Tag Archives: Shopping

This One Time (When It Was So Hot) 

19 Aug

There are two air conditioners on full blast,  and at 10 am it is 76  degrees in my office. 
… The heat in here has officially broken me. Two days ago, (because I couldn’t stand it anymore) I went clothes shopping. For shorts. Which was horrible in and of itself, minus the hit to my bank account…because clothes shopping is from Satan anyway…never mind when you’re being forced into purchasing an article you despise, on top of it. 

I haven’t purchased  shorts in over 16 years. I have never worn the one pj pair I had in public, even to take trash out or get the mail, because of all the body image things I can grouse about, my legs are number one. 

I have Fitbitted my damn ass off, and still have yet to achieve any forward momentum in achieving leg-awesomeness. (Which, yes,  I am extremely bitter about…cuz I’ve got a damn badge announcing  I just hit  5,000 lifetime miles this week,  since clicking  the fucker on my wrist, and you’d think that would be enough to counteract and retro fix a few bags of potato chips here and there.)

… But I digress: shorts. 

They are evil. 

… As are overhead dressing room halogen lights. And tiny,  helpful teenagers wearing a size 0 who want to help “get you another size” because all that weight you lost a year ago didn’t stay lost, and virtually everything you try on,  stops at half-mast, just under your ass. 
… So desperate was I,  two hours into the enterprise, that at some point… when I’d gone delirious from clothing OD, having broken out in a sweat which made everything even harder to get on, and look worse if I ever managed to achieve it…  I reached out to a sundress and threw it on the stack. 

A sundress. 

… An item I have never purchased in the entirety of my life. Ever. 

Because I don’t really “do”  girl clothes, and by that I mean: I’ll wear them if a costumer throws them at me, or I’m going to an Opening, but not on a voluntary basis. 

… Yet once on… besides the super-naked-underneath feeling of having nothing squishing my ass and hips like a butt girdle that is a pair of jeans…I hated the visual affect about 10% less than the shorts, so ended up buying them. 


Three “summer dresses. ” 

One of which I am wearing, for the first time, today. 

… Which feels odd. And bottom-naked. And you have to move and sit differently. And I’m overly-terrified I’ll accidentally walk around with some part of it all caught up in my underwear…like all of a sudden I can’t be trusted to pee like a grown-up or conduct myself with correct dress-wearing acumen. 

… Because I only do this girl-clothes thing, kitted up in spanks and nylons, in a theatre environment, two hours at a time. An 8-hour day of willy-nilly pant-commandoism, in the real world, where breezes happen at whim, and chairs have cold or sizzling seats, and you can’t bend over into a filing cabinet without underwear-mooning the room, are things I now have to worry about. After I’ve learned I have to. Because something embarrassing has just happened, regarding those things, bringing them to my attention. 

… Which is all to say: I kinda feel like an alien wearing a suit of people-skin… all foreign and pretend blend-inny. But at the same time…it is, at times, a welcome breeze in the nether-world. *

(*Shout-out to my “Underpants” crew.**)

(**Which sounds way worse than I was intending it to. So, naturally I’ve left on purpose. But also wanted to make sure I pointed it out. Cuz “funny”  is only funny if you slam it over the head ten or twelve times, then point at it and say, “Get it?! Do you get it?!”) 


Pant Wars

6 Mar


Ladies, get together with me on this:

Much like when they decided to go “universal” with cellphone chargers…allowing for ONE, standard connection needed for ONE standard of Droid phone and ONE standard (now erroneous) of the iPhones…so that instead of having to schlep and save 45 different chords, one could simply arrive at ones destination with, “hey, anyone have a charger…my phone is dying,” and one would readily be supplied with it; Much like this, I would like to argue for the same system to be implemented to pants.

…Pants, specifically…I don’t need to go all Nazi on every version of every clothing line from here to Europe…but surely…SURELY we could get together on some kind of universal pant-sizing.

…Because, as any woman will tell you: purchasing a single pair of those bastards takes far too much work, requiring us to get naked in a dressing room far too many times, in far too many departments of the store, with far too many brand-to-size-ratio differences, and often makes us far too depressed in the end to buy anything at all.

Ever since the skinny-pant revolution, I’ve been on pant-purchasing strike.

…On the off-chance that I find a decent pair of boot-cut that also fit over and thus balance out my thigh’s and butt, but don’t have me hula-hooping the waist…I buy the FUCK out of those bastards.  3…5…however many pairs I can manage financially at the time.  Because (for those new here), I’m a Latina, who is forever buying too-long shirts to cover my butt-crack popping out of low-rise jeans…even when I’m standing up.  And the skinny-jeans (aka “denim leggings” for those of us who lived through the 80’s the first time), are a fantastical and disgusting joke on a body build with any curve at all.

…Which is why I’d flatly refused to buy any more pants at all. Because, thanks to whatever “fashion” sets as the “new thing,” is what every one of us is harbored with. Whether our body type flatly refuses to conform or not. Listen: I’m still dealing with the last one, where belt loops and the top buttons end at somewhere five inches below your belly button, requiring belt-cinching hugging the bejesus out of halfway around your butt, squeezing for all it’s worth, just to stay up…while producing a mass of muffin top that looks like you’re wearing an inner tube under your shirt.

…I’ll be damned if I lower myself to the legging phase.

…Despite all that, though…I found myself having to face reality the other day, while staring in my closet.

Due to weight loss, (and general usage), of the line-up of pants before me, only three of them were ones I could actually physically wear at the moment. And did you know, there are 7 days to the week? That doesn’t add up. Something was gonna have to be done. And so, I girded my loins, and with a gigantic, melodramatic sigh, made way for the mall.

…Perhaps if I had been gifted the girl-shopping gene, I wouldn’t have hated the process so much. But I somehow doubt it. No sooner was I in the store, facing said pantage, than I realized: I had no fucking idea what size I was even looking for. I hadn’t purchased pants since well before the elections…and this was therefore going to require math to even come up with a doable guesstimate…not because of the time-lapse, but because of the amount of weight I had gained, and lost since that point in time.

…And after that, it was dealing with literal size label differences. This one is a 10, that one is a 32 x 31…and after that: the brand name game.

Everyone knows that “this” brand runs small, “that” one runs big…I’ve never actually physically gotten the brand right there over my thighs no matter WHAT size I’ve ever picked…and don’t even get me started about how the style of “straight leg,” “boot cut,” “flair,” “relaxed fit,” “skinny,” “petite, ” “curvy” and “regulars” do to the overall size adjustments as well.

…The long and short of it, had me naked three times in three different dressing room sections of the store, trying on up to five size ranges, ending in only uber frustration.

Tell me how it is that I wore a size 10 that was too big, into the store, but couldn’t even button that one label’s size 12’s? How does my inseam length change no matter WHAT pair of pants I put on…thus making me walk like a penguin with this one, and dragging 3 inches of pant below my feet with another? Why do they assume that “curvy fit” means your ass, hips and waist all equal one another in a cylindrical tube, so that in order to get something that doesn’t sausage or suck the life out of one part, leaves all the others with enough excess material (once belted), to accordion around you…feeling like a waist-version of an Elizabethan ruffle collar…or a tutu? Do they really still not understand how ethnic bodies of a certain robustness work in the clothing industry? I mean, pull one of my people off the assembly line, and fit it to fit her…it’s really not that difficult, you guys. It’s not like we’re exactly the minority anymore…neither in heft nor curve. We’re kinda everywhere…go to a Mall, I swear it to you!

…Anyway…roughly an hour in, I just gave up. I was tired. Tired of wandering around flipping through denim and Dockers. Tired of looking at my naked, dimpled skin staring back at me from the horror-lights of the dressing rooms. Tired of graduating in sizes after all the work I’ve done to lose this damn weight. I was just plain, “tired.” Period.

…So I stopped.

Three pairs of pants were just gonna have to do me. I’d made it work this long, I’d have to just keep at it until such time as I finally lose enough to downgrade from the current “tweener” size of not fitting into anything quite right, and my next-size-down wardrobe I have just hanging there, waiting for me to fit back into it again.

Enough is enough.

…And yet, this morning, as I ruffled through the same closet, looking at the same set-up as I always do: I picked out (due to curiosity and the desperate need for some variety) one of my other pairs on a hanger.

…I held them up.

…I gauged the width, and my current frame.

…I looked at the label at the waste, shrugged, and gave it a shot anyway.

…And the fucker buttoned and zipped.

Just like that.

A size 8.

What the hell, you guys?!

…Even with delirious cravings I’ve managed to smack down for the past three weeks, there is just no way, with monthly water gain, I lost up to 4 pant sizes in 4 days. It’s scientifically impossible. I know it didn’t happen.

…And this is all to say:

Dear pant-makers of the world,

Get your shit together. Get organized. Get some kind of through-line system going. Then please, get it out there into the fucking mass-market so we can finally, finally, FINALLY know what the hell size we are wearing!



Running Behind

22 Dec


Just got home, for the first time since 10:15 this morning.

…I’m beat, but the happy kind…the kind that knows I still have three more days off work, and I’m aloud to sleep in for all of them.

Good through-line rehearsal, running the show for the first time, and bonding with the peeps, today.  Delicious little sound-bites, and curious eye twinkles, and naughty grins, and confidential truisms: that is the world we live in.  Terrifying though it can sometimes be. And yet, there is almost nothing greater on earth than kicking back over a drink with casties, chewing over the risks taken throughout the day, the things we appreciated seeing in the others, the choices that sent the run in this whole other level of strength and curiosity, the compliments and admiration of the other person’s work. 

…It’s been a helluva year, being so blessed with this continued streak of great show-families to work with. 

Our young ladies were absolutely dedicated to the classes and history work we did today, which helped immensely in their stage presence…the adults spent huge pockets of time line-running in off scenes, and further soaking the show into the artistic sponge cake of our brains.  The tech departments watching, got a strong and realistic look at the bones and beginning muscle tissue of the show before the final work and push, and suddenly…”angst” and “sex” and “separation” and “stakes” are registering at this whole other level. 

Lots still to be found (obviously), but we’re in a good place.

…I may even say, we are in a GREAT one, as Mr. Director saw fit to give us tomorrow off.

So now, we have a “Holiday,” proper.

…And I have more time for all that running around, and last-minute-purchasing that I have to get done.

…And possibly a blog finished on time before the click over to midnight has passed.

…Which I clearly need to work on.


…But just know: it’s been for a good cause.

Happy dreams, loves.


Hurry, Hurry!

21 Dec


Can’t, don’t have time!!

…Lesson plan finish up, all day, then more Christmas shopping with Ma, and hang time with The Fella, JM and Dame Builder (his ever-cooler-than-most, wife.)

…Am now in purgatory, wrapping to infinity. 

Full day rehearsal tomorrow, need sleep, and a shower, and another one tomorrow.

But, “Love Actually” is in the player to keep me warm. 

…And I fucking love it. Actually.

P.S.  Buying clothes for bottles of alcohol might be my favorite thing ever.  I hope Marty likes it 😉


The Butt Bio

14 Oct


If I loved you less, I would pretend I didn’t have time to write tonight’s blog. Truth be told: I’m just not feelin’ it.

…I’m a pretty decent actor, and a hell of a liar (some would say, its the same thing), so I would totally pull it off right now, if I said, “Yeah…I can’t write my blog tonight, cuz I’m too busy writing multiple program bios for my anatomy pieces. I’d do one for my face, but no one would give a shit…they won’t be looking there anyway.”


Instead, I’m going to be only slightly more responsible by not lying. And writing a super short post.

Tonight was first run of the show, top-to-bottom, even with like fifteen days or whatever till Opening. Get to work some stuff tomorrow, which is awesome, (cuz working is the good part.)

…Broke in the new Crockpot today. Four hours on a roast and veggies, served directly after a soaking walk in the rain down on the waterfront.

…Which brings up (again)…WHY make a hooded coat that isn’t waterproof, and forget to tell people that when they buy it. One ASSUMES that “hood” = “a purpose for a hood.” It’s just this idea that MOST people have.

…Yesterday, “M” and I spent a part of the day shopping for girl clothes with no luck at all. But we didn’t care, because we were too busy eating fat amounts of cheese and salami, while guzzling red wine and watching tag-team stand up from the Nexflix stream, doing in-depth “Iliad” Collegiate paper theory Q &A sessions, and watching a “LOTR” documentary on historical sourcing, so I have something to focus on during the next movie, when the plot lines get so stretched out that my eyeballs start rolling back into their sockets, and I pass out. (Mercifully.)

We chicks know how to mix it up, friends.

…Right now, I’m bundled on the couch, it’s raining outside, my contacts are all blurry from too many hours on the clock, and “How I Met You Mother,” is playing on the T.V..

I’m tired, and don’t want to face tomorrow.

I’m wondering if now is a good time to mention this one new thing.

I’m deciding it isn’t.

I would like to hope this will be a productive week…less fires in the workplace, more scenes worked and nailed in rehearsal, general confidence building all-round, and less frequency in freaking out about things that I freak out about for a variety of reasons…each and every day.

It could totally happen.


Hello, Fall

12 Oct


Closed the last of the windows in the house today, and turned on the heater for the first time in about 90 days…roughly 50 of which have been solidly without rain…a major feat for the Seattle metro area.  The last couple walks this week were chilly with thick fog in the air, with the kinda chill that soaks into your bones, and this morning, the rain (albeit only a little of it) finally began to fall.

…This weekend will begin the chimney smoke smells, and make limp all the crunchy tree leaves along the sidewalk, and push people into their coat closets, looking for the one lost glove, and begin digging out all the sweaters from the bottom drawers again.

We had a hell of a summer, so I don’t really mind that it is time to start snuggling up.  The weather has been kind to us.

…Tonight (payday) was for food stocking again, and this time I grabbed some stew meat, a roast and veg,  to break in the new Crockpot.  Some chili and soup mixes in the pantry…and some hot cocoa…I am so ready for fall now, and I can’t wait to eat it.

Bath night for Daphne and Niles. 

They hate it so much…don’t like change any more than I do, really…even for the better.  Daphne particularly, will sit and pout in the corner of her Grecian pillar cave and not come out even for dinner, afterward.  Niles isn’t fond of baths either, but is a total whore when it comes to food, so will magically forgive me, soon as he hears the top of the food can unscrew.  He’ll eat it all like he’s starving, then sit at the top of his bowl and look over into Daph’s, watching her food just float, totally ignored.  And it drives him fucking nuts.

Niles: “…Are you gunna eat that?  Hey?!  Hey?!  Hey, you girl!  Are you gunna eat that, or what?”

Daphne: (From her cave.) “Don’t be ridiculous.  Can’t you see I’m in the middle of my big dramatic scene here?  One doesn’t just ‘eat’ mid-performance.”

Niles: “Yeah, but…it’s gonna get all soggy and stuff.  Then fall apart.  Then cloud everything up with fish-gut-parts.”

Daphne: “Please.  I am trying to concentrate.  Is she looking?”

Nile: “What?  Who?”

Daphne: “The person.  Is she looking?”

Nile: “A little bit, I guess.  Why?”

Daphne: “Does it look like she’s troubled about something?”

Niles: “How can you tell?”

Daphne:  “A wrinkle between her eyebrows.”

Nile: “Nope.  Nothing.”

Daphne: “Damn. I did an extra swish-flip of haughty disdain this time, when she put me back in the bowl.  I was sure she’d notice.”

Niles: “I don’t see anything.”

Daphne: “…Maybe I’ll just sit in my cave a little longer.”

Niles:  “I mean…I hate it too, but it IS just a bath.  She’s only means well, I’m sure.”

Daphne: “That’s not the point.”

Niles: “Isn’t it?”

Daphne: “Of course not.”

Niles: “Then, what is?”

Daphne: “One doesn’t just co-ed bathe in public, while their waste is excreted from the rocks and wiped off the bowl.  It’s undignified.”

Niles: “Well…it’s better than swimming in poop, I guess.”

Daphne: “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that last bit.”

Niles: “…Anyway.  At least we have fresh water now!  And she’s so good about making sure it’s heat-adjusted and everything.”

Daphne: (Poking her head out, and working herself up so far that she eventually is full out of the cave, her fins all abristle.) “Oh.  How kind of her not to accidentally ‘poach’ us after plopping us in plastic cups for thirty minutes and complaining about the ammonia smell as she grimaces and scrubs everything down, wearing those ridiculous ‘over-the-elbow’ double-strength plastic gloves, like we’re something TOXICCoughing and wheezing and ‘making faces.’ As if her own poop doesn’t stink…is how SHE acts.  Which is a lie, thank you very much!  I live here too you know!  Am I right, or am I right?”

(Niles just floats there. Staring.)

Daphne: “Right?!”

Niles: “Huh? Sorry, what?”

Daphne: “Were you not listening?!”

Niles: “Sorry, I got distracted. You know…I mean…don’t take this the wrong way, but you’ve got a reeeeeally nice tail, you know that?”

Daphne: (Rolling her eyes.) “…Totally useless.”

Niles: “–Cuz I’m…seriously…I’m a ‘tail’ man you know, and uh, you have got GAME in that department, lady.  If you know what I mean.”

Daphne: (Turning around.) “…Fucking idiot.”

Niles: “Huh?  What?  Did you…? Did you say something…?”

Daphne: “Goodnight, Niles.”


(She retreats all the way into the cave and is not seen again for the rest of the night.)

Niles: “…She. Knows. My. Name. Heh heh heh. High Five!

(He pops up a fin.)

Niles: “Oh. Yeah. …Damn.”


A Letter To The BFF, As She Moves To L.A.

22 Sep


The BFF is leaving tomorrow.

…Not forever, just a few months…but I still don’t like it.  I know she’s coming back no matter what, because I’m holding The Fella and all my booze for ransom, but she’s kinda getting in the habit of ditching us…and that isn’t cool. 

…This one time, she did it for a whole semester in Dublin, and had WAY more fun than me, then decided to travel the whole fucking continent of Europe, before she ever came back home again. And where I’m way more jealous of her doing that, I still don’t totally agree with the whole “plan” she has mapped out right now. But, I guess she’s going anyway.

…Because she secretly hates us.

The flip side of this is that she’s moving to L.A., where NO ONE has more fun. Because they’re too busy being starving-hungry on purpose all the time.  And they have to get everything waxed so they look like hairless rats.  And always bleach their teeth and eye whites.  And get injections into their faces, of juice toxins they make bombs out of. And meat (outside of the porn biz) is totally outlawed there. 

…I heard this one time? A girl gained .002 of an ounce, just by accidentally breathing in beef spores from the lunch meat on the Kraft Service table, and she was totally kicked off the movie set. On breach of contract.  That’s when they first passed the law, I think.  It’s one of those lesser-known ones that people don’t really talk about, just inherently “know.” Like the one where your boobs have to be bigger than your butt cheeks…and brunettes can only play “evil”, or “the girl-next-door”…and everyone spends two hours applying makeup before they drive into the studio to get their makeup done for “real”, in case of paparazzi.*

(* That last one isn’t a real law, just a good idea in general.  Have you SEEN the covers of The Star and National Enquirer? Okay, then…)

…BTdubs…best get used to the rash of arrant-misinformation-factoid-news-stories NOW, cuz they sure as hell ain’t gonna get any better.

…But I digress. 

This was all supposed to be a letter. A letter of wise words to send my non-blood sister out into the wide-wide world with. Even though she’s already seen ten times more of it than I have.  However, she also almost died that one time…in that Romanian hostel pit from hell, (that she saw fit to spend a night in once and somehow live to tell about.)  And it’s because of things like this, that I feel obligated to list out a few “do’s” and “don’ts” for her.  You know…just in case she gets the feeling to check into a Bates Motel, or work at a strip joint, or shack up with some roomies that turn out to be Colombian Drug Lords.

I only say these things, because I love her.

…Which I wish she would keep in mind.


Dear The BFF,

I bought a tiny jar of dill pickles today, and it was tragic. I couldn’t do the big Costco one this time…know why? You won’t be here to help eat them. And after three months or whatever in L.A., you’ll prob’ly never eat dill pickles, ever again. “Too much salt and food content,” you’ll say.

…And you won’t fry things in butter anymore. Or bake cakes. And you’ll go back to eating tofu sandwiches – minus the bread – which is just tofu really, only you’ll still call it a sandwich…because clearly it is made of at least two foods: “to” and “fu”…so that’s a full meal right there…on the occasion that you still even eat food, that is.

(P.S. I hear they have a new surgery now, where they take out your taste buds so you can just totally give up and not even care about food at all, anymore.)

…When you come home again, I will ultimately just disgust you, with my buttersauce ways, and fat-pudge. And you’ll take out an ad to hold Open Casting for a new BFF…one with less evil chub, who doesn’t smell like meat products all the time. Possibly a blond. With a single syllable name…which doesn’t require spelling and pronunciation lessons every time it is given.

(P.S.S. I heard they have this service where you can just order friends off a menu, on Sunset. But if you get the wrong “package deal,” they’ll send you themed strippers instead. This one chick I know, ended up with a Latina in lederhosen holding a Heineken, on her doorstep…when all she wanted was someone to go shopping with.)

…You’ll also be buddies with all the famous people, after this, and have free designer clothes…and know all the new “in” words, so I won’t have any idea what in the hell you’re even talking about anymore…

“Those shoes are just ralsh of viv for the rycalm of it all. I bet Mila and Natalie have ’em. I was at this dinner once, hashing with Reese, Russell & Amy and they were all: ‘you are monster jade, you know that?’ And, O-M-G…did you SEE what Amanda was wearing at that one award show? What a drosh…it was sooooo last season.”

“…The hell?” I will sadly respond.

“Seriously. I cannot even believe I once thought you were Ivan in the sweet and we were all xadish. What a fucking Kevlar I was,” you will reply.

(P.S.S.S. Someone told me this one time that the real reason it’s so hard to break it into Hollywood, is because of the language barrier. Tons of people just never pick it up. Which is prob’ly why almost all the major stars are Foreign. Cuz they already speak nine or ten other languages, so it’s easier for them to pick it up somehow.)

…Of course, I am just panicking and jumping to conclusions here…(which, hello, is totally what I do)…but the innermost “me” knows this is all ridiculous, because you would NEVER betray food like that. Or me. (And I’m totally fine that that is the order we come in.) But I still worry ’bout things.

…Just…you know what? Do me a favor. Maybe find out where ever Winslet, Fey, Pitt, Clooney, Hathaway…the cast of “How I Met your Mother,” or the Whedonites are hanging out…and go be with them. Cuz they’re “real.” I’m told they still have all their original bone structure and skin, even. It would really make me feel better…just “in general.”


* Don’t ever “borrow” someone’s office couch to crash on…it’s prob’ly got enough generations of movie-starlette spunk on it, to disgust even a garbage man.

* Don’t walk Hollywood Blvd after dusk…especially after a party…people will stop their cars and offer you money to turn a trick.

* Don’t take money from people, while agreeing to “turn a trick.” It isn’t what you think it is. There are no magic doves, disappearing acts, or decks of cards involved in the kind they want. And if there are, you’re even MORE screwed. (Pun intended.)

* If you HAVE to shop lift, (in total emergency situations), wait until you see which store Winona Ryder is going into. When the alarm goes off, point at her. They will totally believe you. Then, when the security guards start to frisk her: run.

* “Organic” special nature California foods, are just a giant trick. ALL produce grows in or from dirt. The end. So don’t pay extra just because they tell you different. (I know I’ve already been having this same argument with you for two years, but it’s not gonna stop now. Isn’t constancy nice?)

* If you go shopping on Rodeo Drive, keep your sunglasses on the whole time, and sneer at the saleswomen like Patsy in “Ab-Fab.” In the words of Meg Ryan from “French Kiss”: “If you’re nice to them, they will treat you like shit, treat THEM like shit, and they’ll love you.”

* Don’t catch any wild ideas about future children’s names and weird charities you wanna sponsor. There are plenty of real ones in both cases, so use/support them. Just for the record: I absolutely refuse to call your kid “Cumquat” or “Pumernickle” or “Spring Rain” or “Ra-$h8-tra.” And I won’t run twenty miles to support the Pygmy Marmoset Dwarf Monkeys of Ecuador. So don’t ask.

* If you run into any of the list of men I gave you before you left, give them my number and tell them to call me.


* If you accidentally find yourself rich, bring me back something from Tiffany’s.

…For now, that should do it. I feel like I took care of all the really important stuff. Except to say: “I love you…and don’t forget me.”

…And also, I fucking miss you already.


~ Your BFF

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


And The Swedes Take Over The World

9 Sep


Yesterday, I stood in 375 square feet of space, masquerading as a real full apartment, in which everything from a bathroom to kitchen, to bedroom, to closet space was compacted on a grid-system of proficiency.

…The sign outside said, “walk into my living space,” and claims that a human actually exists in an exact replica of this area.

…I have 800 square feet, which I share with my two fish, and upon occasion…feel crowded. 

I am “proficient” as hell.

…Which just shows that there is always room for improvement.  Exhausting as that may sound.

IKEA is one of those places that I have to gird my loins to go and visit. There is so much stimulation to the creative sectors of my brain when I frequent all it’s million tiny room mock-ups, that I get hyper enthusiastic.  Somehow, even though the Mod 60’s thing really isn’t my deal, I end up wanting them all anyway.  Every room, every collection of goods, every little bookcase prop.  Why? I dunno.  Possibly because the color coordination and multi-use of every product, screams a challenge of maximum capabilities.  Maybe because I’m addicted to shelving and cabinetry.  Maybe because twelve bucks for a French Press, that costs fifty even at Target, is just too much goodness for my brain to take in.

This place spawns a cousin disease to my general, “I never knew I always wanted that” one…only this time I truly believe my entire life would change for the better if I had it…because all my OCD’s would completely disappear if I could live in something as slip-streamed and categorize-perfected.

…In my mind, as I walk the aisles, all I can see are the dozens of tiny alterations to my little apartment that would bump me into a high-tech, sheer-surface, spot-lit, rug-wielding, stainless steel, goddess.  I’m already practically there, but this would just seal the deal.  And who doesn’t want to run at that level?

Can you imagine what it would be like, to have zero wasted space?  Not a single undevoted centimeter…where everything has a home and convenient location, which tucks away inside of itself about fifty times, until its basically just negative entity? Where every shoes has it’s place on a tree in the closet, where every individual halogen light is focused precisely where you want it, off a steel lined track running the entirety of your room? Where the walls become secret hidden cabinets, which you can still hang shit on, with beds that grow out of other beds and sofas, so your one-bedroom apartment or dorm room can suddenly sleep ten people. You know…for all those times that you REALLY NEED to sleep ten people!

…This place gets me so undone with wonder and excitement, that I accidentally start mirroring the children, calling their parents to, “look at this thing! Oh, but look at that one too!” I simply cannot trust the visuals of whoever I am with to pick up the kind of subtleties that are the entire main focus on the display, and feel the need to walk them through it. I must describing in detail how “this thing” transformers into “that one,” like I’m an expert showcase salesman…because clearly they wouldn’t get the full sliding-swing action, if I didn’t really sell it for them. And I also have to explain why it works aesthetically, on a level far more pleasing than just to the eye:

“Cant you just FEEL how all the books are happy right now, with that certain kind of open wall-mount display on equal parallel planes, without all the box bulk of an actual case?”

“Lookit that lamp. I dunno when in the hell you’d have the reason to mount a giant glowing dandelion above your head…but if you just stand here for a second and think about the kind of room it would go in…it’s totally awesome. Right?”

“Here is why this kitchen layout is better than any other kind: floor to ceiling Lazy Suzans in that corner cabinet. No, just stop right now, you will never beat that.”

…And I also feel compelled to let them know that any time they wanna get rich and buy me shit, this is the place to do it, and here are some reasons why:

“‘Kay, look…this roll out drawer would save my life maybe…because my god, how long have I lived having to reach under my bed to get at things, then scrape the hell out of my arms, or slam my head on that fucking Hollywood frame?”

“…No wait, now picture my living room…but then add this to every wall. Instant James Bond high tech, am I right? Just, push this spot in the wall and, BAM cabinet materializes! Push that over there: a door! That there: a sunken wet bar! Tap here: my whole entertainment center folds out…!”

…And sometimes, I’m not so subtle about it:

“…If you wanted to get me this rug, that would be okay.”

“Maybe you could pick up that chair as an early Birthday present to me now…I mean, since we’re already here.”

“I bet if I had this pot and pan set, I’d be able to cook you a delicious dinner. The ones I have now are just holding me back, mostly cuz you deserve the very best.”

Yes. It is that ridiculous. Ask anyone whose ever gone with me.

…All I know is that in the end: the Swedes with their happy-go-luckiness and uber efficiency, are someday going to take over the world…and there will be nothing we can do about it.

…They will hook up with their handy-dandy equally efficient Swiss friends (with their compacted tools and weaponry), and dig themselves a little mountain fortress somewhere (prob’ly throughout the entire Swiss Alps in a collected switchback of mathematically precise grids.) And they will outfit every square inch of tunnel with IKEA themed, space-aged, 60’s-kick-back wonder…where every man, woman, and child, will live in their own customized pod of up to 375 square feet of perfected living space. (Built entirely by their Swiss Army-issued, fold out tool and weaponry knife.)

You guys, the secret is already out there…

…Like the masterminds that they are, they have hidden it in full fucking sight, inside every single one of their monster stores. They will do this all with a maximum of silent speed and efficiency, (if they haven’t already), and thus, out-last every apocalypse (be it zombie or otherwise) by doing so.

…And when it’s all over, the new world power of quiet, happy blond people with killer skiing skills, will emerge.

…And civilization will be saved.

…And that is the truth.


The Many Tortures Of “Wanting Things”

13 Aug


Here’s another fun fact:

I have this deep, unwavering desire to own everything the moment I see it. Most especially the kind of crap that no one actually needs.  I will walk into a store and within three minutes find something that I never knew existed, but suddenly realize I cannot possibly live without.

…How can you?!

A pickle peeler?!  I always wanted one of  those! 

This thing de-seeds strawberries?! Score!

At last, a flame-proof kitchen towel that puts fires OUT!

Everyone should have this tummy-tucker, fat-melting belt that zaps you with electric shocks when you relax your gut!

How did we live before the advent of the Bedazzler?

It’s about damn time someone figured out how to remove and convert all my dead skin cells into plant fertilizer!

Finally! A way to microwave bacon!

Goodbye pesky need to touch the egg shells and crack them myself!

…Back when I had cable, I used to watch infomercials by the hour in total wonderment.  Like some people watched our probe landing on Mars.  I never actually purchased the objects, but I confess to much fantasizing of doing so.  Only my pocketbook held me back.  That and the fact I would have to actually wait for it to arrive to my home.  And I don’t like waiting for things.  Besides, by the time it got there, I’d be on this whole other bent of all-consuming desire for a glow-in-the-dark flashlight or something…making past “wants,” but silly errors of my youth.

…And this is why places like Bed, Bath & Beyond are on a list of “enablers” for me, equal to a junkie’s drug-dealer.

The place is just a fortress of sexual purchase enticement, prob’ly only equal to a strip joint for most other people.  It’s horrifying, the things that fly through my brain surrounded with so much junk-ownership possibility.  It’s euphoric and sometimes orgasmic when a certain me turns an aisle corner to face this “thing.”

This “thing!”  Ohhhh, this “thing!”

“…You are beautiful!  What function!  What…multiple forms of use you could be to me!  I love how you sit there and beckon me with your sexy gaze!  I love how you taunt and tease me to touch you…pick you up…oh ‘thing’…’thing!’  I know it may seem fast for you, but I must confess: I love you.”

“…Can we please run away together?  I just know it’ll work.  Picture it: you and me…together in use and finally, between our combination of talents, achieving all that we were meant to achieve on this the earth.  I know we may not seem like the ‘sensible’ fit for some people.  I know that you and I might indeed face prejudice, gossip and judgements…especially when people see you’ve moved in and completely taken over my life as you will.   But they don’t know our love, dear ‘thing.’  They can’t possibly understand how well we fit together, and will question just how badly I really need you.  But I DO, dear ‘thing’…I do.”

This red, hot affair will last all of five to ten seconds, before I become the kind of two-timing asshole they used to feature on Oprah. 

“…Wait, wait!  What’s this??  A new kind of ‘thing’ with multiple usage settings?!  Um…listen, ‘old thing’…it’s been great.  I’ll always remember our time together.  You’ve been a very special part of my life.  But I feel like it’s time we move on.  We’ve changed so much since first we met.  We just aren’t the same people anymore. I know you feel it too.  And I think we should just be friends.”

Multiply that by something like two hours, wherein I am sucked into a wormhole of constant enticements…each greater than the last…and by the time I actually reach the registers I feel like the biggest whore who has ever walked the earth.  My truth-pledges of love mean nothing anymore.  My promises to, “serve” and “protect” are meaningless, flippant, erroneous, falsities.  I am the biggest dick that ever lived…and I feel like the “thing” that finally won actual purchase in the end, knows it.

It knows it.

This “thing” has won for now…but like with any asshole who starts out a new relationship by cheating on the first one…the “thing” which I’m married to now, knows it is only a matter of time.  Their days are clearly numbered. How long before they have changed in my eye from that “beautiful young thing of desire” to “the old hat banished to the back of the junk drawer”…one cannot know for sure.  But that it WILL happen, even I can’t be chump enough to lie about.

It’s safer for me, in the end, to just avoid these situations altogether.  I know my weakness, I am aware of my “addiction.”  With time, I have learned to conquer it, to stay the hell AWAY from stores of this ilk which suck me in with all their sexual enticements.

…But every once in a while, even a Holy man will falter. We are but human, after all.

And this is all to say:

“Bless me Father for I have sinned.  It’s been two weeks since my last confession…”




21 Jul


Everything past 1:30 today was a freebee on account that Boss told me to not come back from lunch and drink the week away with his blessings. I chose the sober activity-heavy approach instead…starting with BFF antiquing, manicures, girl-clothes shopping, and eating.

It was mostly a good second half.

…Except they should really consider the crude lighting in dressing rooms I think.  They’d sell more.  And being in the market for “girl-clothes” specifically, only makes it worse. 

I hate clothes shopping in any circumstance, let alone for dresses.  They’re bothersome. And cut weird.  And make you look like a souped up version of yourself who spends the whole night walking funny, worrying about the breeze updraft, and keeping your knees together when you sit. I can wear a dress for shows and things and pull it off, but when I have to be “me” and do it, I feel like a Linebacker in drag.  Except if I totally overdue it and crossbreed a dominatrix  with theme’d ’40’s Noir dame.  Then I can pull it off.

We don’t know why.

…And you’d be surprised how few places stock those kinda things, outside of Halloween and porn stores.

…Anyway, I can’t do either because this is for a classy cocktail shindig.  The kind with printed invitations, and finger foods and wines in actual non-plastic glasses. In truth, it is exciting to me.  Cuz it’s grown-up and very retro in thinking.  But the realization that I would have to also outfit myself, kinda took a little air out of my newly weight-gained sails, as I perused the racks at the mall.

Desperationville starting popping up in the form of panic. 

…Because just NOTHING at all looked even remotely “okay” once it got put on. 

At one point I even started defaulting to my “comfort-zone,” and was sporting what amounted to three whore “almost-dresses” and (I swear to you) a leopard-printed boob number.

…Now, I am fiercely against animal prints and always have been…unless you are ethnic enough to pull it off, and have big tits.  And though I am ethnic (or used to be before I moved to the greater Northwest of white paper-skined-people)…the boobs I’m sportin’ ain’t that great.  But once I put that animal-skinned form-sucker on, it managed to lift, suck, grasp and produced amazement.  I stared at my reflection in horror as my entire life flashed before my eyes . I was suddenly 45, with a bad spray tan, letching on a twenty-something boy-toy, with tits up to my chin and Fran Drescher hair. Also, I was Italian.

…The problem is: I “liked” it.  And I realized that.  And it was terrifying.

For the greater good of all mankind, I immediately got the hell outta the animal print, soon as I saw the freakish grin on my face.  I must be stopped.  No good could come of this. And I put the monstrosity back for another woman of far more…whatever I haven’t got…to fill it and be at peace with her amazing looking breasts and general Cougar splendiforousness. Cuz that was not me.  Anyway…not yet.  Given time and circumstance, God only knows how ridiculous I will get.

…Which was about when The BFF’s fella texted and rescued me by suggesting a dinner of Pho.  So The BFF and I rejoined up for our second meal of the day, and all made plans to break, run errands, and meet up for some bowling, after.

By now, the day which had started with a dead network screwing with closeout and payroll timing…had managed to produce a lunch, some antiquing, clothing depression, nail overlays, a coffee, dinner and some dish washing. Naturally, three games of bowling in shoes sporting every cootie in the nation, and two pitchers of piss-poor beer, would come next. And they did.  And it was fantastic.

…Which brings me here: the lowest scores of double digit accomplishment ever committed in a bowling lane, a clouded left contact who gave up about half an hour ago, and a beer gut slowly depleting with every rush to the bathroom I make.  It’s finally starting to die down now.  Which means, I’ll be able to go to bed soon.  A happiness, as the thunder woke me up first thing this morning, well before the light did.

…So to sleep I go.  Well, first to the twenty-minute ordeal of face and teeth washing, rinsing, hydrating etc, which once accomplished, sets me on my second wind…but will die down of its own accord soon enough. 

Soon to my bed of yay, where nests of pillows swallow me up.  I can turn my alarm clock to the wall, pop in my extra sexy mouth-guard, and float to happy land. No doubt, I’ll be meeting up with that animal-dress-from-hell as I walk the Roman countryside…dark men tossing me cat-calls, the swelling of  cleavage…my  amazingly presented chest…keeping perfect rhythm, with their sing-song accents.

…I purr out,”Ciao, baby,” to my unsuspecting prey: the burly youth in the fields…sweating, and picking wine grapes.

…And I sleep with a grin the size of Texas, pasted on my face.

FYI: tomorrow? We won’t be talking about this.


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