Archive | August, 2012

Gamer Rage

31 Aug


It’s been a really long time since I did the “gamer” thing.  Back in the days of the old arcade Street Fighter and Nintendo…I was a winner…but now with all the 360 degree viewpoint and movement ability…getting me just to stay upright and not walk into walls is damn near impossible.  I’ve been away too long.  My brain isn’t equipped for that level of “awesome.”

…The BFF’s Fella knows this, however, and decided to go searching for something I could relate to.  And he found it. 

Wednesday night, for like two hours as The BFF made a chocolate souffle, The Fella and I beat the living crap out of each other…before finally devising a tag-team scenario in order to kill all the main Bosses and win the game. 

The strategy went like this: PUSH THE FUCKING BUTTONS AS HARD AS YOU CAN WHILE SCREAMING OBSCENITIES AT THE SCREEN LIKE A TOURETTES VICTIM.  Then, after you die, pass it to the other guy who will do much the same.  Until you win.  The end.

…I admit, it wasn’t the most elegantly plotted out plan of attack but we did what we could. And I learned some stuff while I was at it.

1) I should never own a game consul. They are too much fun.

2) Threatening your opponent and flinging an escalation of insults at them in psychological warfare, does in fact pay off.

3) Souffles don’t like yelling.

4) It is possible to hate a programmed Avatar more than Satan, and feel it’s perfectly reasonable to do so.

5) No one has actually ever won all the Bosses before, they just tell you they do. It’s a totally impossible feat and everyone knows it. Until you manage it. Then it’s absolutely real.

…Ultimately, video games are like a slip-stream of “uh-oh” for any person who has ever had any “anger management issues.” The frustration levels can get totally off the charts. At almost any moment you can be seen screaming at the television, pitching controllers across the room, and insisting that, “this sunofabitch is goin’ down!” Sure, you can “try” to add a bit of Patton-like reasoning to the plan of attack at first. You can set a course, and learn all the combos and pre-plan the journey. But eventually that all falls away to reveal a ten year old kid, hopped up on adrenalin, whose recently learned how to string all the cuss words they know into one long sentence.

…Like when Ralphy finally flips his shit in “A Christmas Story.”

“Rassuh-fraggin-frasta-massuh-fragga!” The ten year old “you” will say. (Only, not the PG version.)

…The moments are terrifying with intensity, sweat starts pourin’…and you become a virtual machine of gamer rage. It totally consumes you in no time at all. But, if you are savvy enough to take side view of it all, (once the night has ended), the entire thing makes total complete sense.

Just take a second and think about your day, for instance.

…That jerk upstairs who flashes you every morning with cold water because of how they time their shower, right in the middle of yours. The one asshole customer that nothing could appease, the fact the office is out of coffee again, the container loads are late, you banged your funny bone and the traffic home was total crap. Think about that wad of bills you just lifted from the mailbox, and the fact that your trash can is full but you’ve just remembered you’re all outta bags. And maybe you’ve gained a pound or two on total accident. Let all that junk swim around you in a hazy kind of cloud, that you can’t fight no matter how much you try, because it has no corporal form.

…Now lets pretend the power is suddenly granted you to assign all that irritation and anger toward something else. Something whose entire existence is in order to allow you to reclaim even one piece of your dignity back again. Something that’ll satisfy that craving to, “make the bastards pay!”…but with significantly less jail time.

…Go ahead. Put a controller in your hand. Push that little switch. Go through the next fifteen minutes of annoying selection and customization programming (I miss the days of just “off” and “on.”) Then open a Coke, turn down the volume, and pop on a super mix of kick-your-ass power tunes instead. Like this. Then GO AT IT! I DEFY you not to glory in the world of paybacks with zero consequence! You have EARNED this today!

Show all those bastards who is BOSS!

…Kill everything! And send those Alien’s packin’!

You are a WINNER!

A WINNER, I tell you!

…NO ONE is gooder than you! You just proved it! To God and everyone!

And just like that, it’s a beautiful world again.


Death Of Micros

30 Aug


I put a mug of water in the microwave the other day, and when I pressed the “two,” it began to spark like the fourth if July and make my lights blink.

…So I stopped it.

…Then, because I’m a human, I tried it again.

It was a bad idea the first time, so the second really didn’t work out well either. There was smoke.  A small fire…whatever..I “lived.”  This is the same trial and error the Cavemen went through, (sorta), so…at least I’m keeping to tradition in our historic breed of stupidity.

…When I reported the episode on FB (as I do most of my major life travesties), my Uncle had the best conclusion: I have too much iron in my water, and the thing-a-ma-bobs that zap the do-hickeys knew it. The water broke it.  Works for me.  As long as I’m not to blame.

Actually, I’m pretty surprised it’s lasted this long, truth be told.  I’ve been through two T.V.’s., three DVD players, four coffee pots, two toasters, three apartments and eleven years with this one piece of kitchen equipment.  And I’ve used it at least three times a day, for all those years.  That really ads up.

…When we were doing that film shoot last month, the house we were staying at had no microwave at all, and it was a total baffelment to us. Over and over again. All weekend.

“But how do you defrost meat you forgot to take out of the freezer?”

“How do you make just one mug of tea?”

“…Or warm up the left-overs?”

…I’m told all this can be accomplished on a stove as well, but that is just nonsense.  Why worry a stove over twenty minutes, when you can fix any kitchen problem you have with a microwave in only a buck-thirty?  You need some melted butter?  It can do that! Warm the syrup? I’m on it!  Heat the beans? No problemo!  Steam the tortillas? Si! 

Maybe this is a huge part of why I’m not a Master Chef right now; but my microwave has been my key mode of eating-salvation since the day I first packed up my room and moved out on my own.  With theatre schedules and long rehearsals and double jobs and early mornings paired with late “nights” (actually ending at dawn)…it is the ONLY way I have managed to eat at home for most of my adult life, on the kind of manic schedules that I run on.  And I ain’t the only one!  I know this because of the instant empathetic panic of my friends upon viewing my FB post…which equalled four offers for a free replacement within — I am not kidding you — three minutes of posting.

Three. Minutes.

…People have incurable diseases, a bad kidney, need bone marrow and even just blood donations on a daily basis (we are told)…but when something really fucked up, (like a broken microwave) happens, by God…people will step up!!!

…Incidentally, I am not making fun of said people (who are lovely) or the above medical emergent needs.  I am only admitting to my own part of slightly exaggerating the woe undertaken by the “inconvenience”  of having  no microwave for twenty-four hours.  I mean…I managed to reheat those take-out, left-overs from the “M” wine-and-dine-night, just fine.  But it did take twenty whole minutes. And I kinda burnt some stuff on accident.

…Which never woulda happened with my “old friend.” 

Never. Woulda. Happened.


P.S. A very special thanks to S.M. and J.M…for their much appreciated replacement donation. I owe you both some whiskey.

Adventures In Sleeping

29 Aug


Woke up this morning with the fitted sheet all balled up in the bottom corner pocket, my pillow on the floor, and my mouth guard laying next to me.  I either had really amazing dream-sex or a fight with zombies. I’d like to hope not both, but you never know what may happen. Either way, I don’t remember any of it…which is always weird to me now.

…It didn’t used to be like that.

For a little over a decade I never remembered my dreams at all…cuz I was really traumatized with probably the most horrifying nightmare ever, after the death of a friend in 8th grade. So I did everything I consciously (and unconsciously) could, just to wipe ’em all away. The “good” with the “bad.” And outside of an occasional flicker, I never remembered them at all. Not the theme, not the starring players, not what went down…nothing. Just faded snapshots every now and then.

Turns out, that isn’t really the most healthy thing.

When I started therapy, my Shrink warned that sometimes it can bring on kinda crazy dreams, and I should “prepare myself.” To which I smirked that I had brain-parts of STEEL (obviously, otherwise why else would I be in therapy?), and such things just never really “affect” me.

…So you can imagine my surprise when within a week, floating heads of my dead Ancestors would hover next to me, in a world that looked roughly like something Picasso or Dali would have painted, and all my teeth kept falling out. Totally normal and not freaky at all for your first time dream-scaping since you were 13.

The more we dug and tore at all my problems, the stranger they became. Like constant little acid trips every time I drifted off…which, coincidentally, is the first time I ever developed insomnia. I became literally too terrified to close my eyes. Four, twelve, sixteen dreams would collide all at the same time, all with these intense emotions and circumstances that never made sense…and all with a constant underlying terror at the base of them, which could never be explained.

…Eventually, of course, I managed to work it all out, in the little sorting machine of “strange” up in m’head…and as I got “better,” my night adventures did too. In time I managed to sleep like a human again. Without screaming myself awake. Or finding finger nail digs in the palm of my hand every morning. In time I was flashing back to childhood memories that were the good kind, fantasizing new ice cream flavors, having dinner with my BFF Meryl Streep, winning the Pulitzer, and running for President.

…You know…normal stuff, like that.

Then it calmed down to a trickle…only once in a great while sticking with me beyond that first three minutes or so, after being ripped awake by the alarm clock.

I don’t remember my dreams much anymore at all, now. Only an exceptional few.

…Not because I block them…just because, well…because “I don’t,” I guess. Waking up this morning, and seeing the condition of my bed, just kinda got me thinking: how in the hell can anyone sleep through all that? Then I remembered, I used to do it all the time.

Even when I was “awake,” if you get my drift.

…It’s not that I want to necessarily experience absolutely every trip I go on, every night. My brain prob’ly protects me from any number of horror night-sweats on a regular basis…(induced no doubt from lack of chocolate.)

…But it also means I’m missing out on prime story-telling plot I could really be using right now. Free creative stuff that doesn’t count as “stealing” if the episode is super limited and only shown to the viewing audience in my head, that one time. I’m not saying that I’d want to experience nightmares like a Jack the Ripper attack, or those kind where you’re naked and confused in the produce aisle, looking for butter again. (Look, don’t judge me okay…I don’t make fun of your little “freaknesses.”)

…I’m saying: if it was all about me being a Super Spy, or goin’ at it on some grassy knoll with Colin Firth, and I find out about it? I’m gonna be pissed!

…That’s all.


She’s Branding

28 Aug


I feel like I just bought a cow and poked a searing hot branding iron at her ass.

She Writes A Little, now has it’s own dedicated Email and Facebook page with a line-up of materials coming your way should you choose to partake in them.  Mostly, I haven’t done this yet because I’ve been terrified since the last “outing,” that someone would sniff me out again.  But I think I’ve got the matter handled, secured and ready to launch out into the webosphere.

…The other “hold-back,” was what in the hell I’d do with a dedicated Email and FB page once I got them. 

This is the part where I drop heavy hints to people who might want to hire me to write things.  Don’t feel shy.  You should really give me a buzz and we can talk.  I can write serious, academic, literary, script and research article stuff too, you know.  I’d prove it by showing you my resume, but that would kinda blow my cover a little bit.  So you’ll just have to take my word for it.

…Meanwhile, as I anxiously await the many job opportunities blowing up my email inbox even now, I’d like to shift focus to the FB page a moment, if you will.

I’ve spent hours (2), tonight on my couch, deriving a cunning plan wherein scheduled materials will crop up on it, each and every day. Each day of the week will have a special post all it’s own, having nothing at all to do with the blog…(only sometimes)…and may or may not help me think of further writing ideas to expand upon, so as members you may or may not get a super special insider peek. It will be themed like this:

SWAL’s Facebook Datebook

Mon – Dames We Dig
(Dames we love and why. Inspiration in spades, these chicks got it to spare.)

Tues – Books To Read
(Book list favs from Hollywood, and bios and theatre and history. If I love it, you’ll love it…I mean, my God, we’re practically twins.)

Wed – Mmmmen We Love
(Famous fellas who get it done right, and why. With special emphasis on boys who have voices you could lick like a spoon. )

Thurs – Strange story of the day
(Weird but true news items or personal anecdotes in tiny blips. Like your own little Freak Show ticket, every week.)

Fri – Fetish Feast
(People, theatre, food, film, and lit within the fetish world. I am dedicated to searching it out…no matter what gross pop-ups thusly occur.)

Sat – Sins We Partake
(Bad-for-you or naughty favorite booze, places, delectable dishes, naughty reads, and “didja knows.”)

Sun – Saving Graces
(Quiet retreats, mental clean up, relaxing movies, books, happy place listings of “the greatest hits.”)

…At some point I’m prob’ly gonna need to come up with a better pen name, as well. Because “SWAL” prob’ly won’t sell a whole hell of a lotta books. It sorta sounds like the acronym to a disaster relief fund or hybrid disease or something. Maybe I’ll hold a contest to name me…like MGM did for Joan Crawford. And then I’ll thank the winner personally in my hypothetical book when it’s published. And maybe ship them some of this:

…Because I’m a hell of a lot nicer than Joan Crawford ever was. All she ever gave out was sex and wire hanger welts.*


* Note to self: Cross reference Crawford under Thursday through Saturday. And maybe Monday. I mean, lets be real.

Agatha Christie In Spandex

27 Aug


You know how Weddings are always stress-balls of mishaps and near disasters, full of bossy in-laws and too many opinions being given without request, and sugar-high flower girls, and drunken Uncles hitting on the food servers, and Bridezillas weeping mascara down their faces?

…And you know how some people are smart and manage to avoid all that?  It just seems cruel to me that m’friend “M” actually made the smart choice decision to circumvent it, then ended up in the middle of it anyway, by being outvoted by The Moms’ feeling they got the shaft in orchestrating general Wedding splendiferousness.

For more of “M’s” story, read here…but for the rest of us, lets pick up where we left off: which is she and “K.L.” (the already hubby), enroute to a giant congregation of family, in-prep for this very fine occasion.  Which apparently had nothing at all to do with “M” or “K.L.”

“Can I help with the –”

“–No, it’s fine.”

“Should I pick out the –”

“We got you the sparkle ones.  You’ll love it.”

“I’d really like flowers that –”

“Honey, don’t worry about it.  I know a woman who knows a woman.”

“But what about –”

“Don’t worry.  It’s covered.”

…For an entire week that “M” had booked in order to put together the Wedding, she sat around doing nothing because no one would let her.  Not pick out the table cloths, or work on decorations…not select the food or taste cake samples.  She couldn’t drive and pick things up, run any errands, sort seating arrangements, talk about ceremony inclusions, or make any decisions in the least.  She was told over and over again that this was, “for her own sake.”  Because it was “very important that she not feel like a total stressed-out wreck.”  But because she had no decision-making power or weigh-in on presentation, taste or selection…by end of the week, she was turning into a total stressed-out wreck.  She did manage to rally though, once the day finally arrived, put her “game face” on, bit her lip, and give one of the best performances of her life.  And she’s a really good Actor…so this is really saying something.

…There were only two requests she had managed to get through to the “powers that be” in any of the decision-making that was had, leading up to the day.  One was that the family Fart Fairy would be invited as a special guest of honor, and the other was that the cake be Super Hero themed with toppers of a The Hulk and Miss Marvel.

To explain the above requires a step back into “M’s” childhood, and the understanding that they are giant comic book nerds…but even the former had to be explained to me when we met over take-out and wine to swap keys and catch up.

M: “…So at least the Fart Fairy was there. I woulda been pissed if she wasn’t. I wrote her a formal invitation and everything.”

Me: ” Wait, sorry, who?”

M: ” The Fart Fairy.*  I’ve told you about her…”

(I shake my head with eyes wide in wonder.)

M: “…Yeah, I mean she goes way back.  She’s even the topper to our Christmas tree every year, and when we go on trips and things, sometimes we take her with us and she’ll be in the pictures. You know, like — ‘The Fart Fairy goes camping.’ Or, “The Fart Fairy in Scotland.”

Me: “So…she’s like a doll then?”

M: “Yeah.  From when we were kids.”

Me: “So…you invented her.”

M: “No.  She’s a whole ‘thing.’ The first time I heard about her, we were all in the car on a road trip — Mom, Dad, my Brother, Sister and Me, and within this really short amount of time we had each just let one rip and the whole car was just full of farts, and someone said, ‘Wooo wee! That’s a lotta blessings from the Fart Fairy!”

Me: “…So every time you fart–”

M: “–She’s blessing you.  Yes.”

(“M” takes a giant bite of food and talks on.)

M: “…And then we started talking about her so much that I decided I’d make a doll, like in her honor? So I did.  In Girl Scouts.  You know, the one where you hafta make a doll for this patch?  They said it was ‘inappropriate.’ I still don’t know why.  But when I brought her home, everyone loved her.  Even though she was kinda jacked up with an arm like this and a shorter one here…and sorta lopsided.”

(I nod my head with eyes wide.)

M: “But for a long time, she was the only one we had.  Then I made a new one finally.  And she’s been everywhere.  Family vacations and road trips and all that.  So I was really mad when my Sister got married and I saw the guest list and I was all, “Wait!  Where’s the Fart Fairy?!” And she gave me this look and said, “Yeah, I’m not sending an invitation to a doll.”  And I said, “Why not?!” And she didn’t answer me.  Then my Brother did the same thing when he got married.  So I told “K.L.” that I refused to forsake her like everyone else, so I wrote out a formal invitation and everything.

Me:  “Did she come?”

(“M” smiles a grin so wide that some of the food falls out.)

M: “Even better.  Just before the ceremony, they made like a kidnap scenario, and my Niece and Nephew…dressed up like Miss Marvel and the Hulk…went off to rescue her.  And she was a guest of honor afterward and everything.”

Me: “Oh yeah?”

M: “…Which was almost the only thing that went ‘right’ the entire Wedding. Even the flowers were mostly plastic. $400.00 of MOSTLY plastic flowers.”

Me: “Wait.  But what about the cake?”

(“M” does a giant eye roll and takes another bite.)

M: “Just everybody was laughing about it.  And not in an awesome way.”

Me: “Why?”

M: (Giant sigh.) “Well…you know how The Hulk and Miss Marvel are our favorites.”

Me: “Yeah.”

M: “So, we asked that we have a double tiered square cake with one being purple, the other yellow and The Hulk and Miss Marvel for cake toppers.”

Me: “Ok. ”

(Long beat as she takes another bite.)

Me: “So, they made fun of it for that?”

M: “Um, no.  Because THAT would have been ‘awesome.’  They made fun of it, because what we got was a WHITE cake with these little YELLOW flowers plopped all over it, and the cake toppers were all screwed up cuz she heard us wrong when we ordered it.”

(I take a giant bite of food.)

Me: “So what did you get?”

M: (Huge sigh.) “You know Agatha Christie, right?  Like Miss Marple?”

(I stop chewing and freeze.)

Me: (With mouthful.) Miss Marple.

M: “Yeah.”

Me: “Sure.”

(“M” takes another huge bite, shrugs, and starts to chew in depressed silence.)

Me: “Wait. No. Wait. So you’re saying they thought you said, ‘Miss Marple?”

(“M” nods.)

Me: “…And no one called to ‘clarify?'”

(“M” shakes her head.)

Me: (In morbid fascination.) “So…just to get this strait…you had a Wedding cake with the toppers of –”

M: “–The Hulk and Miss Marple. Yes.”

(I start to choke on food in my mouth, try to contain myself long enough to get rid of it, and by the time I’m done, tears are streaming down my cheeks. “M” just eats on, depressed.)

Me: “What did you do?”

M: “Well, there was nothing TO ‘do.’ I mean, no one had seen it until the reception. And then it was just like this wave of hysterics. But only from my side of the family. Cuz no one from ‘K.L.’s’ knows who she is. First my Mom went up, and lost it…then she called my sister over…so they were just…you know…’crying’…then more people came by. And then ‘K.L’s’ family starting getting mad cuz they didn’t ‘get’ it, so I had to explain, ‘It’s like Angela Lansbury in Murder She Wrote, only English, okay?!”

(I cry on and am I’m laughing too hard at this point to form full sentences.)

Me: “Wait…so…how does…everyone…know…that’s who …it was? I mean…how…could you…possibly…recognize Miss…Marple…just on…sight…like that?”

M: “Oh. It was obvious.”

(I laugh harder and start to snort. I am not a snorter, so she has invented an entirely new form of comic appreciation than I have ever in my life had before.)

M: “Hold on..I have a picture…”

(“M” signs in on my computer and starts sorting through pics rapidly as I hyperventilate in the corner.)

M: (As she clicks past photos.) “…And you know the really messed up part?”

(I shake my head and cry on.)

M: “They even got her colors right. I said, ‘The Hulk in green and purple and Miss Marvel in yellow and black.’ Here it is.

(I start to howl, hiccup, snort and cry.)**

M: “Yeah. I mean how fucked up is that? Right? I mean after I was done being all pissed, I started laughing too…cuz, what are you gonna do? There it is, just sitting there. And then it got hot and her little black shoes started to bleed all over the WHITE FROSTING…just black ink everywhere. I dunno. I dunno if anyone even ate any of it. I stuck to the cupcakes.”

Me: (Between sobs.) That’s prob’ly best. It could have dyed your mouth black for all the pictures and stuff.”

M: “Oh, it didn’t matter by then. ‘K.L’s’ cousin had already spilled his wine all down the front of my dress by that point. I had already given up. But at least the Fart Fairy came.”

Me: “Yes.”

(It is quiet for a piece, as I am finally able to pull myself together and attack my face with kleenex.)

M: “This is totally going in your blog. Isn’t it.”

Me: “Uh huh.”

M: (Shrug.) “Well…at least we’ll be famous.”


image image image
* The Fart Fairy in various escapades of practicing good bathroom habits, and getting drunk on vodka

** The Wedding cake

A Letter To Mrs. Johnson

26 Aug


Mrs Johnson:

What kind of person says they’re gonna show up three days ago and then doesn’t until today, banging on the door at 5 A.M.?  I do have a “life” you know, and just hanging around for whenever is “convenient” for you isn’t in the job description that they handed me in that class they gave us in the fourth grade. You know, the one where all the boys went into Mr. T’s room and all the girls got sorted into Mrs. L’s?  Here is what they did tell us:

* She will come every month, 28 days from her last visit.
* She will be a messy, uncomfortable, opinionated and often grumpy house guest.
* At time she’ll be downright unreasonable and emotional.
* Here’s all the stuff you need to have around when she visits.

…It took three years before you decided to show up at all.  Then one summer, right as I was changing into my swimming suit, BAM! there you were!  Instantly!  Like a very sick and twisted kind of Genie.

“What the eff?!” I thought.  “Oh God, I’m dieing!!!”

…This was only a momentary panic. A totally natural reaction for a hypercondriac who was also sure she had “caught” appendicitis from that one girl in school last year, might get accidental explosive bowel syndrome because people never wash their hands after pooping, choke to death at any moment while eating alone, or get gangrene from a paper cut.  I was so used to launching into immediate worst-case-scenario panic at moments like this, that I had (only for a second…or twelve) totally forgotten that little discussion from all those years ago. (Because dog and and kid years equal roughly the same until you turn 18… so that was like 21 years ago, in me-time.)

…But then I remembered.

…And I called my aunt in (at whose house I was, at the time.)  And was like, “Um. So.  Don’t tell anyone…but I’m either dieing of Cancer or I just started my period.” 

And she hugged me. 

For a second I kinda started to panic, like this was the beginning of “goodbye” or something…but then she gave me this odd smile-look when she was done, and started ruffling through the bathroom drawers to “hook me up” with some stuff…like my own personal period Pimp.

…What I didn’t know at the time was that the hug I thought was of pity at first, and then turned into some sorta mini-tribal moment of succession to womanhood…was actually just a hug of pity after all.  Cuz she knew what was ahead of me at the time, and I didn’t. 

It wasn’t so much the, “Oh!  You have achieved womanhood now, and your body has just this instant transitioned into a crazy self sustainable life force garden, where people can be made and grown and harvested, and the entire human race is now an intrinsic part of who you are and the magical capabilities you hold, with an awesome responsibility of our future, just south of your belly button.” 

…Later, I realized it was more like, “Oh, you poor little sunofabitch.  God I’m glad you at least made it to 13 before it happened to you.  With the women in your bloodline, this shit is just going to get unbearable…heaving up meals, rolled up in the fetal position for hours at a time, yelling at the burnt dinner, bursting into tears for no reason whatsoever.  And those’ll be the good months.  I better get you some drugs, pronto.”

She was at a vantage point, like a great Seer on a mountaintop, looking down at me in that little beginning valley being like, “Whelp.  Start trekin’ kid.  I wish I could tell you that once you climbed this hill you’d be done, but there’s like forty years more of ’em ahead.”

I am now on my nineteenth anniversary of that date, after climbing more fucking mountains than the Hobbits, each one a little more steeper than the last.  And I’m still less than halfway through.

…If only they put me in Mr. T’s room that one day, none of this shit wouldn’t have happened!  But it did

And I’m here now.

…So that is the little scenario story of “me,” Mrs. Johnson.  That is how I came into this gig…plopped into this valley with a tiny pack of supplies and told to “walk up.” Every month.  For maybe the rest of my life.  Because at the rate I’m going, surely I’ll bleed to death or my tubes will explode before I ever reach the end of this journey into Menopause.  Which I’m told is this whole hell of a lot of fun too, by the way.

…What I’m saying is: We came to an agreement nearly two decades ago, that like it or not, you will materialize like a fucked up kind of Mary Poppins just floating in on the wind every month.  I will put you up.  I will go along with all the daily demands and requirements that having you around insists upon (and they are never rad things like jumping into paintings or dancing on roof tops…more like puking into trash cans, drinking Pepto like a thing of orange juice, and popping more pills than an acid junky.) And at the end, you promise to eventually leave me the fuck alone, and go bother someone else.  What we DIDN’T agree on was you acting like some teenage floozy just popping up at random hours around dawn, three days late or more, greeting me with a solid punch to the ovaries when I open the door, and taking over my entire day when I had other things I had planned to do.

Mrs. Johnson: You are an asshole.  Just so we get that straight.

…And would it have killed you to stop somewhere and bring a thing of chocolate on the way?  I mean: really.


The Episode The BFF Wrote

25 Aug


The BFF decided to commandeer m’blog yesterday while visiting me at work. Because she brought me coffee, I let her. Then, because it sounded glamourous, I contracted her to be my Foreign Correspondent Guest Blogger when she to moves to L.A. next month. Because L.A. is foreign to everywhere that isn’t L.A. And because I can. Following is her first installment. I took the liberty of including Editor notes for her. She took the liberty of completely ignoring them. I claim Executive privileges by including them anyway:

Listen up bitches, It is I. The BFF, and I will be your author this morning for a very special installment of MY BFF’s* blog. (*Editor’s note: The double BFFing might get confusing. Maybe you should just call me The Diva. The BFF note: Maybe you should shut up and let me write this blog.)

We sit, bathed in dirty white fluorescent light.* (*Editor’s note: Nice detail. Very Noir. The BFF note: Yes. I know. That was the point.)

She, pouring over insanely large paychecks she will later be forced to hand over to assholes who will later return to complain that they were not quite insanely large enough. Or they will send their bitch wives to do it.* (*Editor’s note: I love you. The BFF: It’s mutual. Now stop interrupting me.)

Welcome to Friday morning! $17,557.00 today and counting.

I, having taken improper advantage of a car accident I was in yesterday to beg out of work today, sit across from her, hijacking her blog and making faces at her when she’s not looking.* (*Editor’s note: Bitch. The BFF note: I’m making another face at you right now. And a gesture to go with it. Guess which finger I’m using.)

Side note: The Diva’s* first urination of the day occurred at 11:01. (*Editor’s note: See, I told you it would work better. The BFF note: I will leave right now and take the coffee with me.) She has asked me to keep track of this. We have a special bond.

Also, she has asked that when I quote her directly, I do it so that she will seem about 20 pounds lighter and about 2 inches taller.* (*Editor’s note: Thank you. The BFF: Alright then.) Use your imaginations people.

To continue, It should be known that she and I know how to have fun.* (*Editor’s note: This is scientific fact. We did about forty studies to make sure. The BFF note: At least.) I mean, we do it right. Case in point-

She: “I’m gonna have one of those bread pizza things, and it’s gonna be awesome.”* (*Editor’s note: Most people won’t understand how this is relevant to the above statement about “having fun.” Explain in more detail maybe? The BFF note: If I have to explain how food is “awesome” to these people, they are reading the wrong fucking blog.)

We go on adventures, we play hooky, and we travel. We picnic, we movie watch, we antique.* (Editor’s note: Thank you. The BFF note: Yeah. Whatever.) We are young, and poor, and tied to jobs that require sitting at a desk all day, and we absolutely refuse to let any of those things get us down. Hence days like today. Should I be at work? Yes. Is lying wrong? Yes.

Me: (When reviewing my life choices) “I am a liar.”

She: “But only a little bit, and it’s not like you’re going all Bernie Maddoff.”

Me: “Yeah, but you can’t embezzle from a non-profit that helps the homeless…”

She: “Well you can….”

Us: “That’s the line!” –We say together in unison.* (*Editor’s note: It’s good to have one. The BFF: Yes. Editor’s note: Also, you really were in a car accident, and I’m not sure taking time off is the same as embezzling. The BFF: We’ll go with your logic. This time.)

She and I, we understand each other. I respect that all the bean cans in her cabinet must be organized with labels facing out,* (*Editor’s note: I appreciate that. The BFF: I’m here for you.) and she puts up with my loud voice, relentless quests for change, and incessant Louis Armstrong impressions.* (*Editor’s note: Do the Louis Armstrong turkey one! Do it! Do it! Ha! The BFF note: You’re welcome.) So it works.

“I’m gonna be super extravagant and go pee again,” she says. We live such privileged lives.* (* Editor’s note: Rock Stars only wish they were us right now. The BFF: Yep.)

And on a day like today, when work is too pointless,* (*Editor’s note: Right?! The BFF note: Pffftttt) and the sun is too bright and sunshiny,* (*Editor’s note: Still can’t find my fucking sunglasses. The BFF: I keep telling you – buy new ones!!) and the clock is ticking towards a time when the two of us will be much farther apart than a text message and a drunken stumble home, it is important to share meaningful friend time.* (*Editor’s note: I miss you already, like I would my big toe. The BFF: Thanks? Editor’s note: You know, like — not having you around throws me all outta balance and stuff. The BFF note: Oh. Can I maybe be a different anatomy piece? Cuz you hate your toes, and — Editor’s note: — It was a metaphor! The BFF note: Actually it was a “simile” but, anyway…)

“Don’t you wish your last name was Tamara Frisbee?” she says between sips of coffee.

“Yes, yes I do.” *


(*Editor’s note: You forgot to note that this was the part where I was working on the Open Order report, calling out funny customer names. People are gonna read that and be all, “where the hell did that come from?” The BFF note: Really? Cuz that would be so different from all the rest of your blogs, how? Editor’s note: Wow. When are you moving again? Can I buy you a one way ticket “now,” or do we have to wait…? The BFF note: You’ll miss me when I’m not around to fight with anymore. Editor’s note: I know. So shut up about it.)

(* Editor’s note: Wait. Was that the end? The end of the whole blog? The BFF note: I like to leave things in suspense. So my answer to that would be —)


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