Do you like apples? This is my 411th post. How do you like them apples?
The other day I was looking for a photo that showed me with my natural hair color. (Oh please, that collective gasp of surprise is as phony as my red hair…hush.) I found a few that I scanned for your viewing pleasure…
Me in 1988. 
And around 2000.
Me in July of 2001, when I turned 30 and went red. 
And me a few weeks ago.
Although this has nothing to do with hair, here is another one of me in 1988 with the body I want back:
(I know…what’s it like to want? I KNOW!)
Remember back in February when I was sick and at the grocery store when a guy asked me out and I was questioning his sanity / taste in women? Remember how yinz all lost your shit on me? Well, something similar happened yesterday.
I had major bed hair and didn’t even shower, just woke up late, called Aunt Tinkle Twat to see if she wanted to do breakfast somewhere because I didn’t want to be alone, threw on a black spaghetti strap tank top along with my jean crappie pants and flip flops, then headed out to pick up Tinkle.
Her boyfriend wanted us to run to Lowe’s or Home Depot for some stuff so instead of going to Pamela’s down in the Strip we decided on Cracker Barrel out in Robinson. As we started up 60 I changed my mind and decided I wanted more of a diner so we jumped on 79 and BOOM, there we were at the best place in Pittsburgh (next to Pamela’s) for breakfast. There were even two seats at the counter open! I was all about happy.
Tink and I were talking and loudly laughing, even though outwardly we were both pretty much disasters…her with half of her hair plastered to her face and the other half standing straight out, me with my hair all Medusa like. (And I do mean laughing. The deep, belly laugh that almost causes me to bend over to grasp my sides, but then my face would have been in my S’mores pancakes.).
Then this guy came in with his young son, waiting for a table. Tink thought he kept staring at me, I said who wouldn’t with jacked up hair like mine. I exchanged smiles and glances and all with the attractive older man, then when it came time to pay we were both at the register at the same time. He introduced himself and we had a little chit chat. I blushed when he called me pretty, secretly thinking he must be crazy because HELLO, HAVE YOU SEEN MY HAIR THAT SCREAMED FRESHLY FUCKED OR SLEPT ON??!?! (The higher the hair, the closer to God!) When he said he would like to buy me lunch or dinner sometime, I heard all of you yelling at me about dismissing the guy back in February so I found myself agreeing to go out with him. We exchanged numbers and I practically ran back to Tinkle, all the while thinking this seemingly normal guy must be a freak.
So here is my dilemma. Is he crazy / needy / lonely on Father’s Day / an axe murderer who stares at women until they are intrigued or is he a nice guy who just was out with his son on Father’s Day and saw someone he was attracted to?
And if it is the latter? Well, I don’t trust anyone who is attracted to an un-showered Medusa me. I mean obviously he ain’t right in the head, right?
Ok, I am done rambling. Point is I listened to you fuckers and didn’t tell this dude that he is obviously fucked up if he hit on me Sunday morning. So if I do actually go out with him and I find myself chopped up in little pieces, in his freezer while he wears my hair as a wig? IT WILL BE YOUR FAULT, INTERNET.
I still really, really miss my Momma.
Ξ April 27th, 2009 | → 10 Comments | ∇ me |
I really try not to complain about things I cannot change.
As Lisa (and my Mom) always used to say, “It is what it is.”
But the temps in Pittsburgh being over 85 degrees in April? Only four days after it snowed?
I’m officially complaining.
(While thanking the sweet Baby Jesus for my whole house air conditioning!)
I remember what it was like the day I walked out on the guy I lived with for several years. It sucked. Love was never a question, but the happiness of two individuals depended on my leaving. It broke my heart, but it was the right thing to do. As scared as I was, I packed up all my shit and moved across town, in with a good girl friend who owned a fantastic duplex in one of the best neighborhoods in the city.
That move? Had nothing on what Hilly has done. Ending a marriage is so much harder than when it doesn’t involve the ceremony and families. Deciding to move across town is nothing compared to the decision to pick up and start over across country. Moving into an already furnished and adorable apartment can’t even compare to having to shell out for everything new, even the very bed where you will lay your head.
I am so incredibly proud of Hilly for doing what is best for her. And doing it in the classiest of ways!
Cool thing is, Britt has decided to throw an internet housewarming party. Officially Hilly is in, but she needs a bunch of stuff to get that house into a home. If you have the means, please consider checking out Hill’s Amazon wish list. Times are tough and there are plenty of small things if you just want to let her know you are thinking of her. There are also plenty of larger items if you have more dimes to spare. Regardless, please send our Snackiepoo a message to let her know that you are happy she is moving on, moving up!
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On a TOTALLY different note, I am a moron. Britney Spears has a song out that has been driving me crazy, like I was missing out on something. In the vehicle the other day I asked if Re knew who Amy was or what joke I was missing.
Did you all know that “if you seek Amy” sounds just like “F. U. C. K.” me? Yeah, I am a little slow on the uptake sometimes. 
Love me hate me
Say what you want about me
But all of the boys and all of the girls are beggin’ to If You Seek Amy
I’m not sure which one of us is the stupid bitch. Maybe we both are. All I know is my little cousin Re (Twinkle Twat) can get me to do just about anything just by asking and throwing in a “C’mon!” Normally I don’t give a shit about peer pressure, don’t care at all what others do or don’t want me to do. But there is something about when Re wants me to do something…I lose my fucking mind and do it.
Maybe it is because I was 10 years old when she was born and she was better than any stuffed animal or baby doll. Beautiful and happy, always wanting to snuggle like a little monkey. Just a perfect little kid. If she was fussing she immediately stopped when I held her. When Aunt Mare attempted her first shower with Re and Re’s older sister it didn’t go well and I came running to the hollered word HELP. A sobbing toddler was handed to me and I will never forget how great it felt for little Re to cling to me and stop crying while I held her and dried her off. Perhaps I still want to make her happy, I don’t know, but I’ll do just about anything she wants.
Example? A few years ago our cousin got married in Virgina, near DC. I drove Re’s truck (Ford Ranger 4×4) the entire way. When we arrived at our hotel we were hungry. And thirsty. We left the hotel and found a pizza place, but couldn’t find liquor store or beer distributor (in Pennsylvania you must go to one or the other for anything containing alcohol). Re gets the brilliant idea that we should go through the McDonald’s drivethru and just ask the person behind the microphone where to buy booze. “C’mon.”
Damned if I didn’t shrug my shoulders and say ok. The truck was filled with laughter as we sat in the line, but we all immediately straightened up when it was our turn at the microphone.
An extremely accented voice rang out, “Welcome to McDonald’s, may I take your order?”
“Umm. No order, thank you. I was just wondering if you could tell me where the nearest liquor store is.”
“This is McDonald’s, may I take your order?”
“I understand this is McDonald’s, thank you. Could you tell me where to buy booze?”
“No booze here. THIS IS MCDONALD’S.”
“I am not from around here, but I can clearly see that this is McDonald’s. I don’t want food, I want to buy alcohol somewhere. Do you know where I can purchase alcohol?”
“MA’AM, THIS IS MCDONALD’S!”
“Look, I understand that this is McDonald’s, but I just want a damn case of beer. Where the fuck can I buy beer in this town? Seriously, all I want is beer. Help me and I will leave you alone.”
“MA’AM, THIS IS MCDONALD’S. WE DON’T SELL BEER.”
“For the love of all that is holy, do you ever drink beer? If so, where do you buy it? Help a girl out. Please. Where do I buy a case of beer?”
“MA’AM, THIS IS MCDON…”
“STOP SAYING THAT!”
Right about now the SUV in front of us, which has been bouncing with laughter this entire time as they obviously heard the exchange, has a woman lean out and happily holler back at us, “Just at the corner is an ABC Store. They will have some of what you want and can point you to anything else. Have fun!”
We pulled out and around, gratefully expressing our thanks to the SUV couple, then headed down to the corner. The store held just about everything we wanted and we spent entirely too much money there. As we headed back to the truck I told Re she was an asshole for getting me to ask that poor English as a second language guy where to buy booze.
“We should go back and tell him where to buy alcohol in case anyone else ever asks. C’mon…”
“Heehee. OK.”
As most of you already know, I am always running late. Hell, I was even born three days later than my due date. Being on time is just not something that is terribly important to me. Even on the days when it is important, something inevitably comes up to fuck up my good intentions so I am late anyhow. Usually it isn’t a problem.
Friday I had a flight to catch at 8:05 AM. The dogs needed to go to the kennel before I could get to the airport. And, not surprisingly, I was running about 20 minutes late. Hoping the weather would delay the flight, I pushed on even though the rain made it difficult to see (and therefore driving at 90 miles an hour became a little dangerous).
When I pulled up at the curbside baggage check at 7:16 I was thankful to see Delta had a few guys outside checking bags and no line. Considering that the airlines usually cut off checked baggage 45 minutes before a flight, I practically hugged the guy who rushed to help me with my bag. We were talking and laughing when I glanced over to see a state trooper coming my way.
Fuck. No stopping, parking or anything meant I told the baggage dude to keep checking me in while I drove around the block…I’d be back for my driver’s license. Unfortunately it was too late, the cop was at my SUV before I was.
He asked if it was mine and if it was registered in the state of Pennsylvania. I smiled and happily told him of course it was. Even added a “sir.” I about threw up when he asked if I realized my registration was expired. Almost a year ago.
Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck. The incredibly attractive officer asked to see my registration and license. I dug out my registration paperwork, giggling as I told him, “You are going to love this one. My license is with the baggage guy and my registration papers aren’t signed.”
He was nice and handed me a pen saying something about me agreeing to not litter. It was right about then, right there in the rain, that I lost my shit. I do NOT litter, thankyouverymuch. HATE litter and how dare he accuse me of littering, dammit. Even went so far as to share the story about drunk Tour Guide Me grabbing some guy by the throat because he littered in front of my guests from Cleveland. Cutie patootie cop apologized and showed me the language on the registration which mentions by signing that the vehicle owner agrees to fines of $300 for fining. I blushed a bit and apologized for screaming at him.
We walked over to the curbside baggage to get out of the rain and to get my license. And apparently my 45 pound bag because it was some double top secret flagged for no curb checking. Are you fucking kidding me? I started to laugh and said, “Well, as if there might have been a doubt, I am so missing this flight.”
Giggles and curses flowed. I mean, I couldn’t stop cracking up. Right about then the baggage guy told me that my flight was delayed a few moments and Delta will check bags up to 30 minutes before departure time. More laughter (and “HOT DAMN, BUBBA, I JUST MIGHT MAKE IT!” might have possibly escaped from my mouth). Then, still with a massive smile, I turned to the trooper.
“Would you be kind enough to write my expired inspection ticket quickly so that I don’t miss my flight? I’m clearly having one hell of a rainy Friday and would love to not miss this flight.”
Silence.
And more silence.
Then he cracked a smile. “I’ve never done this before, but I am only going to write you a warning. Just do me a favor and get that thing inspected before the 18th. Mail me a copy that you did. Never before have I seen someone so happy about a rainy bad day. I want you safe. Get it inspected.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? Just a written warning? You might want to step back because I am seriously gonna hug you.”
Don’t know why, but I am really, really blessed. And also rather stupid because I didn’t hug the hot cop.
Oh! I made the flight and so did all of my luggage!
A few years ago I had been running and running hard. Work, parties, travel, volunteering all Saturday at a charity golf outing, etc. Life tends to move fast all at once and I was balls (breasts?) to the wall enjoying life. It was exhausting.
Sunday finally arrived, but I had promised a good friend that I would work for her about an hour away in Ohio, at the Shaker Woods Crafts Festival. Once again I got up entirely too early, got my shit together and hit the road. It was a long and busy day, but I loved it. The drive home was pretty, one of those perfect August days that others describe better than I ever could.
Puppies were happy to see me when I got home. I didn’t even bother changing out of my dip shit Shaker costume (yes, we have to dress in period clothing while working), instead I fed the dogs, flung the back door open for them, grabbed a bowl of crunchy green grapes (also known as “dinner”) and headed for the couch. Instead of going outside after they ate, the boys came and stared at my bowl of grapes. Flipping through the channels I found America’s Funniest Videos. Mindless television is a great way to end the day.
And then it happened. Thirty two groin hits in forty seconds. There is nothing funnier than people falling down. When they get nailed in the crotch and then fall down? Hysterical.
Except I had just bitten into a grape. A really, really juicy grape. At the beginning of the groin hits montage. I couldn’t breathe. Nothing in. Nothing out. No sound. Nothing. I inhaled in laughter and was now choking. Concertrating on not panicing I glanced at the TV. Folks were still getting hit and falling down, I was still laughing on the inside, but I was pure silence.
I closed my eyes so that I would quit looking at AFV. My mind raced to images of the cops showing up because a neighbor got tired of the barking dogs outside. The cops would come in and find me dead, but at least it would be quick enough that the dogs wouldn’t have eaten my flesh after days of no food. Oh shit, my house is a mess. I can’t have the cops seeing my apartment such a disaster. Perhaps I could vacuum quickly before I pass out. That is just silly. And I don’t want to die. Maybe if I go outside and get into the street someone will see me and call 911 instead of running me over. Fuck, I am still wearing this outfit from Shaker Woods. Just don’t pass out before you get outside. Stay strong. Get to the door. Get outside. Door open. Step through it.
But I was so weak from the lack of oxygen. Not graceful me combined with lightheaded me tripped. I flew forward, knocking into the porch railing. And accidentally giving myself the Heimlich Maneuver.
Not even kidding. I impaled myself on the railing and the grape flew out. Standing there on the porch, coughing and gasping and sputtering, I couldn’t believe I wasn’t dying.
So many aspects of my life remind me that my negatives are in fact sometimes my saving…wait for it…my saving grace.
See, I have grace! Just not gracefulness.
Ξ March 29th, 2009 | → 14 Comments | ∇ me |
Most of the churches here in the Pittsburgh area have little old ladies who cook up a storm on Fridays in Lent. Don’t get me wrong, a lot of churches have folks who don’t have blue hair, but it seems like most of the fish fry churches are staffed with adorable old women.
My uncle is the head fry cook at my local church and he would be most unpleased at my generalizatoin.
Yet it is true. I love the old women who take too long to write down my order, take my money and give me change before my food comes. They are adorable and they just might be my future.
Normally a few coworkers and I run out for lunch together at one of the local churches that offer a variety of Lenten foods: baked or fried fish, mac & cheese, halushki, crab cakes, coleslaw, fried shrimp, potato soup, etc. We feast in the church basement and share lots of laughter.
Yet this Friday was not to be. Seemed as though all of my normal coworkers who share lunch had errands to run. Since lent is only a few weeks, there was no way I was going to let a tasty meal, cooked by the blue hairs, get away. On my way to my traditional church I saw another that often advertises. I pulled in and purchased some of the tastiest pierogies that I have ever consumed. Thank you, church ladies!!
Coolest part for me was the two computer printout signs tacked up on the board next to the table where they take the money. Loved these signs:
I know a lot of you won’t appreciate these, but I really do love them.
Remind me sometime to tell you about my dancing on a Saturday afternoon…
Ξ March 10th, 2009 | → 12 Comments | ∇ me |
Today at work I got an email from and aunt who is 66 years old. I think I told a story involving her before (“we’re here, we’re queer, get used to it!“). Fun, intelligent, great sense of humor…terrific qualities in a person. So anyhow, her email announces a party coming up at the end of March. I love our family gatherings so I quickly reply, telling her how grateful I am that she is providing yet another opportunity for our large group to gather together.
She was still at her computer and shot me back an email asking me to a simple dinner at her house yesterday (Tuesday) because she knows I love chili. Oh. Hell. Yes. I am all about free, all about not cooking and all about hanging out with Auntie M. (Auntie M sounds so much better here than simply saying Aunt Marcia.)
I arrived around 7 PM, after spending some time at home with the boys, throwing a ball and just hanging out in the chilly sunshine. Small aside here…not only do my dogs keep the squirrels out of the yard, but birds are not even permitted to fly over the yard. Especially if the birds are crows. Both of my boys loose their shit when birds fly over.
Back to the point I was trying to make. I didn’t get home until midnight and I love it. We talked about the kinds of stuff I would discuss with K or Cinderella or Britt. Even though she is 66 she is still just like talking to a great friend. I find that incredibly cool. Why am I surprised that we can discuss food, camping with a man, alcohol, insecurities, football, communication being important in every relationship, Britt’s new site giving away a vibrator, 401k fears, hitting the Powerball, dogs, clit piercings, the Big East basketball tournament, family vacations, the perfect job description and more? Really I shouldn’t be surprised. Yet I pleasantly am. Never realized I was a little bit of an ageist before. Bad, bad Becky!
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