Tag Archives: idiots

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.

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Suck on This!

Oral fixations.

Babies have them.  They’ll put anything into their mouth.

Dogs have them.  They’ll chew on anything.

Turkey vultures have them.  They’ll eat anything rubber off your car.

I have an oral fixation.

Boys, get your mind out of the gutter.  It’s not that kind of oral fixation.  Although for you, that’s a oral visual stimulation fixation.  Yes, I agree. Some woman do look better when they have something in their mouth – mainly because it shuts them up.  But, I won’t go down that road right now.

It’s the NOISE that comes out of that orifice that irritates the shit out of me.

Please. Don’t even start with your tsk, tsk, tsk and tell me to be more patient and understanding of those around me – you can just sit down and listen up.  There are people in this world who are ignorant of their personal noise levels and their disruption to my peace and quiet.

I’m talking about those cheeky little fuckers who give no thought to their mouthy acoustics.  There are no words strong enough to describe the annoyance.  They’re simply being:

Insensitive.

Obnoxious.

Barbaric.

Impolite.

Cheeky Little Fucker Case #1:  

Decible Level 70

funny ostrich

Were these people raised by hyenas?

Nope, must have been ostriches.

Let’s see how much food you can stuff into that hole and then  try and carry on a conversation…shall we?

1….2…..3…..GO!

Fail.

I enjoy nothing more than someone stuffing their mouth full of food and THEN talking to me.   Could you not wait two minutes to come and speak to me?  After you swallowed  whatever that is you have crammed into your hole?  Apparently, not.  That’s just great.  Cause you know not only do I understand everything perfectly, but I also really enjoy when the bits and pieces of soggy whatever the hell that is….. come flying out of  your mouth.

It’s even better when you have SO MUCH crammed in there – you have to actually move it from side to side in order to talk.  Looking at you, you’d think you’re working on a giant wad of chew in your jaw.  Nope, that’s just your fucking tuna sandwich.

Are you kidding me?

It happened the other day and it was all I could do to dig my hands into my chair – to keep my own trap shut.  I was on the verge of saying:  “You sound like you have a mouth full of sweat socks.  Can you please finish your danish and then talk to me.”

We’re adults people – use your common sense.

Cheeky Little Fucker Case #2:

Decibel Level 110

fingers down chalkboark

What is worse than the stuffed mouth full of food issues?  Combine it with a nasally voice.  Add an accent.  Include VOLUME.  Oh and for giggles, let’s just as a cherry on top.  This voice is like nails down a chalkboard.

On a regular day her voice, to me, could unscrew lightbulbs  out of the socket.

Combine it with her eating, what I can only imagine as Andre the Giant sized bites and then talking loudly to her co-workers.  It’s enough to make me pack up and leave my cubicle.  Enough.  I’m done.

It’s that or I’m going to start shouting SHUT UP!  SHUT UP!  SHUT UP!

This woman constantly, constantly, constantly…..sends me over the edge.  I could leap the Eiffel Tower in a single bound when it starts.  My one remaining nerve gets such a workout with her that it packs up and leaves before I can even get my headphones out of the drawer.

When I do get the headphones out, I don’t know which music to listen to….something calming like Enya?  Spa relaxation channel?  Give the spa three minutes.  Click.  Not feeling it.  I switch over to something with a little more edge….to match my burned out nerve.  Eminem does the trick. UFC music channel….excellent.

Cheeky Little Fucker Case #3:  

Decibel Level 90

false teeth

False teeth?

No teeth?

Something in your teeth?

For the love of humanity far and wide, do us all a favor – excuse yourself and go brush your fucking teeth and remove whatever god awful boulder is in your cavity that is causing you to suck and slurp like a hooker trying to suck a golf ball through a garden hose.

ENOUGH ALREADY!

The sucking noises have got to stop immediately.  

IMMEDIATELY.

Rule #23 in life: When you have people in your office don’t suck your teeth.  And while I can’t see….I am going to gamble a bet that this person is probably fishing around in their mouth trying to pick out the offending seed of mayhem.

Just.

Stop.

It.

That’s correct, I can only gamble a guess because I never see it.  I only hear it.  Occurs on the other side of the cubicle wall.  God help me.

You’re wondering the same thing I am aren’t you?  If they find the pick – do they eat it?  I don’t know and I don’t care.  It makes me nauseous thinking about it.  I would rather watch guts and gore than see that crap.  Like picking your nose and eating it.

Cheeky Fucker Case #4:  

Decible Level 85

noisy eater

I don’t need to say anything.

You get the picture.

Eating is not supposed to  a recital of your orifice’s abilities to entertain various types of food items and their forms.

Same goes for those of you who moan and groan through your meals.  If you’re going to climax during any course – appetizer to dessert – you need to order room service or go eat in the closet.  They probably have private clubs devoted to food orgies, which I suggest you research but I’m not interested so keep it to yourself, so I too can enjoy my meal.

Those of you who have issues with people who can’t eat in a civilized manner – those who smack their lips, suck their teeth, click their tongues, moan and burp.you have my permission to get up and move away when they sit next to you.

When the offender sits with you, simply choose one of these excuses to move away:

“I’m sorry, my phone is ringing.  Excuse me.”

“You’ll have to excuse me, I’m multitasking today.  Meditating and eating.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m trying to be more in touch with my insensitive side.  Excuse me.”

“The baby is upset today….sorry.”

Then leave.

Enough people.  Just knock it off and respect others.  Get a clue.

Suck on something worth while.

Women Are Disgusting

I will admit it without any hesitation.

Women are disguisting.

For all the whining and carrying on we do.  Seriously.

Put the windows up! My HAIR!

Don’t kiss me!  I just put on my lipstick!

Don’t sit on the furniture!

Take your shoes off!

Do I have anything on my teeth?

Is my hair out of place?

Did you see her?

Does my ass look fat?

WATCH IT!  I just got my nails done!

.

.

.

.

.

We

Are

Filthy

Creatures.

.

.

.

.

If you don’t believe me.  Walk into any women’s restroom.  Any day of the week.  Any time of the day.  Any where.

Trashed.

What the hell?

I have never seen anything like it.

One should hope the worse thing experienced in a women’s toliet is exiting with paper stuck to your shoe!  Not.  Even.  Close.

First, let me tell you, it’s not a restroom. It’s a room filled with filth, disease, mayhem, absence of any barriers and worse of all ….a lack of common courtesy.  The men’s room is aces above what females exhibit behind public doors here.  Honestly, cleaning crews probably wear hazmat gear at the end of the day.

How do I know the men’s rooms are aces above what is available in ladies rooms?

I’ve been in them.

Come, walk with me.  Put down your cigar.  Put down your chardonnay.  Sorry, reds give me a migraine so I’m white wine only – bear with me here.  Or you can down your shot of Jameson – one of my favorites.  Of course don’t dare me cause I will take you up on the dare as some will attest to.  But, again, I digress.

Come with me as we walk into a public restroom designated for women.

Open the door, ignore the confetti of towels on the floor.  Walk past the sinks.  We’re headed to the stalls.

First stall – you push open the door and they didn’t flush.  Toliet paper clogs the pot, which multiple people have already used…not one flushed.  Or tried to flush. Great.  That’s just great.  NEXT.

Second stall – open the door and there’s piss all over the seat and not just a drop or two… someone turned on The Golden Shower.  Oh hey and there’s plenty of toliet paper all over the floor.  NEXT.

Third stall – there’s someone inside sitting silently…obviously waiting for you to leave so they can finish pooping.  Awkward, but what are you going to do.  HEY!  There’s a book called, “Everyone Poops”  I suggest you buy it and get over it.

Fourth stall –  there’s two empty toliet paper rolls on the floor.  Never a good sign.  Sure enough.  NO paper.

Fifth stall – clean.  You go in, shut the door.  The door doesn’t lock.  But you know, it’s not unusual.  You have a system and get to business.  Then as you’re getting the paper ready to clean up…. several things catch your attention.  It could be the unwrapped sanitary items in the bin – sitting in plain sight like some weird art project by Norman Bates….just nasty and then there’s the disguisting wipes off of someone’s finger of whatever on the stall wall.  Really? Come on ladies!  Just foul, foul, foul people.

As you go to flush the toliet, with your foot – you notice……pee on the floor.  PEE.  ON.  THE.  FLOOR.

Now trying not to touch anything, let us march out to the sinks.

We may or may not wash our hands but by god, I am going to fluff my hair and apply fresh lipstick….before heading out to greet you, my beloved.  Because, I am your Princess.  Your oh so perfect Queen.  Right?  Of course!

Yeah right and monkeys are going to fly out of my ass.

Now, let’s exit the restroom.  The woman has annihilated a stall – single handedly but yet won’t touch the handle to the door upon exiting.  FEAR – she might catch a cold from germs or the Ebola virus.  Let us throw out one last act of defiance – with a paper towel she’ll grab the handle of the door and without a thought, crumple it up and then aimlessly toss it in the general direction of the trash can.  Hence, a mountain of paper towels like Everest that grow with the passing of each hour.

Other things that are ridiculous in ladies rooms?

Being in a stall and little kids climbing under to look at you.

All the moaning and groaning of women pulling up and down their panty hose,  panties and various bodily torture devices designed to keep us looking smooth and svelte.

The sighing of sitting down on the toliet.

At work, women, for some reason and I’ve only ever seen this where I work….put toliet paper down the length of the door to cover the crack so nobody can see them.  Really?  What woman is peeking in between the cracks?  I’m not visiting the bathroom on a tour – I’m going to pee and then get back to work.  If you think your YaHoo is so precious or you’re spending so much time in there posing that someone it going to want to stop and look at you – W O W.

It’s a common, common, common occurance for woman not to flush.  Are they saving water?  The toliet seat cover didn’t flush.  The toliet paper they used to cover the seat didn’t get flushed.  The turd didn’t flush.  All the STUFF didn’t go down.  Why is it woman can’t do a courtesy check and double flush if necessary?  We’re double checking our fucking cleavage, hair and teeth but can’t take a second glance at the toliet to see if our pee and paper have been disposed of properly?

I just don’t get it!

It’s disgusting.

It’s disturbing!

Steven King could make a horror film out of it!

Those ads in Vogue this season are so hot – with the girl leaning against the nasty toliet in her Lucky Brand Jeans, looking all hot and bothered.  I so want those jeans.

OMG and did you see that one ad that Calvin Klein did with the couple making out in that ladies room with pee all over the floor and the trash?  I so want my man to do that….NOT!

And did you see that latest Victoria Secret ad with the wings?  Fantastic, she was seated on the sink with all the trash and toliet seat covers all over – that was so cool.

Nothing about any of this garbage reads sexy, hot, sultry or beautiful.

What woman thinks this is acceptable?  Someone has to clean up after you!

I’m not the first woman to let this cat out of the bag.  It turns my stomach every damn time I go into a public restroom.  It’s not a restroom it’s like the fourth level of Dante’s Inferno.  I’m not kidding.  I spend more time circling his damn Inferno….

All I can say is this…..

MEN…

Listen up…..chances are your woman is pulling the wool over your eyes!

So please, do yourself a favor…. the next time we chastise you for farting in front of us….remember this blog!  Ask her if she does a courtesy flush.

Bigger Boobs Please

nature-heart17

Happy Valentine’s Day Everyone!

The “Kinder Gentler Side” and I went to dinner tonight at a local fish market.  Now before you get the wrong idea, it was one of those restaurants where you can buy your fresh fish at the front counter and then if you so choose….you can opt to dine in the restaurant in the back.  It was quite nice.  The best part….

They don’t rush you out to get the next couple seated so they can make their next $300.

In January, we celebrated our 9 year anniversary and went to Joe’s Stone Crabs – a hugely popular restaurant up on South Beach.  We had heard wonderful things about it so we decided to go for our special night out.  The food was nice.  The down fall?  From the moment you sit down they’re pushing you out the door.

No good.

If I am going to spend nearly $300 on a meal, I want to enjoy the meal.  This isn’t a Happy Meal.  We won’t go back.  It wasn’t enjoyable.  To be rushed from the moment your ass hits the seat to the time your dessert port comes – they should be embarrassed.  They may turn 600 tables a night but you know what?  If I’m paying that price for a meal, I expect it to take longer the 45 minutes.  I expect the wait staff not to push me through like candies on a Lucille Ball conveyor belt episode.   To me, it was a scam.

Tonight, we went to Fish Fish in Aventura.  It was great from the moment we walked in to the moment we left.  2.5 hours.  Our appetizer didn’t run crashing into our salad, which didn’t slide screaming into our entree.  It was fantastic.  It was a leisurely and enjoyable evening.  I was delighted.

Of course, tonight was also Valentine’s so you can imagine….the spectacle.  I saw it all.

Lots of jeans.

Young ladies in short dresses.

Middle aged ladies in short dresses.

Older ladies in short dresses.  Go Nana.

But you know what?  THIS is Miami.  If you’re a woman and you have a pair of legs, chances are, you’re wearing a dress.  Double chances are you’re wearing a dress that is a little ridiculous for you.

Miami is all about butts, boobs and fake…fake….fake….fake.

Fake what?

Lips.

Butts.

Boobs.

Hair.

Nails.

Cheeks.

Eyelashes.

Yes.  You read it….eyelashes.

You name it…..it’s probably fake.  There’s so much silicone on the escalator at that mall that it actually jiggles as moves towards Earth.  The damdest thing I’ve ever seen.  Woman are fighting the jiggle only to replace it with silicone jiggle – cause it’s so much more effective and “healthier.”

Well…. and you don’t have to do anything to maintain it of course.

Damn, I could have had a V8!

Or by this time a 48GG.

I digress, which is so often my problem.

Tonight, I saw all shapes and sizes.  Lady, please.  Don’t wear grey stretch pants.  Not now.  Not ever.  No.  The oversized black, v-neck tee shirt with flashy cowgirl type belt – DOES NOT HELP YOU.

Same goes for you sister, with the oh so small nylon white tank top.  If it’s cutting off the circulation to the upper extremities – and your neck and face is a permanent purple color….that is a danger signal…..not a mating signal.  It’s not attractive to anyone.  Not to mention having to look at your four rolls of fat.  

Michelin pictire of Michelin Mann by carlfbagge

I thought the makers of the Michelin Man advertising campaign only created the one that came with a penis.  Didn’t realize they also created one with a vagina.

Which leads me to say, men….if you don’t look good with a shaved head – don’t do it on purpose.  There are some guys who can pull it off and they look good.  Others figure, why fight the battle of loosing their hair so they decide to shave off whatever hair they have left.

The problem is… if you don’t look good, you appear like penis looking for it’s body.

Just saying.

(See, I digressed again.)

There are a lot of fake things here in Miami.  I’m sure there are lots of fake things in LA, NYC, Fargo…(ok, maybe not)….and other high profile cities world wide.  Juneau, Alaska – not so much.  Sometimes it’s a bit overwhelming.

Take for example, the other day I was at the Bobby Brown make up counter getting new colors and this young girl goes walking by who was gorgeous.  I admire gorgeous woman just as much as any man does.  I admire gorgeous men just as much so don’t get the wrong idea.

She was Amazon tall, helped by her 5 inch heels.  Long blonde hair.  Beautiful.

Then she turned around

Collagen-Lip-Injection-Freaks-1

WTF?  She needed to use one of those old fashioned phones that had an ear piece and a seperate mouth piece cause those things you call lips have their own zip codes.

It looked like she was wearing a pair of those wax lips you got as a kid.  Apparently her lips doubled as a bird perch while she was out in public.  They were enormous!  Who thinks this is attractive?  They were done up in a frosty pink.   It was ridiculous and she was barely 24.

Of course, my self esteem, all 5’2 of it,  just shot through the roof.  Thank you.

Boobs.  If I were to get something fake.  I’d get bigger boobs.

True.

I’d like to upgrade to grapefruits.

The couple that came into the restaurant last night and sat down at the table next to us – she had a boob job.  She walked past us and I gave Eric the “OMG WTF….look at this” look.  I couldn’t help looking.  Even after they sat down, I couldn’t help looking.

Her chest was so out of proportion to the rest of her body that he had to hold her up under the arm pit.  Mind you, I’m not even talking about a petite girl either.  She was a “big boned” girl to start with.

She wasn’t grapefruits.

She wasn’t watermelons.

She wasn’t even human head size.

She was mamoth.

Little green dress, low cut.  Which I get.  Show those behemoths off.

Trust me, I like to flaunt my oranges as often as I can…I get it!Every good artist knows if you’re going to show off your artwork, you need a good frame.

This girl….thought she was all that and she wasn’t even the olive in her martini. Her bra didn’t even fit right.  The band was so tight that it cut her boobs in half.  So it looked like she had FOUR boobs.  To top this off, there was the neck line of her dress….another line on her boobs.

There was so much silicone and boob bondage going on that she appeared to be a pregnant cat with swollen tits.  Stop it!

Just.

Stop.

It.

All I could think about is the man with her:  Tell me…you honestly think THIS is attractive?  Really?  Honestly?  She has to rest them on the table.

Girl.  Did you look at yourself before you left the house?  Did you get dressed in the dark?  OMG what the hell?

Did you seriously think this was HOT?  What magazine said buy yourself boobs that belong on an elephant and then stuff them into a bra made for a mouse….men like that.

Really?  I’m thinking every issue of Cosmo would advise against that.  If they did, it was in an article referring to bondage and they meant using red silk and satin ropes and ribbon.  Not for dressing up on a night out on the town.

I would much rather see the soft curves of a slightly exposed boob and the bounce and jiggle as a woman walks.  Not some mashed up mess inside the dress with sloppy spillage over the neckline.  It’s so unflattering.  Does 25 gallons of silicone even bounce?

I don’t care if you have treated yourself to a 46GG and think you are the most exotic thing since Marilyn Monroe.  You appear to be a cartoon. They’re disproportionate to the rest of you.  Did you consider that before you bought those missiles?

WAIT maybe that is what they are!  She’s actually a secret weapon of destruction.  25 gallons of liquid nitrogen.  Better yet, maybe they’re bullet proof and she’s a body guard.  Like Wonder Woman but different.

Nope, I bet she’s a fisherwoman and they’re her floatation devices.

She’s obviously not a stomach sleeper.

What would one do with those when you turn 75 and decide you don’t want to carry 20 pounds worth of silicone any longer?  By then your skin has sagged. So what?  You put groceries in there when you go to the store?  Secret hiding place for valuables?  What?

Wait!  I got it.  That’s where you will sneak in snacks to the movie theatre!

It was just absurd.

Don’t even get me stared on eyelash extensions….

Seriously.

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Another Typical Day and I STILL Don’t Know Where to Look

I like people.

Wait.

No.

Scratch that.

That’s wrong.

I enjoy people watching.

They’re ridiculous.

What they are wearing.  What they are doing.  What they’re saying.  Truly the world is filled with the good, the bad, the funny and the down right idiotic.    Who said that was a good idea and why didn’t someone stop you? Gut instinct is not passé  but perhaps it needs more of a designer label before people begin to listen to it.

If you only knew what was going on inside my head, it would explain why there is a constant smell of a camp fire around me.  It’s hell’s calling card.  I’m on the fast track.

Friday, I was on my way into work.  I live north of Miami and work in the port.  (Don’t ask me why I chose this location.  I am now considering a closer location under an overpass by the Arena….I’m from Alaska and have a tent.  I hunt big game.  I’m not afraid.) When I moved, I shipped my car here.  You don’t see many of my car here.  And why are the Subaru an extinct species here?  Not that I drive one but good grief.  Odd.

Of course back home I only drove a total of 18 miles a day – round trip.  It took me maybe 15 minutes each way.  These lighted signs advising drivers it’s going to take 15 minutes to go 3 miles just about causes me to swallow my tongue each time I see the warning.  Certainly it has to be incorrect.

How can that be?

I won’t even go into discussion about the new….literally stop and basically turn left into I-95 traffic, forget about any sense about a practical merge lane from Ives Dairy.  While I am not an engineer….at least an actual on-ramp would have prevented that daily disaster.  It may be faster to actually get to the port by boat or even the blimp.  Has anyone considered this?  Is anyone thinking outside the box here?

Friday.

Back to Friday.

I finally get into the heart of town and make my turn by Will Call.

Which, by the way is that place open 24 hours?  Is it like the Miami version of a 7-11?  I have yet to go past there when there wasn’t some kind of drama unfolding.

A co-worker described it as a “rough around the edges” bar.  Well, Alaska has rough around the edges bars.  I’ve been in those local, rough around the edges bars.   I’m talking about the true local bars – not ones where the tourists go when visiting the Last Frontier.  Yes, they truly are ROUGH.

Don’t ask me the intersection location because, as we do in Alaska, it’s the “Will Call” intersection. Which as I am quickly learning here….people expect you to actually know the cross streets.  When I was asked recently which Costco I use,  I said the one in North Miami.  The lady rolled her eyes and said, “WHICH ONE?!”  I sweetly said in my friendly Alaska way, “The one in North Miami on Biscayne.”  When she wanted me to confirm the actual street address it was my turn to roll eyes and I took a stab in the dark and said, “Yes, that’s the one.”  Seriously, come on, I know there’s 4,000 Walgreen’s in Miami but Costco hasn’t become THAT popular.

As I wait to turn at Will Call I see to my left….coming down the stairs…. some oddly placed pink fabric, long black hair lots and lots of skin and what appeared to be fishnet stocking but could have been thigh high boots.  All I know….I thought to myself ….WTH is that?

Wow…..a hooker!

Note:  If she was working in an office that would have been one hell of an office.

Wow.

As I tried to pick my eyeballs up off the floor mats so I could get another glimpse of this lack of an outfit, I had my chance to turn right so I took it – to avoid the ever annoying honk of friendly Miamians.

Only to find two half naked men throwing punches AND CONNECTING those punches in the middle of the street.

My little car, Norman, was first in line to encounter these idiots.

OMG – NORMAN!  Get out of the way!  Horn was blaring, as much as Norman’s horn can blare.  If these guys fall and hit Norman he is going to get dented and I’m going to be pissed.

I get around them and then as luck would have it, they run up past me.  Still yelling and throwing punches.  Now more cars have joined the crowd due to the stop light.  Horns are  blaring…..why?

These idiots….instead of following what their gut indicators should be telling them, which is, fight or flight….keep running back AT each other.  They’re running back and forth across the street, around street poles, between cars …. like a woman trying to get the last pair of her most favorite shoes on sale at Nordstrom.  Good grief.

Commit.  Commit.  Commit.  Sharpen the elbows and commit.

Idiots, complete idiots these two.

One throws a punch and runs away.   The other runs after, catches up and throws a punch.  The other returns a punch and runs away.   It was the strangest mix of sissy girl fighting trying to be manly. Dana White would have been so disappointed.

Make a commitment!  Either stand your ground, be a man and fight like a man or accept defeat, put your dick between your legs and run away.

RUN THE OTHER WAY!

Miami, you’re killing me with laughter.

 

Some Things You Should Know About the Most Important Thing…..ME!

The other day I was at work.  For all the challenges I face, I enjoy work.  It’s something new every day and I learn more every week.  There are some days, I can’t wait to get to work.  Honest.  I don’t lie.  I’m terrible at lying….hence, reason #1 I could never be an undercover secret agent.

Sometimes, I think…

No.

Sometimes, I know….

The people I work with think I’m crazy.

That’s okay.  I didn’t suddenly become crazy.  I arrived to this job already crazy.  As one person said to me last week, “You are the only one who could get away with that.”  Yes.  I guess so.  But I was only being honest.  The difference was I said it out loud.

Oh, you want to know what I said?

“Slacker.”  (That’s all I’m saying….to protect the guilty and myself.  The truth would only be revealed under a tickle session.)

Of course, the up side is they know I’m kidding.  I hope.  People are so serious, it’s good to laugh. It releases the toxins you hold deep inside your gut.  Expel that shit like phlegm and be happy for a change.  Of course if you start playing that stupid song, “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” I will come by and snap off your music.  Be happy – yes.  Don’t be a pain in the ass.

I would like to get one of those things the gymnasts use to leap up to the high bar, balance beam or vault over the horse.  What are those things called?  The launcher.  I want one.  If anyone knows where I can get a used one please let me know.  That is how I want to come into my next meeting.  L A U N C H myself through the air!  Land with grace and yell out “TAH DUH!”

Besides these things, you should know…..and those who know me well, know this already.

NEWS  FLASH:  I’m not a hugger.

Unless you are a small furry critter of some sort, chances are slim I’m not going to embrace you.  Sorry.  Just the way I roll.

Part of it is because I’m short, almost like a pocket pet, hugs can be awkward for me.  A certain friend describes me as being like a candy bar:  “Fun Size!”

SO….as I was saying.  The other day I was at work and a co-worker came by my cubicle.  I’ve only met this person a few times before but feel like I’ve known them forever.  They come in and start towards me.

IMMEDIATELY there’s a “whoop whoop whoop HUG ALERT whoop whoop whoop HUG ALERT” siren going off in my head.  I don’t move a muscle.  If I’m still they’ll usually stop in their tracks.  It’s only slightly awkward, but we get through it.

Yatta, yatta….nice chat.  Moving on.

Later in the day, I was speaking with a different friend and advised them of the following:

“Yeah, you may want to mention to Pat that I’m not a hugger.  I think they might have been aiming to hug me earlier.”

Fast forward a few days later.  I end up having to stop by the potential hugger’s desk.  I pop in and my friend jumps up from behind the desk.

Immediately, my hands start to sweat.  Seriously?  Really?  OMG.  My heart starts to race and I think, “here we go again with the awkward moment.”  I do the only thing I can think of as my upper lip breaks out into a sweat….

I put my bag down and say, “HEY!  I bet our friend Kerry told you about my hugging thing huh?  Well alright, now that you know…..(gulp)…..I can hug you.”

Nervous laughter.

Ha.

Ha.

.

.

HA. HA. HHHAAA.

Pat, pat, pat.

.

.

I sit down and then look them in the eye and say, ” alright, so now you’re on the approved hugger list.  Don’t be going around telling people though okay.  LOTS of people want to get on it and I can’t permit that.”

They nod their head and reply, “Understood, I can only imagine how difficult the try outs are.”

Although, I will admit.  Some days are bad days and I could use a hug.  Without my better half here at the moment there are times when I think…..would I rather….hug a co-worker or hug a stranger?  Luckily, I haven’t acted on that impulse yet.

Today, I kinda had a personal struggle kind of day.  It was 80% great and 20% poopie.

I decided to go get a quick pedicure at my favorite local place.  They have the massage chairs that even squeeze your butt.  I like having my butt squeezed.

Sorry, was that too much personal information?

Anyway, I got the same guy who I got last time.  I never call ahead, I just go with the luck of the draw.  He does a great job so I was delighted.   Here’s the thing.  He’s Asian.  I’m American.  I’m terrible with accents.  90% of the time I have NO CLUE what this man is saying to me.   Tonight I sat in the chair.  He sits on the little stool and says to me:

“Atoub lkjdai kdi iqp bag? I’agb boie akv right?”

My little brain tries desperately to decipher what he’s just said…..bag…..right?  Bag?  Right?  WTF?  I laugh and say, “You think?”  He laughs and says something more about the bag and women.  I laugh.  Then about 30 seconds later it hits me!

Eureka!  I shout out, as if I am on some type of random B-rated game show, shown only on Wednesday nights on channel 7633 at 2:30AM:

“YES!  Of course I have multiple bags in my tote!  The bigger the bag, the more stuff I can carry!”

Then, because it was a last minute trip to the nail salon, I wasn’t too concerned about not having shaved my legs today.  Small stubble.  Not terrible.  I was wearing pants today and I knew nobody would be touching my legs.  Well, outside of a doctor in case of an emergency, but I wasn’t anticipating an emergency, so I didn’t shave.  My legs were nothing like sand paper.  Honest!  It wasn’t like it was fuzzy and braidable hair and it wouldn’t burn his hand off…so I wasn’t horrified about it until he said:

“Paiobo  aieq shave for me today.”

What the hell?  What?  What?  What?  I missed the first part.  WHAT!?  Did he say I did or didn’t?  I don’t know!  Good grief.  No clue.  Then we proceeded to the mask and the scrub on the legs.  I pretended to lay back and enjoy the chair massage.  With my eyes closed….thank you….to avoid further conversation.

We have two friends, who I really enjoy their company, however they both make me nervous as hell.  Why?  I can’t bloody understand most of what they say.  They are both helicopter pilots.  Why does that make a difference?  Trust me….it does.  That’s another story.

But they BOTH have accents.  I mean really, either one of them could read a cookbook to me and I’d be drooling.  However….me…… trying to carry on a conversation….with one of these guys?  I’ve got nothing.  Nothing.  Notta.  Zip. Zilch.

It’s so bad.  That my better half had to tell them, “you know she only get like every fourth word you say.”  They knew.  Yeah, because of my confused nods and smiles.  OMG I’m an idiot.

The other day at work we had a conference call.  Luckily it was just over the phone and not a video call.  Good lord.  One of the people on the call had not just one accent but TWO accents.  He started off British, which I get.  Check, got it, I’m good.  Following right along until BAM…all of the sudden he has a heavy Indian accent.

I’m not talking Native American accent.  I’m talking from India, India accent.

WHAT?

I went from hearing:

“Yes, it would be easy enough for us to come and visit with you and discuss your process.”

To:

“Tjagjoun   gp’iep”  aoibuo yboiafp   poiqrpjp’ja  ‘a;ojp[i  kaip  qgv.”

Then to:

“You would need to provide us with an accurate schedule as to the time frame.”

Followed by:

“Hkahgoi adyfug ghkb vvaip afihaivoj alboubo a aougo.”

If anyone could see me, they would have literally found me with my eyes squeezed shut, elbows on my knees and my fingers pressing into my temples…..so very seriously trying to concentrate oh so hard on whatever this British Indian man was trying to say.

I had nothing.

I won’t even go into the conversation ON THE PHONE I had today with one of our French  tour operators.  Luckily I was able to get the gist of why he was calling, so I was able to get through the conversation.  Dear Lord.  Instead of inventing “TV Ears” could someone please invent ears for people who can’t get over the accents?  Most of the time all I get is:

LA  LA  LA  PENCIL.

Lastly, I wanted to share with you my first day on the beach here near my house.  It was over the 4th of July.  The beach is literally a 5 minute drive from my front door, to the beach parking lot.  So easy.

I claim a little patch of shady sand……and settle in for my afternoon.  Okay, not really an afternoon because I don’t have the patience but I planned for ONE HOUR.  Which was perfect for me on the first trip.   Over by the lifeguard tower, it is mobbed.  Wall to wall people.  I’m a ways down the beach, in the shade of a high rise.  Perfect for my delicate Alaskan skin.

The first thing that I ponder are the signs not too far away from me that read something like, “Beginning from the front of this sign is 50 feet of private beach property.”  I’m confused.  The sign itself is hammered into the sand about 50 feet from the front of the obvious property line….the green grass.  However, does the sign mean it extends another 50 feet into the ocean?  Or does it mean 50 feet behind the sign is private beach?  So confusing these Floridans.

I’m happy as a clam.  In my bathing suit.  Wearing SPF 75 (thank you Alaskan friends) and watching the parade of people.  OMG.  That’s a whole other blog.  Suddenly, out of the right corner of my eye vision I see a 4WD vehicle fast approaching.  It slams on the breaks …a few car lengths away from me and the guy leaps out (doorless 4WD) and grabs a surf board off the top of the vehicle.  He lunges into the waves, throws himself on top of the board and begins to propel himself into the ocean.

I’m thinking, the Alaskan I am…..on the beach….in the blazing sun……wearing SPF 75….trying not to blind people with my vampire like skin……

Wow..he really wants to catch the waves.  Must be good wave action.   I watch him out in the ocean.  He’s paddling and paddling…..gets out to just where the waves are starting to form.  He’s talking to another group of people.  Yatta….yatta..

Waves are forming and going.

Forming and going.

Forming and going.

The guy on the surf board starts looking back at the beach and he’s patting his head.

?

?

?

?

What the hell does that mean?

He’s obviously not patting his head and rubbing his tummy.  He’s signaling to someone.

Then I take notice he’s talking to a group of kids who are out there on an (this is genius) inflatable mattress.  Not just a raft.

A  QUEEN  SIZE  MATTRESS.

GENIUS.

Winner.  Winner.  Chicken.  Dinner.  I LOVE that idea.  So much better than the little floatie raft things.  I love this.   Last time we were in Maui, I lost half my bathing suit trying to get back in to the beach…..carrying a floatie raft.

Seriously.

Then it suddenly dawns on me.

Duh.

I’m such an Alaskan.

On the beach.

This guy, anxious to get out and catch the waves?

Yeah, he’s a life guard.  Telling these kids they can’t be out there on an inflatable mattress.

I’m such a nerd……on the beach.