The other day Jen, of Run Jen Run (yes, she of TequilaCon fame who doesn’t even know how much the little event she planned has changed my life, but that is another story), wrote about her ebay quests to collect all things vintage Girl Scouts. She never really was a Girl Scout, but the combination of vintage and the hunt of ebay started Jen on a collection. It was truly a pleasure to read her post that day.
Then I started thinking about why I don’t have any memories of Girl Scouts other than of buying too many boxes of their damn cookies (those fuckers are like crack…what the hell do they put in them?).
Turns out if you are in the Brownies and beat up a Boy Scout you will get kicked out of the Brownies and never allowed to join the Girl Scouts.
Elitist scouting bitches.
Quarantining myself for days had me a little stir crazy. Don’t get me wrong, I love my little house, but day after day after day of being cooped up was starting to get to me. All of my dishes are done, my feed reader is empty, laundry monster has been continually cranking and yet I am stir crazy. Not bored enough to really clean this joint, but when I opened the fridge and saw the science experiments gone wrong, I figured I should perhaps get to tossing some stuff out.
Normally my frigid air only contains cheese, salsa, condiments (butter, jelly, mustard, soy sauce) and liquids (water, beer, hard alcohol and mixers). Somehow it had accrued a variety of unidentifiable items. I found stuff from Thanksgiving. I threw entire containers out because they were growing fuzzy green and black life forms. Normally I am all about recycling, but there was no way I was trying to clean some of those things. Glass, plastic…whatever, I didn’t care. Blech. You may thank me now for not posting photos.
Fortunately all the freezer has is glass mugs, ice cubes and vodka. No need to clean that fucker. Yay!
P.S. Does anyone else store stuff in the fridge or oven? Or both? I have my Pampered Chef stone stuff in the over (two and a pizza stone). In the fridge I have two pitchers and several beer glasses. Is this a single girl thing or are there others out there who do this?
I mentioned in Friday’s post that an “interesting” fact about me is that I once walked naked around the block in the rain. A few folks commented or emailed me wanting to know more details. Honestly, the story really isn’t all that big a deal.
My first apartment was not in the best section of town. Not that it was in the heart of Wilkinsburg or anything, but still, I officially had the zip code. (To those of you who know the Pittsburgh area, that means something.) Fortunately I had three of the most incredible protectors living next door: Danny, Denny and Gary. They were at least 10 years older than me, some of the best drinkers I have ever encountered and all around perfect neighbors for a young girl in her very first apartment.
[Side note: their old house was split into three floors so the guys each had their own apartment. My apartment was actually the second floor of an old house. I had two large bedrooms, a huge living room, a massive dining room and kitchen combo, a bathroom big enough for a small family to live in, plus a third floor attic for storage. LOVED the place. Stained glass windows above the actual windows, mantels above nonworking fireplaces...just a great started apartment for next to nothing. So lucky that a friend suggested it for me.]
One midsummer’s night we were all sitting on the guys’ porch, where we had been all day. All we had done was listen to music, drink beer, do shots of George Dickle and eat some grilled burgers. Pretty damn good time, actually.
I don’t know what hour it was when the rain started, but it had been dark for quite some time. Since we had been drinking for even longer it made perfect sense in my head that we should get our lazy asses off the porch and go for a walk in the warm rain. I am fairly certain the word “refreshing” left my mouth a time or two. Gary was having none of it. He was exhausted and too drunk to move. Fortunately Danny and Denny were usually easily swayed by my grand ideas so they agreed to walk with me. We each grabbed two beers and off we went.
We walked down the path to the sidewalk and were completely soaked. About one house away they both took off their t-shirts and whipped them back towards their yard. When I made the comment that the guys were lucky that they could be shirtless in the rain, they did what most grown men would do and told me to just take my shirt off. Seeing an opportunity to perhaps get something out of this for me, I told them I would take my shirt and bra off if they took their shorts off. They said they would take their shorts off if I would take mine off as well.
Which is how it came to be that Gary sat on his front porch and watched the three of us standing on the sidewalk taking off every article of clothing and throwing them into the yard. I felt incredibly safe considering the fact that I had a 6′4″ cowboy on one side of me and a 6′5″ cowboy on the other side of me. (And also? I was extremely intoxicated.)
Considering the time of the night and the pouring rain there were no cars around. About three quarters of the way through our adventure around the block we heard a noise we couldn’t place. We turned around to see a guy on a bicycle approaching. There was no reason to stop; we just kept strolling along. Although when the guy on the bike past us he couldn’t take his eyes from the three crazy white people walking naked.
Which is probably why he didn’t see the parked car until it was entirely too late. Imagine how he must have felt when the naked people laughed at him. Poor guy.
Only problem with the walk around the block was that Danny’s parents lived a few doors down, on the other side of my apartment. In our drunken heads it somehow made sense that they would be looking out the window in the middle of the night. So we abandoned the sidewalk for the grass yards and army crawled, naked, through six or seven yards. The sound of the laughter would have given us away anyhow, but it just seemed like the thing to do at the time.
Eventually we made it back to the house the guys lived in. We were filthy so we asked Gary to go in and bring us a bar of soap. Yes, we stood in the rain in the front yard and washed off. Because it is classy to shower outdoors with two beautiful and hot neighbors while a third neighbor watches.
Ahhhhh, the logic of youth. 
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.
Going to see my boyfriend Dwayne Johnson in Race to Witch Mountain, or whatever it is that the movie is called. All I care about is seeing him and trying not to slide out of my chair. Wouldn’t want to embarrass myself in front of my friends.
A wonderful friend has opened a review site and she is kicking it off with a sex toy giveaway. Oh yeah. Mini vibrator, bay-bee. Expensive mini vibrator. Being given away. For free!
Head over HERE to enter.
You don’t even have to tell her I sent you.
I love me some Bug Eyed Earl. The man is funny and smart and all around fucking cool. He has asked me a few questions with strict instructions that I post the answers here and then below offer to ask you questions. So, without further adieu, here goes…
1. I know you were an active commenter on blogs before you started one of your own, and once you did you seemed to have more fun with your blog life than just about anyone I can think of. What’s your secret?
It’s new! Ha! (Sorry, there is no secret. I’m one of those people who genuinely love life and find it way cool to share some of my stories with anyone who stumbles over here. And honestly, the supportive and kind comments or emails that I receive truly bring me joy. I love knowing that there are such phenomenal people out here in the Internet. This blog and all of you guys make me happy. When it stops being fun I’ll stop posting.)
2. The only film I can think of off the top of my head that was filmed in Pittsburgh is Striking Distance. Did it accurately portray life on the Three Rivers? Is there really that much of a police presence on the waterways?
First, there are a ton of films that were filmed here. (Dogma, Zach and Miri Film a Porno, Inspector Gadget, Silence of the Lambs, Mothman Prophecies, Kingpin, Sudden Death, Flashdance, Night of the Living Dead, Wonder Boys, Boys on the Side, Like Bread My Sweet, Dominick and Eugene, etc. Don’t get me wrong, I love Bruce Willis and Striking Distance, but c’mon! DOGMA!) Second, no, Striking Distance wasn’t as accurate as it could have been. We do have cops in boats, though. (Also? Michael Keaton is from Pittsburgh…that has to count for something even if Batman wasn’t filmed here.)
3. You say you do a happy girl wiggle when you are happy. Care to prove it?
Anyone who knows me has seen the wiggle. Imagine a puppy with a happy tail that shakes their entire body. Now you know the happy girl wiggle.
4. Being an Eagles fan, you probably know how I feel about your Steelers. But you probably don’t know that the Pitt Panthers have always been among my favorite college football and hoops teams. Since I know he was born there and went to school there I have to ask if you have ever met one of my man crushes, Dan Marino. If not, then who is the biggest Pittsburgh celebrity you have met?
Fucking hate the Eagles. Like capital H and A. HAte. I’m trying to get past the fact that you are an Eagles fan long enough to answer your actual question. Ok, deep breath.
Yes, I have met Danny Marino. He went to school with my oldest ex step brother. Although he wouldn’t know me from a can of paint today. At a few events I have been introduced, along with a kerjillion other people, to him and he was incredibly patient as well as pleasant and sociable. Gotta tell you though, during a Penguins playoff game last season he was on the elevator when Donnie Van Donnie (regular commenter here) started pointing and hollering “DAN MARINO! DAN MARINO!” Poor DAN MARINO! was scared.
I’ll be honest, I consider Mr. Rogers to be the “Biggest” Pittsburgh celebrity that I have met. I mean, every kid in the damn country knows who Mr. Rogers is/was. I miss him. And now I am sad. Can we go back to me being pissed that you don’t bleed Black and Gold? Or how about we talk Pitt basketball being named #1?
5. Love your HNT feature. You seem very outgoing in posting pics of yourself on your blog, but with your assets what’s not to be proud of? 
Have you ever regretted anything that you have posted? Maybe a co-worker or family member saw a little more of you than you really wanted, or are you really this fucking cool?
A few family members know about my site. Plenty of friends know about Midnight Cliff. Several coworkers do. Hell, even a few customers and vendors stop by here regularly.
I mean, in person I tend to speak my mind and try to live my life with no regrets. All I am is where I have been. So the true answer is absolutely no regrets. I’ve had fun with HNT. After a solid year of HNT it will probably end, but until then I’m enjoying it. Especially because I have so many people who guest post or want to participate. Cracks me up. There was only one time when I thought of HNT as a “bad” thing…a friend that I met through blogging mentioned how much she hates Thursdays because she can’t necessarily visit blogs she otherwise likes. She made me pause and think about it from her point of view. Not everyone wants to see boobs and butts and feet every week. We talked a little about it and she just steers clear on Thursdays if she remembers or doesn’t want to see what I have posted. Neat part is she was very adamant that this is my site and I should do whatever the hell I want. Totally terrific of her.
Damn, I sure can ramble.
ANYhow, thanks to the fantastic Earl for taking the time to Interview me. I’m happy to return the favor to anyone who is interested. Granted, I doubt my questions will be as good as Earl’s, but we shall see, eh?
1. Leave me a comment saying, “Interview me.”
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
I mentioned that The Burgh Baby is promoting a “Christmas crazy” day and that day is today. Photos of whatever the Christmas crazy might be. I haven’t yet had a chance to take a photo of the house belonging to the lunatic down the hill, but I will. Tomorrow I will post their crazy. Today, however, I wanted to share a story from my Christmas crazy past. A different kind of crazy, but still, it counts coz it is about Christmas. Even if there aren’t photos.
Now, on to the story…
My dad was a Pittsburgh k-9 cop who grew up on the rough city streets seeing all kinds of “interesting” things, then went into the military where he saw unspeakable things and eventually settled into the life of a police officer where he daily saw things I can’t even begin to image. The man had one hell of a hard outer shell. Some people considered him a miserable son of a bitch, a guy who wasn’t prejudiced because he hated everyone equally, but you could watch him with the dogs and see that he had a kind and gentle side buried in there. Dad was not a real touchy feely kind of man, but he was a great protector and provider. We never doubted that he loved us kids. He was very hardworking and generous, just not overly outgoing and funny.
Ok, enough background. I think you get the tough guy picture. So imagine a guy around six feet tall who was kind of built like a barrel. Strong, yet not overly muscular. Throw a robe on him and he was close to passing for Uncle Fester, but see him in a uniform or in his jeans and sweater and you instantly knew not to fuck with him.
Since Dad worked nights and wasn’t exactly all about quality whole family gathered together time, we usually decorated the house for Christmas when he wasn’t home. Lights everywhere, fake tree about six feet tall covered in more ornaments than should ever be on a tree, Christmas carols constantly playing, garland over everything that wasn’t moving, icicles where there weren’t ornaments and Mom even giving us fake snow stuff to stencil onto every damn window in the house. Tacky, but wildly wonderful for kids. Some years she would give us some sort of shoe polish and let us draw on the windows like little budding Michelangelos or something. We loved it. And we counted down the days until we were allowed to decorate. Pure joy.
Except one day I came home from school early only to hear blaring Christmas music. Seemed strange so I picked up the pace, racing up the stairs. There I found Dad alone, standing on the arms of the living room chair, gold garland wrapped around his neck as though it were a feather boa, sort of wiggling to the music while he was hammering nails into the wall so that he could hang lights and garland. While drinking Ouzo. I made a beeline to my room to drop off all of my stuff and get changed, then came flying back into the living room. And stopped dead in my tracks.
Dad was trimming the tree. Not trimming with decorations, but cutting the branches in an effort to secure the perfect triangle tree shape. I mentioned the tree was fake, right? Yeah, apparently he didn’t pay attention to the fact that the tips of the branches were color coded to match the holes they got inserted into. White tip? White hole on the “trunk” of the fake tree. Blue paint on the tip of the branch? Blue hole on the post/pole/trunk thingy. Not rocket science for an extremely intelligent man. Put the branches in the correct holes and the tree will look…surprise…like a tree.
Instead, Ouzo clouded his judgment and since there were no directions (not that he ever looked at directions regardless of a project’s scope and size!) he just shoved branches in any way they would fit. Then he went to the basement and grabbed the huge wire cutters. By the time I realized what he had done it was too late. Our full and perfect fake tree was now more than slightly skinnier than it should have been. At least it was tree shaped!
We all had a great laugh over the insanity and the next year we insisted on putting the tree together ourselves to insure that it was done properly. Problem with that brilliant logic was that the damn tree no longer fit the red tip in the red hole, blue tip in the blue hole pattern. When we put it together correctly it didn’t have the shape of a real tree due to Dad’s metal lumberjack skills. Long branches sticking out where short branches should have been. So you know we didn’t run out and buy another tree, right? Of course not! Instead out came the wire cutters. Two years in a row we trimmed a fake fucking tree.
Eventually we got rid of the by then Charlie Brown scraggly tree. But for us kids parting with it was almost, in some warped way, a sad event. To us, that crack skinny tree was a bizarre symbol of Dad’s soft side. The side that wanted to spend time with his family and desired to be a part of our quality family fun. To this day, fake trees make me happy. Even if I don’t break out the wire cutters.
Anyone else have any Christmas crazy they wanna share?
Oh yes, I went through with it. Again. And I stand by my original review: ouch.
Wednesday evening I rushed to the spa to pay a bucket of money to have pain inflicted on me. By choice! Full body waxing…legs, Brazilian, eyebrows and underarms. A little over an hour and a half of hot wax and ripping hair from me.
First time I tried this was early November and I vowed that no matter how much it hurt, I would not stop the technician, nor would I cry. For the most part I did alright, but I certainly yelped a bit every now and then.
Wednesday I was determined to do better. Everyone says waxing gets easier the more you do it, so dammit, I wasn’t gonna yelp again. Since I got out of work a little late I had to call and say I would most likely be about 15 minutes late. When I heard that H was running late with the client before me I sort of happily explained something about it being a great thing because I would have time to stop at the bar next door for a shot of tequila before my appointment. The owner laughed and told me not to bother because they had a bottle of tequila. Yay!
I had just arrived and was bullshitting with one of the employees when the owner came gliding out from the back, headed towards the front desk, with a wine glass that was almost half full of tequila. On the fly she handed me the tequila. While she was still within reach I had the contents consumed and was handing the glass back. Seems next time she’ll give me more tequila / Novocain since I “drink too fast.”
Thing is, I think it worked! The waxing didn’t hurt as much as I remembered. Yay, tequila!
Until over an hour into it when I had to turn over. Please take a moment and try to imagine hot wax on your ass. Not on the left side, not on the right side, but right in the middle. Fuck, that hurts! And this is before they rip the wax off. Deep breath! Now imagine that hot wax clinging to the few hairs around your sensitive asshole. Keep imagining…paper being pressed into the wax and riiiiiip!
Yeah, the deep breaths didn’t help. A gel squeezie ball that I brought with me sort of eased some of the pain by giving me something to focus on. So did distracting myself by taking photos of my face while my ass was being waxed…
Fucking crazy Brazilians and their waxing.
ANYhow, when these photos were taken, I was more than half nekkid so these totally count for today. To those of you who wanted me to video my experience, I might consider it for next month’s adventure. (However, you still would only see my face for that!)
So, anyone in the Pittsburgh area own a video camera?
When I was in elementary school (maybe third grade?) I couldn’t ride a bicycle, yet I was sitting on my stepbrother’s bike in our front yard. For some reason I lifted up my feet and down the hill I went, into the neighbor’s yard. In an effort to not hit the huge bushes that were quickly approaching my face, I turned the handlebars and went down the steep hill towards the street. Right about the time I got to the three or four feet high wall that marked the end of the neighbor’s yard, I let go of the handlebars. Like a little scared Evel Knievel, I jumped the entire sidewalk and landed face first in the gutter. Lifted my head, looked down and saw my front tooth in a pool of blood. Picked that “adult” tooth up and raced up to find my Mom on the phone. Just held my bloody little hand out to show her my tooth.
Next thing I remember was the ride to the hospital. A neighbor had given me a bicycle reflector to hold out the window and told me to holler “Woooooooooooooo” out the window as though I were a siren. Dad was a cop so we broke all kinds of traffic laws getting my still gushing blood from my face self to see a doctor. All I remember is the laughter in the car as we drove. Everyone was making fun of me for not holding the icepack to my face. It was more fun to holler “Woooooooooooooooooooooo!” out the window.
For years after that I had a variation of a recurring dream that I was losing my teeth. Basic gist of the dream is that my teeth would crumble in my mouth, like melting sugar cubes. Finally, for Christmas 1993, my (now ex) boyfriend bought me a new front tooth. A real, grown up cap instead of the terrible fake front tooth I received all those years ago at the hospital. And the bad dreams stopped for a long time.
Turns out the life of a cap like I have is only about 10 years. Seeing as howI am waaaaaaaaay past that time frame, I don’t want the dreams to come back. My dentist never seemed to care that I should have replaced the cap and I don’t know why. He always brushed off my inquiries.
I have a new dentist now. Met him on Saturday. First appointment is on Tuesday evening. Cross your fingers that this guy is good and will take great care of my face. I’ve never been thrilled with my smile and I would like to change that. Even if it means that he will have to do a root canal on me before replacing my front tooth. You know me, I’ll keep you posted.
Small aside…although I mentioned never being happy with my smile, it is mostly my fault seeing as how the parents invested in braces for me while I was in high school. Unfortunately I was unsatisfied with the not instant change and hated the pain so I took wire cutters and pliers to the braces. Popped those fuckers off myself. One would think that I would have stuck with the braces to build a better smile. I have never been incredibly logical about simple stuff, eh?
Huge aside…think the number of times I smacked my head as a child might be the reason I took this photo and called it art?
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