How You Doin’ Blondie?


Get Nasty

You know that old show, Touched By An Angel, with Della Reese and that woman that played Dr.Quinn Medicine woman? My favorite part was when the angel “revealed” themselves and there would be this soft yellow light falling on their shoulders and they’d say in this gentle, Dr.Phil-right-before-he-donkey-punches-you voice, “I, am an angel.”

Well The Nasty Boys of The Nasty Boys Sports Blog tagged me, and the whole experience reminded me (for whatever fucking WEIRD reason) of being touched by an angel, only a different kind of angel…the kind of angel that paints letters on his naked chest at home football games…the kind of angel that stands vigilant beside you at every pre-game party, just in case you need help with that keg stand…

But I digress.

The Nasty Boys tagged me in keeping (loosely) with the rules of a challenge issued to write ones own life memoir in six words. The complete rules of this challenge are as follows:

  1. Write your own six word memoir
  2. Post it in your blog including a visual illustration if you would like.
  3. Link to the person who tagged you in their post and to this original post if possible so we can track it as it travels across the blogosphere.
  4. Tag 5 more blogs with links.
  5. Don’t forget to leave a comment in the tagged blogs with an invitation to play.

As for my contribution – a picture’s worth a thousand…right? My six words of genius are as follows:

 Truth be told, I would have used this as my memoir even if it hadn’t met the six-word requirement.

 

You’re turn:

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Just Drifting Through
May 11, 2008, 8:55 pm
Filed under: dirty, Life, Life Experiences, lust, Media, Music, Quotes, Random, random musings, sex, thoughts, Volvo | Tags: ,

“Where do all the porn stars go
When the lights go down?
I wonder where all the porn stars go
‘Cause when you need one, they are never aroundI think they moved out to the suburbs
And now they’re blonde, bland, middle-class Republican wives
They all have blonde, bland, middle-class Republican children
Blonde, bland, middle-class Republican lives

Where do all the porn stars go
When the lights go down?
I think I know where all the porn stars go
They all become Volvo-driving soccer moms”

 

Sometimes, though, there are such things as Volvo-driving porn stars. I substantiate this claim with the red Volvo S40 currently parked in my driveway.



It’s The Little Things, Really

 



I Really Don’t Like The Fit Of This Shoe…

Harken back, if ye will, to the days of old when I was kind of half-assed chasing my single neighbor, S…it turns out, things might not have been as dead as I thought they were. I was at the local dive bar with another guy, and we were canoodling (does that word sounds as stupid as I think it does?), and who should walk in and sit on the other side of the bar, but S. himself. I saw him out of the corner of my eye, so I turned to wave or something, but he wouldn’t look up or acknowledge me. So I figured ok, cool, guess I “didn’t see him”. So my guy and I carry on, but I can feel S. just boring holes into me with his stare. Eventually we left, and for some inexplicable reason, I felt like I’d done something really underhanded to S…I dismissed the feeling, until today. Saw S. three times today, in the span of about an hour. I waved and tried to make eye contact all 3 times, he ignored me. The second time I saw him, he was driving past my house while I was sitting on the porch. He waved at the neighbor walking past on the sidewalk, but he didn’t wave at me. He didn’t even turn his head in my direction. The third time I saw him, he was less then 20 yards away from me, watching his dog urinate on a tree. I waved, but he “didn’t see me”. He ignored me. Completely.

Fuck. I’m being taught a lesson.

I feel like an asshole.



Whore Redux

Today; “Search Engine Terms: define whore”.

Really?

It was vaguely amusing, now it’s just mildly insulting.

…Oh and honey? If you’re concerned enough to research the formal definition, you’ve probably already been immortalized by Joe Francis.



Running Errands Is Depressing

I was walking out of the grocery store parking lot today, and this woman with a thick Scandinavian accent and an SUV full of family stopped and asked me for directions to a store on Rt. 70. I knew exactly where she wanted to go, and I knew exactly how to get her there, but I was concerned that she’d get turned around in this murderous Yankee traffic. I didn’t have anywhere to be, so I told her that I was going by where she wanted to go, and she could just follow me if she wanted to.

As we were pulling up to her destination, she pulled up along the right side of my car and thanked me profusely for my kindness. I told her she was very welcome and as she pulled away everyone was waving and smiling, sincerely grateful for my help. It made me feel genuinely happy that I was able to help someone, even if it was with something small like directions to a shopping center.  In that fleeting instant, as the woman pulled away to make her turn while I remained stopped at the light, I felt like maybe everything isn’t as dire as I make it out to be. Maybe I’m capable of leading a normal life, maybe I could start over somewhere as Suzie Homemaker who bakes cookies for the neighbors and gives good directions to out-of-towners.

So I’m stopped at the red-light, and I’m thinking all of these things and watching the woman’s tail lights disappear through my lowered passenger side window, and I’m in an almost happy place. Then a shiny, big, Ford F-150 pulls up beside me carrying a cab-full of construction workers. I usually avoid eye contact in these types of situations, but I wasn’t on guard, and I accidentally locked eyes with the driver.

In an instant, every little daydream I’d been having about cute pink aprons and two car garages, his and her sinks and a loving, lasting marriage; evaporated. Every last one. Gone.

I looked into the eyes of that driver, and the eyes of his passengers, and I saw lust, greed, and hunger. And then I remembered who I am, what I do, and how lonely I am. I remembered that men don’t see me as mother, or someone that they could introduce to their mother, but as an object. An object of lust, greed, and hunger. Those 3 things have given me so, so much, but they’ve taken even more away.

It’s a bitch, grocery shopping.



Malibu Barbie is One Tough Fucking Hombre

Picture what the foreign gas station attendant saw: blonde woman in a shiny red luxury car, asking him slowly and loudly if he could break a hundred dollar bill…Guy is probably thinking “she’s probably the daughter or wife of someone wealthy, takes everything she’s got for granted, probably hasn’t worked hard for a damn thing a day in her life.” Where I him, I probably would’ve tried pulling the same slick little maneuver…

I asked him to put $20 worth of gas in my tank, and when he was finished I gave him a hundred dollar bill. He pulled out a dirty roll of cash and started counting twenties off the roll. When he was finished, he hesitated a little and gave me a strange look as he passed me my change. I thought nothing of it as he walked away to service another vehicle, until I counted my change to put it back in my wallet and counted $60. In the most demure voice imaginable, I called after his retreating form, “Hey! You owe me 20 bucks man.” He turned around and came back to my car wearing an expression that to a lesser person would have appeared to be communicating “Yes ma’am? Oh my, there isn’t a problem, is there? Not a problem for my most esteemed and highly valued customer?” So I said again, still in the most measured, ladylike tone, “You owe me 20 bucks. I bought 20 dollars worth of gas and handed you a 100 dollar bill, 100 minus 20 is 80. You gave me 60 bucks, you owe me another twenty.” At this point he hesitates and his English magically deteriorates before he looks at me with big, doe eyes, and says “20? What is 20 I do not-.” At this point he is interrupted as I look him dead in the eye with a stare that can make children cry, and say “Look, you owe me 80 bucks. Give me another 20 right now. DON’T fuck with me.” There was a brief pause, and his eyes widened slightly as he realized he’d made a pretty serious misjudgement. He looked at me again and issued a barely audible “Uhhh” before his fingers started moving like greased lightning as he counted out 20 dollars and said “Ok, ok, here, 5, 10, that’s 70; 5, 10, that’s, 80, ok? I’m sorry.”

Poor guy…rule number one – you can’t work a worker.