Tag Archives: Puff

Conflicting Schedules & Farty-Chairs

30 Sep


I have conflicting schedules today.  I think.  I’m not totally sure, because the latest updated rehearsal call email went MIA and I haven’t heard back from the SM as yet…which is perfectly understandable, as I just figured this out at around 1:30 A.M. when I sent her an email request for updates.  The woman was prob’ly sleeping, (and possibly still is) which, however logical, doesn’t help the fact that I may or may not have a call in 20 minutes, or according to the first schedule at 3:30…or according to “M,” (who was the only human conscious when I started freaking out), possibly 6 P.M.

…What I’m saying is: this is really important, cuz I also booked a movie premiere and theatre tickets for today.

…I kinda have to know, you guys.

Wait! A phone ping!

**later, after reading text, and sending others to the four corners of the globe**

…Alrighty then.  Collisions averted.

(It is at 6…in case you were wondering.)

…Geeze.  Now I need to go make another thing of coffee and defreak a bit.

…And maybe put my eyes in. 

Head’s already wrapped up and sealed in hot curlers so can’t do glasses, and I hate contacts first thing in the morning. Have elected to just go semi blind until now.  Hate how itchy my eyes get…even with the uber fancy Alka Selzer-like cleaning fluid that costs $15 per bottle and special drops to keep them extra hydrated.  It’s like my eyes don’t even WANT some foreign plastic disc hugging the breath out of them for 12 to 18 hours a day, non-stop.  As if they don’t even CARE when they cloud up, like your car windows on a cold morning, (which no amount of swiping, blinking or squeezing can undo), and I can’t see a goddamn thing.  My eyes are selfish assholes, really…when you get down to it.  Everything is all about them.  They’re tired, they’re itchy, they’re dry then strangely teary… 

…Meanwhile…have you ever tried putting all that under stage lights and baking it for two hours?  It doesn’t help the situation.  And neither does the occasional required crying. 

…Cuz when you’re in the middle of being strangled, with tears, sweat and snot running down your face (and 200 people watching), the last thing you wanna be thinking is: “Fuck.  My left contact just washed out.  HOLD EVERYTHING YOU GUYS! I gotta find it real quick…”

In Other News: I am writing this from my farty-chair, which is an amazing feat because I just now realized it…which means it finally “made it” as an official edition to my house. Until now, it’s been “that new foreign thing,” I had to work around and get used to.

…We all know how I hate change. That is by no means limited to major life events…it’s also inclusive with furnishings, habits, and routines in general. I first purchased the farty-chair about two weeks before Puff came up to visit, on the inclination that should we (for instance) both want to watch something on TV at the same time, there would be too many butts and not enough places to comfortably put them to achieve this. So, I bought this chair. I spent THREE HOURS re-arranging my living room, back and forth and back again, to find out where in the hell it would fit best…which was nowhere…because it was “new” and “different” and I never know what to DO with those kind of things…so finally just picked a place and PUT it there. Then I stared at it for a couple of days, like an alien had landed in my house and I didn’t know what to do with it. Well, I DID know, I just didn’t like the answer.

…I was gonna have to “bond” with it.

…So, I girded my loins and began the long and painful process of changing my daily routines and habits JUST to fit in the fucker. Every time my butt hit the mini-sofa, it would pop up again and have to go settle instead in the farty-chair. Every time I settled in with a book, or opened the laptop, I’d have to stop, get up, and relocate to the farty-chair. Everything became ABOUT the farty-chair. And the FACT it WAS a “farty-chair” didn’t help the situation. Every time you’d settle or move in the thing, it would omit a variety of groan-squees…which, because I was still trying to break it in and get comfortable in it, made every evening in front of the TV for two weeks sound like the after effects of a baked-beans eating contest. Just HIGHLY uncomfortable, and not right.

…But by the time Puff came, it had become a thing I could tolerate. I could be in the same room with it and not give it dirty looks and cuss at it’s every flatulence rip. I figured out how to replicate its sounds so that if a small movement happened to manufacture a mock-grossness, I could immediately echo it with movement, thus proving to the public at large that it was the chair that had gas problems, not me. And by the time Puff left that week, I actually had to remind myself a couple times that it was OK to default back to my sweet home base on the mini-couch once again. And did.

…And so, the farty-chair has remained now…mostly dormant. That is, until (for some reason) today. Today, I didn’t think about it. Today, I had multiple schedules in my head and a cup of coffee and laptop in hand. I settled in for a flush of manic emailing, and opened my blog, tucked in with a blanket and got to work.

…And then my coffee ran out. And I looked at the cup forlornly, there: on the side perch footstool-table, beside the…farty-chair? I’m in the farty-chair?!

…”Groan-squeeeeee, ” it replies with my sudden shift in seat of surprise.

“Huh.” I pat it on the armrest. It wags it’s tail.

“Welcome to the family, bub. Looks like you finally made it.”

It passes a gassy sigh of relief.

And I go back to my blog.



12 Sep


Today was more or less an R & R day, spent primarily in p.j.’s til 2 P.M. We only got dressed (in the end) so we could walk off the “breakfast” we ate, in order to have room for the fuck-ton of homemade spaghetti sauce simmering on the stove at Ma’s in the meantime.

So what did we do with all the other eighteen hours of our day?  

…’Member camp as a kid? 

I never went to the summer variety, or anything organized around a specific extracurricular task…like band, or choir, or Girl Scouts.  All I remember was 6th Grade Science Camp. 

…I remember climbing Heart Attack Hill, and standing over a puked-up owl pellet with tweezers, picking out all the little animal bones and rebuilding them again. (Mine, of course, were always headless.)  I remember getting up at the butt crack of dawn thanks to an obnoxious alarm bell going off like the kind they sound in prison movies, and taking freezing cold showers on cement floors, being shifted in waves of various classes studying all the really exciting science kind of stuff…like watching green grass turn brown, compare river rock to fossilized lava, and looking at dead bugs under a microscope.

…After dinner, (and singing ten or twelve camp songs around a bonfire), we’d break up and retire to our cabins, smelling like singed hair and burnt logs.  Then, we would get ready for “lights out,” wait for the den mother to kick it for the back room, then spend all the rest of the night gabbing our asses off about nothing at all, only cuz we weren’t “supposed” to…well into dawn.

…And that is the reason we slept until nearly noon and did absolutely nothing with our day.  Because when you add Puff and me in the same room, we will talk until 5 A.M. like prepubescent little girls, about anything and everything in the world.  And we’ll add in rainbow sprinkles to the mix, by things like, “Why Coach and Prada bags are essential, ” “what the hell keeps a Jimmy Choo on your foot,” “why we always like men who are not available, but don’t want the ones we’ve got,” and “our undying love of kitsch movies, especially in period, space and/or featuring drag queens.”

Today we’ve been mixing all of the above, in nonstop, unending natural evolution from one topic to the other…and most while movie-underscored by people wearing plastic tuxedos, going to “are you gay, we can fix that” camps, alien animals in space, communal swingers in 70’s San Francisco, serial Bear Queens, and French Divas in heightened fifty’s couture doing singing strip teases while murdering people.

…Honestly, we are one Joan Crawford/Bette Davis movie away from completing our collective Top Ten Greatest Hits list.

Oh, yes.  We’ve made a “list.”

…Besides being the natural accompaniment to our general discussion topics, it also provides an often fitting punctuation mark to a completed sentence, idea or thought. The plots are ridiculous. The costumes are worse (therefore automatically fabulous.) Everything is covered in plastic, animal fur, or laytex. Alien sex is totally acceptable in primetime, if you do it with Lucas Film anamatronics. Every female fight starts with hair pulling and ends in epic “accidental” lesbian make-out sessions. And its totally normal to get naked, snort coke, smoke a doobie and rent a commune-like apartment in 1970’s San Francisco from a transsexual Olympia Dukakis, when you work for a Republican Advert Exec.

TOTALLY normal, you guys. Laura Linney just did it, while I ate breakfast.

…THIS is why kitsch is important, people. If nothing else, then to service us ridiculous scenarios, with epically kinky titillations that you COULD NOT GET AWAY WITH, if you tried to put it across with a straight face. Which is the secret reason people use to excuse the fact that they read those craptastic “50 Shades” books.

…Professionals, like Puff and I, (and everyone who really knows anything), fully recognize what a piece of shit those books are in comparison, however. Though they try to gain the same audience appeal, it is not at all the same thing.

Kitsch is preplanned with love and care and dedication. Kitsch has “standards” and “art design” and the plot lines make you want to laugh and gorge on more, like a king-sized candy bar. They don’t hold you in horror, mid-chew, making “what-the-fuck” faces, continually turning to the front jacket where it insists it is a, “#1 New York Times Best Seller,” no matter what kind of Twilight Zone episode you think you are in.

“She can’t POSSIBLY think this is legit ANYTHING,” you insist. She has no idea about the lifestyle, or sentence structure or dialogue-play. Is it a joke? Is it tongue-in-cheek? I don’t understand.

Is it the same audience She is attempting to gain? Does she actually write that poorly, or is she doing it on purpose, “ironically?”

After a lengthy discussion on a book neither one of us could stomach getting past the second chapter of: Puff and I are actually stumped on this one. It actually IS bad enough to land in the kitsch category, but not good enough to be legitimate in it.

…A butt-raping, sadistic, wealthy millionaire owner of a major corporation, who nominates some virgin chick to be his dungeon Sub, and is secretly glorified for this instead of plastered all over the newspapers, is NOT the same thing as “Rocky Horror Picture Show,” “Farscape,” “Mommy Dearest,” or “8 Women.”

Its just not.

…First of all, they have way fucking more class. Second, they are more realistic. And third, they aren’t some 20-something’s fetishized S & M naive idea of never-experienced lifestyle, written in the language of teenager.

She MUST have meant it to be Kitsch-tastic though. She must. No grown person would put that kind of book out there, and NOT think to themselves (every time they cash a check), “Haha! Suckers! Just wait for the next trilogy! It’ll be bestiality with sex monkey Architects, in space! Written in crayon! From the perspective of a nine-year-old! And you’ll totally eat that shit up! I’ll win the Pulitzer, even! And use it as a bookend for my First Editions shelf. To be ‘ironic.'”

…Full circle, friends.

…And these are the kind of things we talk about.

For eighteen hours.

The end.


Conversations In A Day

11 Sep


The Cuz has arrived, and thus begins Vacation Part Two:

(First crack of morning.)

Puff: (On the phone.) Where you at?
Me: (In bed.) Huh?
Puff: I’m here!
Me: Wuh?
Puff: I’ve landed.
Me: (Bolting upright.) OH HOLY SHIT-FUCK!  It was 9:45 A.M.?!?!
Puff: Uh. Yeah.
Me: I AM THE WORST!  I thought it was 9:45 P.M..
Puff: Nope.
Me: I will TOTALLY be there in 20 minutes…I SWEAR!


Me: (With a toothbrush in mouth while making bed) Oh God! I screwed it all up!
Ma: (On phone, possibly still sleeping.) Hello?
Me: He’s HERE! He’s here already!
Ma: Who is this…?
Me: —I’m twelve hours behind, and I haven’t even gotten up yet hardly.
Ma: What’s happening?
Me: –I even asked him like yesterday to confirm. 9:45 he said. 9:45. Cuz like an idiot I kept thinking it was night and all.
Ma: Is this a wrong number?
(A gaging, choking sound.)
Me: I almost died just then. Fucking toothbrush…
Ma: Puff is HERE, did you say?
Ma: Well, GO GET HIM! What are you talking to me for?!
Me: I just freaked out, is all. I’m going! I have to–I’m going…!


(In car.)

Me: (via text.) OMG, I am the worst ever!! Let the ridiculous “me” stories begin. I am totally on the road right now, yelling at this old lady driving a boat, going negative ten miles an hour in front of me. My road rage is unparalleled with moroseness for not only making a 12 hour difference fuck up, but also being mean to a woman who already lived through eight wars and is prob’ly using a booster seat just to see over the steering wheel…
Puff: …No stress, I’m having some breakfast.
Me: …So you have stories to share already. Awesome. This will never be boring, Puff.
(Picture of breakfast arrives with a ding.)
Me: Hella. P.S. I need coffee like woa. And I look like I just rolled outta bed. Cuz I totally did. If you wanna pretend you don’t know me, I can hire a hot dude to meet you at the terminal and bring you to me. It won’t hurt my feelings.
Puff: … I’m at the Alaska arrivals area. Sitting on a bench.
Me: Grabbing parking now.
Puff: Where do I need to be?
Me: Wait. What airline?
Puff: A-las-ka. I’m right outside on the lower level…


(Still in car, calling on the phone.)

Me: So…I’m in the garage now.
Puff: Do I need to be in the garage?
Me: No, I’ll come to you. Only I’m…I’m looping here…
Puff: Huh?
Me: Looping. I’m looping to get out. Then I need to circle around.
Puff: What are you driving?
Me: A PT Cruiser.
(I take the totally wrong lane and end up in “departures.”)
Me: (Totally lying.) Um. I’m in a holding pattern. Almost there.
Puff: Heheh. “Pattern is full, Ghost Rider…”


(After another go-round on the terminal attack, and seeing him on the curb.)

Me: Dude. I’m an asshole, and I’m totally sorry.
Puff: It’s all good, cuz.
Me: Also, you know all those things that you wait to do until the day people come, when you are on vacation and just let shit go?
Puff: (silence.)
Me: …Like cleaning your car, doing dishes, dying your hair, sweeping the house, spraying toxic chemicals all over the bathroom and giving your fish a bath? Yeah. None of that was done. So I guess it’s good you’re family.
Puff: Yeah.
Me: I mean, I still need to get my nails “did” for shits sake.
Puff: I’ll go too! I need a pedi anyway.
Me: See. This is why I love you.


(On a short walk to coffee shop.)

Me:…And this is our park. And this is our gas station. And that is where The BFF lives. And this is our homeless man. And that is our Yuppie market…
Puff: –When do I get to meet her?
Me: Who?
Puff: The BFF.
Me: She gets off at five-ish, so maybe Tuesday? I dunno. But it’s happening for sure. You’ll love her. She’s like me. Only not at all. And way more fierce.
Puff: I know. I read your blogs.


(In Tacoma Boys.)

Puff: Psst…
Me: (In another world smelling a grape.)
Puff: Psssst. Pssst.
Me: (Wondering which onion is the “good” one.)
Puff: Hey!
Me: Huh?
Puff: (Whispering.) The “ginger.” Two o’clock.
(I look. I wrinkle my nose and shake my head.)
Puff: Not for YOU, for ME. (Idiot.)
Me: Ohhh. Really?
Puff: And he’s here with his gramma. Bonus points.
Me: “The good grandson.”
Puff: ‘Xactly.
Me: A “ginger.”
Puff: Definitely.
Me: Huh.


(Gigantic crash at base of stairs.)

Me: Sunofabiscutcruncher!!!!
Puff: (From the kitchen.) Are you dead?
Me: The damn paper bag broke. I just shattered an entire bottle of red.
Puff: (Now from landing.) Where?
(I move aside and show the kinda blood spill that only makes it on C.S.I.)
Puff: Oops. Want help?
Me: No. I’ll just lick it up. Its fine.
Puff: You’re kidding. Right?
Me: Sure. Okay. I’ll go get some paper towels. Be right back.


Puff: (From sink.) Um…
Me: Are you washing the bananas?
Puff: Wine spill. And you might wanna watch for glass splinters. I got one.
(He shows his finger, which is leaking the identical color of red as the wine bottle did.)
Me: That is exactly the same color as the wine.
Puff: Yeah.
Me: …Maybe we should toss the bananas.


The BFF: (On phone.) You called?
Me: Yeah. Come meet Puff and help cook Fajitas.
The BFF: I’m…(I accidentally blank out and have no idea what she says right here. I think I was putting junk away in the crisper.) …and then I will, at around 9:30. Okay?
Me: That’s P.M., right?
The BFF: Yes.
Me: …Just making sure.
The BFF: I’ll buzz you.


(While watching “Snow White and the Huntsman,” both basically ignoring it as we are on our computers separately…he to FB, me to blog.)

Puff: She. Never. Closes. Her. Mouth.
Me: My god. It’s all I’ve been thinking


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