselves and do not want our involvement into their torrid love affairs!  I mean really, do we want to be involved?  I don’t and I’ve even had my tetanus shots thank you!

Cece is chatting away, chatting away.  I mean truly, it could be the Alaskan thing.  I spent 18 years in Alaska and we do some weird shit in the winters.  So this may be some kind of weird calling…..on the high seas….but come on…..I HIGHLY doubt it…these are strangers.  We don’t swing with strangers.

Our little group by this time has broken out into a full on Super Bowl sweat.   We’ve ordered another round of martinis and are now actually patting the sweat away from under our armpits and upper lips with the tiny cocktail napkins.  WHAT is she doing?  Our imaginations are clearly getting the best of us.

When it’s gets to this point there is only one thing to do….send in The Minxy.

I march right up to the bar and lean in to hear what she’s saying.  I lean in so close I push her and her hand bag out of the way. All under the guise of trying to get the bartender’s attention.  (Now you know my trick incase I’m listening to your conversation.)

It’s a partial relief that she isn’t asking to join them.  On the other hand…..what is she promoting?  Safe sex?  I’m only catching bits and pieces:

“Just saying.  For your own good.  Of course.”

Staying just long enough to realize she isn’t making a pack to sell herself into an evening of bondage I walk back to the group and give the all clear sign:  SHE’S FINE!

Cece returns to tell us what her conversation was all about.

Apparently, Miss Manners aka Cece felt compelled to share peace and love with The Middle Aged Woman and advise her of the historical antics of The Nose from the prior evening.  Cece told her, “If you’re not careful, THIS could turn into a foursome.”

The Middle Aged Woman greatly appreciated all of Cece’s concerns and took each and every one of them to heart.  This resolved Cece of her resolve for doing the right thing and for sounding the alarm to a complete stranger.  Which by all means is the right thing to do….if you have a conscience. The MIddle Aged Woman told her there was certainly nothing to worry about.  Although they were having a great evening together – THIS is where the buck stops.

There will be NO Foursome, I am traveling with my daughter.

I do believe the next words out of Cece’s mouth were, “Another Fresca Martini Please!”

The rest of us looked at one another.  Nodded and said in unison, “to the disco!”

This was the last we saw of  The Nose

Strangers and Pixie Dust

Please note: All names have been changed to protect the guilty. Don’t worry, I still love you.

Strangers.

They’re everywhere.

We grew up being told not to talk to them and look what happens! We grow up and start talking to them.  Just throw that spray can called CAUTION right out the window.  While you’re at it, you might as well dump COMMON SENSE down the drain and flush SELF PRESERVATION right down the toilette with your daily dump.

I mean really, it’s quite obvious.  Mr. Rodgers kicks the bucket and we’re all going to Hell in a hand basket.  Talking to strangers as if they’re as common as the pickles on our plate.  Really?  Do you know who handled that pickle?  I think not.

The Beaver would be horrified as would Big Bird if they had any inkling the kind of people we were associating with on a daily basis.  Next time you’re on line at the grocery – take a gander at your local strangers.

Creepers.

Yet, we’re addicted.

It’s no different than being told, “don’t touch that!” You simply can’t help yourself so you do it. Just to see what happens. Nine times out of ten – nothing exciting occurs. But that tenth time- yowzers!

They come in all shapes and sizes.

There are ones you wouldn’t touch with a four foot pole, while riding past them on your Orange County Chopper while going to work.

There are others you certainly wouldn’t mind being trapped on a desert island for several days with before help arrived.

Lastly there are others you routinely have to pick your lower mandible up off the floor by and can’t help but think one thing: WTF is wrong with you?!

This past week I was sailing on a cruise liner for work and had such an encounter. Seemed harmless enough at first. Similar to if a mosquito landed on you and you had no clue what it was until it poked it’s giant beak into your virgin skin to suck your blood to give itself life. THEN, you realize….this is a problem.

SMACK…..no, that’s not the sound of you ending the life of the blood-sucking mosquito.  That’s the sound of you thinking….WTF have I gotten myself into and who the hell is going to get me out of this?

Nobody.  Buck up and carry on.  You are in it.  Now get out of it.

It happened at the Martini Bar.

Enter the swaggering Johnny Boy who saunters up to me and begins to chat me up at the bar.

Great.

First thing I notice?

This man has a beak on him that I don’t think he could get inside a coffee mug if he tried.  It may be handy for dialing on iPhones.  Wow.  That’s quite the pointer you got there.  Does it act like a compass as well?  Or wait, do you do search and rescue missions?  That can’t be right, you don’t have a barrel of whiskey under your chin, but then again we aren’t in the Alps.  What the hell do I know, we’re in the Caribbean.

He begins to ask how my evening is going and how lovely I look in my dress.   Did I enjoy dinner.  Was I enjoying the cruise?  Oh the questions of common chat.

Shoot me.

Yatta.  Yatta.  Yatta.  Insert nice comments.

Then he hits me with, “So the guy you’re with….” nodding to the guy to my right…. “is that your husband?”

(Note:  said man in question is large bald man to my right)

I quietly pick up my velvet sledge hammer and casually position it above my head….ready, aim…release:

No, he’s my boss.  And that guy over there…..(and I point to a gentleman across the bar…(another larger muscled man) that’s my VP.  I’m surrounded by men who own me.  Sorry.

Blink.  Blink.  Bambi smile.  Blink.

>>>>  awkward moment goes here <<<<<

Oh, that’s too bad, the pointy nose man says.  Did I forget to mention he was baked to a crispy bacon color?  And wearing a lovely tank top by the way.  Oh yes, he was also a good stiff breeze into his Long Island Teas by now, which made the interaction all the more entertaining as we launched into Act Two:

Blink.  Blink.

He then turns to his other side and asks about the ladies sitting to our left side.

“Who are these lovely ladies?  From Sex in the City?”  Obviously, I am seeing my out approaching as quickly as the Lexington Avenue stop on the NY Metro when you’ve dozed off unexpectedly.  SNAP….got to go.

WHY, yes, aren’t they lovely ladies?  And you know what?  They’re also with me!  Don’t they look FABULOUS?

He had a name for each of the ladies and as he figured who was who, I was gathering my hand bag and martini….positioning my stilettos for lift off and preparing for a pole vault from my seated position.

He was simply amazed and at a loss for words as he approached my friend Bernice.  With the quickness of a forest mouse on crack, I hop from my bar stool and quickly join friends at the back of the bar.  Just a simple three steps away from Bernice, we’re anxiously watching the drama unfold.

From our vantage point, the Pointer was very interested.

From Bernice’s vantage point, it was quite a different engagement.

Pats on her purse.  Comments on her earrings.  Here a pat, there a comment, every where a pat ‘n comment.

Old McNose had a pat ‘n comment….e i e i o……and on this pat he had an drunken comment!  E I E I O.

Alas, we weren’t too concerned.

I, all 5’1 and filled with Pixie glitter was able to survive the brief moments of stranger commentary of The Nose.  The spectator crowd in the back figured Bernice could do the same…..and we were quite enjoying the several minutes of conversational exchange between strangers.   Actually hoping to snap a photo if possible.

Fact or fiction you decide:  It all came to a screeching halt and we were later discovered to our horror…. he wanted to sell her Boy Scout Popcorn but the deal was only good if she could trade with her stash  Ginsu Knives.  You know they cut through cans AND then tomatoes.   The Nose said he didn’t swing that way so the deal was off on the Ginsu Knives.but wait until I tell you about the Pocket Hoses he was ready to deal on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Did I Already Tell You About…..

Years ago…. like almost 8 years ago….I got divorced and bought a cute little condo out in Auke Bay, Alaska.  It was a tiny little place.  So small you had to go outside if you wanted to change your mind.

It was all mine.

All 600 square feet.

I could sit out on the deck and watch my favorite birds – Blue Herons – fish in the wetlands.  When bored, just throw some herring up in the sky and watch the Bald Eagles come swooping in to pick up their snacks.  Talk about excitingly scary!  It was awesome.

When I moved in on a Saturday morning a bunch of people came to help me carry in the boxes.  My new upstairs neighbor happened to arrive during our moving chaos.  I yelled out a hello to her and introduced myself.  We’ll call her Mary.  Right about this time one of my oh so funny friends decided it would be hilarious to loudly inquire where to put my box of sex toys.

I nearly swallowed my tongue.

MY —

WHAT?

We all got a good laugh out of it.  Mary didn’t know what to say and immediately went inside her condo.

Let me give you a visual of Mary.  About 5’3 and probably about 150 pounds.  Thick calves.  Outfit of choice?  Skirts and colored tights.  Shoulder length corse black hair – wavy.  Coats two sizes too small.  Probably mid-late 20’s somewhere in there.  Works half the year for the government and half the year at a bank. Sure.

Got it?

Good.  You’ll need it later.

Along with the sex toys.

Six months went by or more.  One day I look out the window and I see Mary coming up to the building wearing exercise tights.  She had obviously gone running.  Huh.  Okay.  Well, I’m not a runner so good luck with that one.

A few days later I notice Mary with a guy.  We’ll call him Josh.  Now you need a visual of Josh.

Think Hobbit.

That should do it.

Okay, you need more visual assistance?  He is about 5’3 also.  Wears baggy sweat pants and t-shirts.  Constantly has that Don Johnson 5:00PM shadow going on.  His laugh is atrocious.  Down right ridiculous.  Like a hyena.  This guy thinks he’s all that and a bag of chips….sadly he isn’t even the stale pickle (without snap) on the plate.

Not to mention he walked around like a Neanderthal.   I mean really Hobbit Man can you do something about those lead bricks you call your feet?  Even elephants don’t make that much noise.

The guy made me weary and I never actually met him.

Over the next few weeks the Hobbit comes and goes from her condo.  He’s obviously visiting from somewhere else and isn’t local.  He’s always over visiting on the weekends. I’m thinking maybe he’s a fish processor or miner.  Maybe he works on a barge or something.  Who the hell knows?  I don’t care.

Suddenly one day the Hobbit shows up and he has a beat up Toyota truck.  Rusty and a total POS (please read as Piece of Shit).  He’s here for a week and gone for a week.  Here for a week and gone for a week.

One night I hear him on the phone – cause he’s stupid loud.  Now, he’s just pissing me off. Going on and on about starting up some business.  Later, out at the dumpster I see boxes and cartons from some manufacturing company for “Buzz Bites” energy bites.

Hobbit + POS + Buzz Bites = you have to be kidding me.

Please note:  You are going to need to reflect back on both of their visuals, the idea of Buzz Bites and yes, the sex toys.

Finally, one day I go upstairs and knock on their door.  The music was so loud, even the people in my head were vibrating around.  The Hobbit answered the door as Mary wasn’t home.  I politely ask him to turn down the vibes before my chandelier becomes a nightlight.  I also explained how the noise travels very easily and if he / they could be a little more considerate that would be fantastic.

Oh, yeah, sure.  Not a problem.  Sorry.  Sorry.  Sorry.

Weeks go by and I’m sound asleep in my snuggly little bear bed one morning.  Slowly I drift out of my sound slumber and I’m like, “what the hell is that noise?”  I am half asleep and it starts again.

What the hell?

*More noise*

Now I am sitting up in bed.  The noise stops.

Huh.

I lay back down.

*Noise starts again.*

Wait.  One.  Minute.  You.  Pain.  In.  My .  Ass.  Neighbors.

I am fully awake.  The Hobbit and his thick calved girlfriend are screwing.  After a yodeling like crescendo….the Hobbit yells a Tarzan like yelp:

“OUTSTANDING!”

Then….Hobbit leaps off the bed (I know this because the change in my piggy bank rattled on the floor and I’m pretty damn sure T-Rex is extinict) and takes off running for the bathroom with her right behind him.

Good lord of mercy give me a break.   You have to be kidding.

On my way to work, I go upstairs and tape a note to their front door.  I left no doubt in mind what I was talking about as I simply wrote, “Good morning!  Just so you know I do hear EVERYTHING downstairs.”

Being kind and polite can go a long way.  Emily Post and Sarah Lee both think so as does Dear Abby.  I am certain this will solve the problem.  Don’t we all want to be good neighbors?

A couple days go by and guess what….I am sound asleep….in my snuggly bed…..again.

T   H   U   M   P

*

*

Thump.

Thump.

*

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.Thump.

 

“I’M THE MAN!” 

 

Oh my god.  News Flash: No, you aren’t.

I am so not even kidding – I nearly fell right out of my bed with laughter and disbelief.  Yes, he yelled that.  Out loud!    Did  I fall down an acid lined rabbit hole when I wasn’t looking and I’m on a trip?  What the hell….can I rewind that?  What did you just yell?  Really?

Am I on Fear Factor?  No, wait it’s Candid Camera.  Oh – wait…I got it!  I’m on America’s Got Talent……. Snap.

I’M

THE

MAN

!!!

 

Who says these things?  Buzz Bites…..heavy calves….baggy sweatpants….

Really?

That’s it.  I’m ready for the next event.  I have my game plan.  You ignored my note.  I tried to be nice.  Now, I’m putting on the latex and grabbing my whip.  I’m so excited I feel like I should be the one yelling out.  Let the games begin.

Tick.  Tock.  Tick.  Tock.

It didn’t take long.  That night I climb into bed and before I can get into my dream sequence involving the ocean and floating along with the currents….BAM.

Hit the rewind button from earlier….

T   H   U   M   P

*

*

Thump.

Thump.

*

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.Thump.

Cue the yodeling.

Cue the Alaskan Minxy:  FINALLY – MY MOMENT HAS ARRIVED!

I leap up out from under the covers.  Standing in the middle of my bed…..jumping up and down like a two year old….I begin a rousing round of applause while yelling at the very top of my lungs:

“BRAVO!  BRAVO!  GOOD JOB!  BRAVO!  BRAVO!  EXCELLENT JOB!  BRAVO!”

Silence.  Cue the crickets.  Silence…………………………………………………

Then a burst of laughter for like two seconds – then silence.

Problem solved.  Never another peep.  Every time I ran into Mary from there on out – she never made eye contact.  Well, what’s awkward for you, is not awkward for me.  Thank you very much.

Lesson:  don’t mess with the Minxy.

Answer:  What?  No, I’m not telling you if I actually have a box of sex toys.