Carnival Hell

When the carnival comes to town and someone tries to convince you to go, I’m here to tell you… don’t do it. I don’t care if your friend offers you money, or some other form of a payback. I repeat. Don’t go to the damn carnival.  It’ll be a day of terror you will never forget.

So there I was. Minding my own business.  My sister decides to come into town and she had her mind set on a Saturday afternoon at the carnival. I didn’t want to do it. I even tried to convince her we do something else. But OH NO! We had to go to the damn carnival. So what do I do? I go to the damn carnival…

We pull up to the parking lot. Fight our way through the masses, which, it was beyond me why that many people would fight bumper-to-bumper, pay oh-so-much for a ticket inside, then place their fate in the hands of a carnival swine, who holds the key to a person’s life with a push of a ride button.

Anyway… Back to the story…

My sister made it “our” mission to seal our fate with every carnival ride offered on that fine Saturday afternoon.  We buy our tickets and start making our way around the maze of vendors and on to the death traps. We ride the first ride of terror. I return to solid ground, unscathed and only a little shaken-up. Ride two seemed OK, although, I’m pretty sure I had my eyes closed for the lengthy duration of the torture session.

By that point, my stomach was not doing so well. I kept thinking that my blood sugar was running a little low and maybe I needed to take a break and shove some food in my tummy. By the way, my carnival food of choice is a nice larger-than-life pretzel slathered in good ‘ol fashioned mustard (yummy!).

While hitting up all these thrillers, my wonderful sister had her eyes on one ride… the only ride name I remember to this very day—- THE ZIPPER!

Towering over us was this metal device with several cages whipping and twisting around as this vertical conveyor traveled up and down while flipping and swinging each cage for, what seemed like, an eternity.

Me: “Can we, please, ride this one last? This one’s got ‘Bad Day’ written all over it.”

Sis: “Sure”

The moment arrived. We sealed our fate, stepped up to the cage and locked ourselves in… to ride the Carnival Ride From HELL…..

I immediately hated this ride. My sister, on the other hand, was enjoying herself and laughing at my expense. After a bazillion minutes on this ride, sister goes quiet.  All of a sudden she too is no longer enjoying the cage and wants off, the same as I.

All of a sudden, ONE OF US, I’m not saying which one, but one of us had quarters that escaped a pant pocket and started whipping around inside this cage. On top of desperately wanting off this catastrophic nightmare, our lives were now at stake with the possibility of our faces being taken out by a dead president.

Never ending. This went on for, what seemed like, hours. We were both on the verge of up-chucking our carnival snacks.  To this day, the traumatic stress was so severe, all I remember was my voice screaming to be let off the ride. And seeing that carnival swine look at me and smile as we whipped passed him for another spin on the conveyor.

Finally, after the fear of losing an eye, sweat dripping off of us and both severely green in the face, the cage-flipping nightmare was screeching to a halt. Every single cage was set free… except ours.  The Zipper Tsar proceeded to let everyone else off the ride and wickedly laughed every time he added us back in rotation on the conveyor belt.

Last, but not least, our cage door opened and I made a mad dash to the nearest bushes to collapse face-up on the cold ground. I. Could. Not. Move… Nor could I regain my skin color.  My sister, on the other hand, had no problem recovering. She stood over me patiently waiting for me to turn back to normal.  Luckily it was the last ride of the park, as it took me roughly 40 min to even lift my head off the ground.

Sis realized her card fell out of her pocket and she acted quickly to retrieve it. While she was away, I gathered enough strength to flip my body over and prop myself up on all fours.  On her return, I tried tricking myself into thinking that I was fine and no longer needed to be on the ground. As I lifted my body, and shifted any remaining food products in my stomach, my mind finally snapped back into reality and told the rest of me that I was NOT OK and that it was time to meet my fate.

I barfed all over the place.  And not just once. Multiple times. And I will tell you this: I hate being sick. I had tears rolling down my cheeks. Ugh. We had to hang out a little longer for me to fully recover from the horrific aftermath of the Zipper disaster.

While dragging my lifeless body back to my car, I realized we were on the verge of being late to a graduation celebration.  No time to change clothes!  We gotta go! So off we went, arriving at the tale end of a gathering in the same clothes we wore to the carnival.  Whoops, we were the only ones in casual clothing as others were dressed for a semi-formal dinner reception.

In the end, we survived the terrors of the drudging carnival, the Tsars controlling each ride and the frightful Zipper that got the best of both of us (especially me). I exhaled a huge sigh of relief for myself as I relaxed in a chair at the graduation dinner, just to look down and see bright yellow vomit splatter all over my shoes from that wonderful pretzel and mustard snack that I had regurgitated earlier.

F me…

Tequila

Everyone has at least ONE embarrassing story about their first encounter with vomit from drinking a particular liquor. My infamous two are Tequila and Vodka.  This story focuses on Tequila. I just recently shared this story with someone and it gave me the idea of sharing this with the rest of you….

So there I was… Ripe old age of 21 or 22.  A friend of mine was headed down to a hole-in-the-wall bar on the south side of town and asked if I would tag along.  It just so happened that another friend of mine would also be at this same location with a large group of her friends as well.

Now, the friend that invited me was also very aware that I didn’t have much experience with drinking Tequila nor the experience of the repercussions of drinking this type of liquor… asshole.

We all show up at the no-name bar on the south side and grab a table and commence to drinking our little hearts out. The friend I arrived with, Mr. M, kept requesting round after round of tequila for our table. And, if my memory serves me correctly, the shots were refilled literally every 5 minutes.  It took me a while to catch on, but I finally noticed that Mr. M wasn’t drinking any of these shots with the rest of us.  On top of round-after-round, the tequila was also “Top Shelf”, meaning, this tequila went down very smoothly…. a little TOO smoothly…

After having oh-so-much fun buying all of us shots, Mr. M decided that it was time for him to go home for the night. Myself and a girlfriend of mine, Miss G, walk Mr. M out to his truck to say our Goodbye’s and Thank You’s and then return indoors to use the restroom. Miss G and I use the restroom and are standing at the sink…

Suddenly, I break out in a full body sweat and make a mad-dash to the bathroom stall and begin puking all my shots back-up into this bar room toilet. And continued… to puke… It took every ounce of energy in me to stop myself from laying my head on the seat of that public commode.

Apparently, my up-chuck gained the attention of the door man, as the restroom was right by the entrance, and he sent his girlfriend in to come check on me. And check on me again. And again. Finally, after multiple check-ins the door guy had enough.

“Hey honey, I’m sorry to tell you this, but you and your friend need to leave.  You’ve been in the bathroom for far too long”

Miss G complies and runs out to the table to get her purse and to give me a ride back to her place for the night. Now, Miss G was the same height and size as me with not an ounce of strength in her body. This poor girl had to drag me with all her might out to her car and somehow finagle a way to get me in the passenger seat. By some miracle, she accomplishes this and makes her way over to the driver seat. She turns on her car and the car clocks illuminates to reveal what time of night it was….

It was only 10:00 AT NIGHT… OMG….

Somehow, I managed to:

  1. Show up at this bar early at night to begin drinking shot-after-shot of Tequila
  2. Inebriate myself to the point of puking my guts out in a whole-in-the-wall bar bathroom
  3. Get myself kicked-out of the bar for holding up the bathroom with my body sprawled out on the floor and my head barely hovering the toilet
  4. All within the time-frame to be in the car and on my way to bed at 10:00pm, before any of the real partying had even begun for the night

So what does little me do? I go out of my way to hit every fragile piece of decoration that stood on display in that ridiculously angled hallway. Needless to say, no one woke up, thank goodness. I played dead in Miss G’s bed until 5:30 the next afternoon. Her mom kept checking on me wondering if I was alright. Miss G told her that I had come down with a really bad stomach flu. In my case, it was actually “Tequila Stupidity”.

As for Mr. M, he had been blowing up my phone all day also curious if I was doing ok.

“No, asshole, I’m not doing ok”

He knew what he was doing… he deliberately got me puke-drunk wasted so that I would have the ultimate experience with Tequila…. and then continued to laugh his ass off while on the phone with me….

They say you can’t choose your family, but sometimes you can’t choose your friends either.

Can You Hear Me Now?

I’ve always heard of bizarre medical stories, not ever thinking that one of them would actually happen to me:

After my night shift, I fell asleep with the intentions of waking up to a Superbowl Sunday football fiesta and NOT to a burning throat and signs of a cold yuck!  I went to the gym for a workout, which only made me feel even more like a pile of poop.  I also noticed this crazy weird “crackling” sound in my right ear.  I chalked it up as sinus drainage and nothing else.

I spent the next two days heavily drugged in a sleep coma to fight off the sickly crud that took over my life on Sunday.  By Wednesday I was back to normal but still hearing this plastic bag noise in my right ear and decided to go to a quick clinic to rid me of this possible sinus drainage and open up my ear canal.

The clinic checked my ears and started asking me a bunch of questions:

Did you have ear tubes as a child?

Have you been involved in any accidents that could have damaged your ear drums?

Have you been using Q-tips in a way that could have damaged your ear drums?

“No, no and no…. why?”

“Well…. You have scar tissue on your ear drum.  AND… there may be a foreign object in your ear behind the ear drum, but we can’t tell”

“Um… what?!”

“So, we are prescribing you this antibiotic to help clear up the ear infection, but if this plastic bag sound doesn’t go away, see your physician or see a specialist”

Well what the shit… Wasn’t expecting that!  So, of course, I took the antibiotics for the next couple of days and still no clear up.

So what do I do?  I get the hair-brained idea to pour peroxide in my ear to help clear out this muffled drainage.  The peroxide fills up in my ear…. and won’t… drain… out…..  I take a shower, my ear fills up with water.  And again, won’t… drain… out…..

Let the mini panic attack commence.  How in the world am I going to explain this to the doc as to why I’ve permanently lost hearing in my ear and they now have to suck all the peroxide and water out as well… geez. The only way to get most of the fluids out was to stick a Q-tip in there and let it soak up most of the liquids that way.

Friday morning I started calling my occupational physician, knowing they could get me in quickly.  My ear needed help fast.  The earliest appointment was for Monday afternoon.

All weekend, I had to deal with the sound of a plastic bag coupled with the continuous sound of bubbling peroxided with swishy water AND the coming and going hearing loss.

Meanwhile, my mind played mad tricks on the me the entire weekend.  I was constantly thinking some kind of bug made its way inside my ear and burrowed itself a home and decided to have little gross bug babies.  Maybe started working on a whole bug community to fill up my entire ear canal.  Or!  Somehow, my terrible cold claimed my hearing and refused to give it back when the sickness passed.

Monday finally arrived and I was more than ready to visit the doc to figure out my ear dilemma.  I explained my entire story to the nurse.  Her, very simple, response to me was “Yeah, that’s not normal.”  Really?  No crap.  She brings the doc in and I repeat the entire story to him as well.  He finally stops me mid sentence and says “Ok wait.  Let me just take a look in your ear.  This sounds too weird.”

He pulls out the infamous “ear probing” device and starts looking in my ear.

“Oh yeah… you DEFINITELY have something in your ear”

My body instantly began to sweat from head to toe with the dreadful thought of some creature living inside my ear and/or the possibility of this thing causing permanent damage.  My second thoughts were dreadful emergency surgery to get the sucker out.

The suspense was killing me.  I HAD to know!  And what would happen after I found out?  Was I gonna pass out and land face-first on the floor or, even worse, in this guy’s lap?!  “Oh God, just tell me!”  I didn’t believe him when he did tell me.  He had to repeat it to me just so it would sink in to my peroxide and water-filled brain.

“Ma’am, you have a piece of toilet paper stuck in your ear….”

“Wait… what?”

“A piece of toilet paper… it’s stuck in your ear.”

My body sweats instantly dried up and conserved all energy into my now extremely red face.  I. Was. Mortified…  I had no clue how in the hell a piece of toilet paper got stuck in my ear.  And then, right there in front of the doc, it hit me.

Two months prior, I left work and headed to my sister’s house to pick her up for a family gathering.  I forgot to grab my ear plugs for my much needed few hours of shut-eye before seeing family.  My sister suggested I use toilet paper or cotton ball to drown out the noise.  The only source available was toilet paper.  Unbeknownst to me, a big chunk of toilet paper had lodged itself in my ear/throat canal and now floating at the surface with a vengeance.

The doc inserts a torture device to expose my ear canal.  It felt like my ear was getting a pap smear.  Anyway, as he’s pulling out the paper culprit, I keep laughing hysterically, partly for my embarrassment and also because the toilet paper was tickling the inside of my ear pretty damn bad.

He pulls out the toilet paper and has me take a look at it.  “Wow! that was in my ear?! I have to get a picture of this!”  This sucker was as big as my index fingernail…. Not even kidding… I was still very red in the face and continuing to laugh at myself due to the entire week of ear pain and panic attacks of what could have been living inside my ear.  The doc even have a giggle at my stupidity.

Moral of the story?  Don’t ever stick toilet paper in your ear.  Even when your sister tells you to.  Oh don’t judge me.  We’ve all done it before.  😛

Just kidding, sis…

Nutty Professor

It never fails that bizarre shit happens to me quite frequently.  READ ABOUT my recent so-called “ear infection” that landed me BACK at the Doctor’s office for yet a new medical dilemma.

Needless to say, right after my ear infection cleared up, I ended up getting plagued with a dreadful female problem (It starts with a Y and ends with an EAST).  Ugh! WTF?!  So I go to my special lady Doc for her to have a look-see to find out why I’m feeling so uncomfortable.

She checks and confirms the dreadful Y (yuck) and then we begin the series of questions to narrow down how in the world this new medical dilemma came upon me.  I didn’t even have to tell her, she already had the question on the list:

“Have you taken any antibiotics lately?”

“Actually yes! Yes I have!”  And so of course I tell her the story about my ear (she didn’t think it was very funny) which explained the recent antibiotic usage.  According to the doc, the antibiotic I was on for my ear infection is well known for creating quite a stir “downstairs” for women.

She begins writing me my prescription and mentions a one-time oral remedy to rid me of my woes.

“I can’t take that!  I CANNOT take that!”

My brain immediately snaps into a flashback and retrieves a horrid memory of my experience with this devil-of-a-pill that happened to me several years ago:

So there I was…. Just moved to a new state, sitting at a much higher altitude with much dryer, thinner air.  Unbeknownst to me, but moving to a dryer climate with thinner air is a recipe for a private parts disaster.  All of a sudden, I get a visit from the “Y” Fairy.  And she was angry… and she hated me…

Luckily, with me being brand spanking new to the area, I was enrolled at the college and was able to use my health benefits right away.  I made my little visit to the local doc to shoo away the Y Fairy.

“Take this one-time little oral pill and it will have you back to normal in three days”

“Oh gee!  It’s that simple!” I said… Not knowing the rapid growing repercussions of taking this magic little pill.  Hours later, my lady parts began to swell and throw me into excruciating pain.  I went into the bathroom, dropped my pants and didnt’ even recognize my own V!  I nearly passed out from looking at it!

Have you ever seen the movie The Nutty Professor with Eddie Murphy?  Do you remember the scene when skinny Eddie Murphy is at the dinner table and his character starts to transform back into the heavy professor?  Do you remember when his lips bubbled out on his face and made his lips like a cartoon character?  THAT’S what it looked like DOWNSTAIRS!

“HOLY FUCK!”  “Where is the hospital?!”

I called the doc immediately and explained what had happened to my labia.

“Get in the bath tub, fill up the tub with water about waist deep, and pee…”

“You want me to do what?”

“I want you to get in the tub and pee.  It will give you temporary relief of the pain you are experiencing until you can make it to ER or Urgent Care.  I suggest you go to Urgent Care.  It’s much faster service.”

“Um… Where the FUCK is Urgent Care?!  I just moved here!”

Thank GOODNESS it was a small town and everything was easy to find.  Don’t judge me, okay?  At the time, I had a dinosaur cell phone for calling and texting only.  No fancy little map to help me get around town.  Anyways… judger….

I make it to Urgent Care, got right in (thank goodness) while holding an ice bag between my legs to help with the continued rapid swelling and pain.

“OK hon, drop your pants and get on the table”… “Oh my God!  That looks like it hurts!”

Yeah no kidding… by that point, my eyes were swollen and red as well from all the pain I had been enduring in my crotch for the past couple of hours.

“Please just fix it…. Please.”

“Well, it looks like the pill worked too rapidly and an over production of bacteria has formed and caused a major reaction to the pill.  You need to take all these new pills to stop the reaction and bring your labia back down to a normal size.”

Thank goodness… What makes this even worse is this was not the last time this happened to me.  I had another episode soon after that just to finally be diagnosed as highly allergic to the common oral medication that makes the Y Fairy magically disappear.

And more interesting, the same nurse that worked at the local Urgent Care ALSO worked at the campus clinic as well… meaning, the same lady who got to view my cartoon-like labia also got to see my face regularly on campus.  She also made it a point to ask me how my lady parts were feeling every time she saw me….

Moral of the story?  If, at any point, your labia starts to look like Eddie Murphy’s cartoon lips from the movie The Nutty Professor, get in the bath tub, fill it with water and then pee in it for temporary relief…  Don’t forget to know where your local ER or Urgent Care is located… that helps too…

Flushed

I don’t eat fast food. Period. Okay, I’ll take that back. Every once in a blue moon the planets will align and you will see me eat fast food. This only happens maybe once a year or every other year.

WITH THAT IN MIND… My stomach doesn’t handle this food processing very well and anything is bound to happen to me. ESPECIALLY, if I’m on a date (read Truth or Date).

So there I was… On a date with a dude that involved me being in public and eating public food. My date invited me to accompany him to the mall while he looked for a new pair of shoes. Why not. I had nothing else going on.

We get to the mall and both of our stomachs had hit rock-bottom and needed some shopping fuel before facing the masses. He suggested we eat at Chick-Fil-A for those oh-so-amazing waffle fries. In my effort of being polite and “blending in” with his customs, I agree.

“Sure, why not? I haven’t had fast food since the last stone age so I’m down!”

Famous last words…

I went with a supposed light cheat meal for myself, the Chicken Nuggets and Waffle Fries with a nice Dr. Pepper. It was delicious and super filling.

After fueling our bellies to the max, we made our way to the far end secluded part of the mall to a shoe store that he wanted to go look in.  We walk in and I go ahead and plop down on a bench so he could shop. I’m sitting on this bench and my stomach starts to churn in ways I’ve never felt before.  I grabbed my stomach and doubled over in pain while everyone was looking at me. My body starts breaking out in a cold sweat and I get this sudden panic look on my face.

“I need to go to the bathroom! I’ll be right back!”

I made a mad dash across the hall of the shoe department and go busting into the door in the women’s restroom. THANK GOODNESS there wasn’t a damn line at the bathroom or I would have been in major trouble. I busted open the first stall I came into contact with, lifted my dress and pulled my panties down in the nick of time.

I’m sitting on this toilet, in a public restroom, which I absolutely HATE doing, and my stomach is giving me the worst pain I’ve ever felt. I kept pulling toilet paper off the roller and wiping my face and forehead from all the sweat. And then, suddenly, I start to develop a damn migraine and I start to lose my vision. The migraine was so intense, it was like a black cloud started covering both my eyes.

I’m in this bathroom so damn long, and very embarrassed over the whole thing, I begin to text my date requesting him to go buy some peptobismol and hand it to some random female who could then pass the bottle to me.  Anything to get me off the damn toilet.

After this horrid pain had passed through my stomach and made its way to the potty, my migraine suddenly disappeared and the sweating had stopped. FINALLY!

After being flushed and collecting myself at the sink and washing my face and hands, I made my way back to the shoe store entrance to see my date waiting for me.

“What the hell happened to you?!”

I’m sure I had the look of terror on my face with my hair and makeup completely melted off from giving birth to a demon baby in the women’s restroom.

“… I don’t know… I don’t know what the hell happened to me. Whatever it was, it was in the chicken nuggets and waffle fries and I NEVER want to experience that again.”

Moral of the story?  The phrase “When in Rome” is a crock of shit!

Mr. C

Date with Mr. C

OK. I pulled the ultimate move, I took the first step and gave MY number to a dude without even knowing his name or introducing myself.  And here’s how the story goes:

The first few months of living in Colorado, I made some close friends, all originally from New York.  One morning, we all decided to go to a local restaurant for some hangover grub.  The bartender (yes, we were already sitting next to the bar) was a pretty good looking guy.  I kept glancing over at him during breakfast and finally told my friends, “I’m gonna go give my phone number to the bartender” and of course there was no way to back out of this situation because my friends sure weren’t going to let me…

For some more great examples, scroll to the bottom of Truth or Date….

I wrote my phone number down on a piece of paper, walked over to the bartender, placed the paper on the bar, looked him in the eye and slid the paper over to him.  I then turned around and walked back over to my friends, who were all getting up to leave the restaurant.  And, of course, they all gave me hell for pulling such a “dude move” on a, well, dude.

About a week or so went by and he finally called me and asked me out to dinner with him that upcoming Sunday.  Mr. C said he would call day-of on a pick-up time.  OK…..

The day came.  And I waited.  And waited.  And waited some more. FINALLY, he calls.  He told me that he had “connections” at a local restaurant and was able to get us a reservation for dinner (sure you do buddy).  Here’s a twist to the story. He then asks me if I could pick him up for our date and use my car.”Sure, no problem” I say…

Now, for the town I was living in at the time, it was quite normal for a lot of the locals to not own vehicles as most rode their bicycles or walked around the town.  I honestly didn’t think anything of it.

I dressed nice, because to me it was a flipping date.  This guy… It looked like he just woke up and threw on some clothes he found on his bedroom floor that he wore the night before.  Again, I tried not to judge because I was thinking maybe this is all he owns for dress attire.

We go to the restaurant, which truly was THE fanciest place in town with the “Full Monty” of award winning chefs (the food was absolutely amazing).  He ordered wine and suggested different foods for me to try, etc.  We started talking about random things. He would ask me questions and I would respond, typical dating stuff.

Here’s the funny part. Everytime I would go to answer this guy, he would interrupt me.  At first, I didn’t think anything of it.  But then he kept doing it, repeatedly.  I started thinking, maybe he’s not aware that he’s doing this.  But then I noticed his sentences started slurring together. This mother fucker is drunk!  THAT’S why he wanted me to go pick his ass up for the damn date.  And then, before dinner plates were licked clean, he reveals to me that he had been watching football and drinking beer all day long with his roommates.

I don’t know.  Call me a “Lame Duck” but that is NOT how you go out on a date with someone.  I wasn’t impressed… At all

We left the restaurant and went to the local pool hall and played a couple of games of pool.  He continued to get more and more drunk as the night went on.  I’m finally ready to take this guy back to his house.  He stumbled his way back to my car and plopped himself down in the passenger seat.  After we arrived at the drop off point, he asked if I wanted to come in for a drink…. “Nope!”

After that night, another week went by when I heard from him again and I kindly never answered the phone and never returned the phone call.  I bumped into him a few times and he didn’t dare say a word.  Call me mean, but some already drunk guy that shows up for a date wearing probably the same clothes that he wore to the bar the night before, asks to be picked up because he’s too drunk to drive, has a full drunken conversation with himself at dinner, and then tries to invite me in for a drink… probably doesn’t deserve a second date.

But then again, maybe that’s just me….

Mr. H

Blind Date with Mr. H

It never fails.  As soon as a friend finds out of my single status, they immediately try to hook me up with people.  I’m not exactly sure why.  I’m starting to wonder if I have a stamp that screams “send me anyone single that you can possible find” smacked straight across my forehead.

For some more great examples, scroll to the bottom of Truth or Date….

Low and behold, about 10 or so years ago, a very good friend of mine heard it through the grape vine that I was newly single and so desperately saw a need to try and hook me up with a male friend of hers… geez.

Friend: I can’t believe you are single. Let me set you up on a blind date with my, Mr. H!

Me: Hhmm. I don’t know.  I don’t know this guy at all and what if it turns out to be a disaster?

Friend: Oh it’ll be fine!  He’s a good friend of my husband’s.  He’s over at the house all the time. Good guy!  We will make it a double date so that you’ll have us with you just in case you feel weird about it.

Me: I already do, but sure let’s do it.  Where are we going to go out at?

Friend: Let’s go to a downtown dance club and then just go from there.

Me: Ok

The meet up spot was my friend’s place so we could all ride together.  I was sitting on the couch when Mr H entered the house.  All I can remember of this guy is that he was of small build, he had on a White button-up long sleeve shirt with the sleeves rolled up, dark skin tone with curly hair down to his shoulders.  Other than that, I don’t remember a flipping thing else about this guy and sure as hell couldn’t pick him out of a line-up.

We head out for the night at this downtown night club, and we are there early…. lame… And, of course, I go with the one friend that wants to be the ONLY girls out on the dance floor dancing away while everyone else hangs out at the bar…. yeah… The night goes on. We all proceed to drink while the club continues to fill up with more and more young able bodies.  If I remember correctly, my “date” and I may have danced together once.  He spent the rest of the night either dancing with himself or with other random ladies of the night and proceeded to take shot after shot…. after shot….

By the time we leave the club and head to our next destination, he is hammered.  We then end up at some kind of a billiards hall to play some pool.  Wonderful Mr. H can’t even see straight to play, let alone be able to stand up properly on his own two feet.  He then proceeded to go into the restroom marked “LADIES” and use the bathroom in there…. While there were ladies in it… Good thing his restroom companions were cool with the fact that he was in there and didn’t decide to raise hell.

And THIS!  THIS is the best part of the entire night!  Right here!  This drunken fool…. Ok, we get back in the car and start heading home and he finally decides to start “hitting” on me.  This isn’t what he said to me, word-for-word, but pretty damn close:

Mr H: Ya know, I could really feel the energy between us tonight

Me: Oh really?

Mr H: Yeah. Hey! Come here! Come sit closer to me (we were in the back seat of the car…. together already)

Me: Why?

Mr H: Because. We should just let the magic happen.

Me: What Magic?!

Mr H then extends out his hands, grabs my face, and places both hands on my cheeks and makes me face him

Me: What the hell are you doing?

Mr H: Just let the magic happen.

Me: I don’t… I don’t understand this magic that you speak of.

Mr H: Just let it happen. Stare into my eyes and let the magic happen between us.

Me: There is NO magic happening between us. None. Please let go of my face. Just let go.

And then he proceeded to pass out in the back seat with his head cocked back, mouth open and began to snore….

That was the last flipping time I ever let my friend set me up on a blind date…. ever…

Christmas Card

I Don’t give me a damn a Christmas card. I couldn’t tell you in anymore of a simple way. Here’s my thought process behind that:
You go out, in search of the perfect holiday cards to give to friends and family. You take the time to go inside the store, push and shove your way through the other holiday-crazed shoppers to make your way to the Card section of your favorite local shopping spot.

And then you stand there, eye-surfing through each sparkly red, green, silver, gold and whatever else trendy color of the season in hopes to find a card that conveys the true meaning behind what it is that you’re trying to tell the intended recipient that your own words have failed to do. As you’re reading and sifting for the ultimate holiday cheer, you battle the passerby who is also in desperate need of the perfect words from Hallmark, whether it be laughter, joy, or to spark a memory.

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VS Nightmare

The moment had arrived…. Finally, the semi-annual sale at the most widely known “Bra and Panty” shop that every woman dreams of shopping at for her unmentionables. The embroidered “V” and “S” across a woman’s booty whispers “sexy is here” in the ears of every man within an eye-shot of the woman who can afford to wear THE symbol of Aphrodite, Goddess of Love….

Twice per year, this pink little hot spot hosts a massive store-wide sale of up to 75% off every product you can put your grubby little hands on. Every woman will beg, bribe and steal to be present at one of the biggest sales that takes place right after the holidays. And how do I know this, being a woman out of the realm of fashion? “Googling” things has done wonders for me….

I arrived early to my local VS store under the impression that I would beat the big crowds and shop for my satin and lace in peace and serenity….. Boy was I wrong!

But everything seemed so right. I arrived at the mall to see perfect front row parking spots readily available. Not a body in sight as I I strolled my way through the mall entrance. The mall crowd itself appeared deserted with a couple of morning stragglers. As I made my approach to the long awaited sale of the season, I could smell the aroma of women’s perfumes, the vibrant colors of silky made-to-fit bras sparkled in my eyes. My rhythmic breathing synchronized with each step I made toward my final destination. This entire moment began to play out in front of me in slow motion.

Bliss…

That’s when the chaos set in. As one foot crossed the threshold of my long awaited journey, my deceiving eyes finally saw the forest full of trees. It was every woman for herself displaying sheer animal instinct. At that point forward, all I could see was bent over heads in every clothing bin with thrashing elbows and the occasional fabric being tossed up in mid-air. I stepped into the war zone, and hell hath no fury like a woman’s rage for a panty and bra sale.

Grandmas. Wives. Children. It didn’t matter. Even husbands and boyfriends were displaying war paint in search for a mad deal. Hell, at one point I was convinced packs of women came in with maps and a game plan to “snatch and grab” every color, size and matching set.  And there I was. A lone wolf pack. Vulnerable. No partner or “Team Estrogen” to pry the thieving claws off a pair of pink little tighties that were calling my name.

I assessed my situation. I knew I was no match for the oversized wolf gangs lurching in every bin. I played it cool. “I’m just looking” is what I told myself at every clothing pile. Before I knew it, I had a VS bag full of bras, panties, some lace-hip thing I’ve never seen before and both of my hands snatching fabric.

I had to pull myself together. I was turning into an animal, a product of my current environment. I don’t have the budget for this. What had come over me? Was my shopping cycle “synchronizing” with the other women around me? “Drop the clothes. Just drop it!” I finally took a deep breath, and slipped off the bag full of very pretty bras…. (Insert tear here) and left with the five panties I came in to buy.

Even though I grew up in this big city, I’ve never been a common consumer concerned with the latest and greatest in fashion nor have I ever been concerned with my possessions taking over me. Even my several years of living far away put me in a town that’s been voted the “Worst Dressed City in the U.S.” for many consecutive years.

But, I will give this sexy symbol some credit. NOTHING reigns true of elegant, sexy softness as catching a little glimpse of the skin of a woman bearing that little V…. and that little S…

White Responsibility

I have decided that one has not reached the full potential of adulthood until they learn how to keep a white pair of shoes free from dirt. I have also noticed my strong desperate desire to own a pair of white Chucks (for those of you living under a rock, that would be a Converse shoe).

I don’t know why I’ve come to this conclusion.  It could be because keeping a pair of white shoes clean is almost impossible to do.  There’s so much responsibility involved! Before you strap a pair of white bad boys to your feet and start struttin’ your stuff out that door like you just stepped off the Catwalk too sexy for your shoes, here are some things to consider…

Can I handle the responsibilities that go along with being a white shoe owner? Am I willing to do what it takes to keep these precious commodities clean? Can I endure the painful task of standing over a sink or bath tub, scrubbing my fingers to the bone just to wipe clean the last remaining spec of dirt that no one will probably ever see anyway?

Will my daily adventure have me outside enduring the day’s weather or inside sheltering those puppies from the storm?  There’s nothing worse than going to some social event and finding out that your new white kicks will be spending their time outside, even worse, on a freshly cut lawn (those grass stains don’t come out for shit!)… You would be setting those babies up for the ultimate disaster and permanent ruin!

Will my white shoes compliment the day’s “Sexy Gear” or will my “whitness of choice” make me look like a fashion failure? This is also super important because let’s say I find myself in a fashion dilemma between the desire of prancing around in a cocktail dress and sporting my white Chucks. Knowing me, I would wear both at the same time. No one else would understand that. No one would feel the “completeness” that I would feel with wearing both simultaneously.

Do I break the long-time fashion rule of no white after Labor Day and not before Memorial Day? Come to think of it, am I the only one that still remembers this centuries-old fashion rule (thanks Grandma, gee…)?

So, while you’re standing at your mountain display of shoes and you go to reach for those brand new, shining-in-your-face-so-bright with whiteness pair of foot protectors, you think long and hard before strapping on your white kicks. You may find yourself scrubbing those babies over a sink later, wearing them outdoors in the worse rain storm of the year or breaking every fashion rule that no one will ever let you live down.

And, on a side note, if anyone feels the need to buy me a pair white Chucks (women’s size 7), I will happily wear them just for you and blog about my experience 😉