Piggly Wigglies

If my toe polish chips off one more time... Ok. Here's the deal. I love getting pedicures but I hate sitting there for the, two some-odd hours, and getting repetitively asked if I want a flower. No, I don't want a flower. I never want flowers. Or bees. Or owls. Or whatever other fancy design they can come up with using a toothpick. I love how my feet look -so pretty when they are done trimming, pampering and painting; But, the waiting. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. It kills me. I bring a book. Magazine. Phone. Fork to stab myself in the eye. So, in an attempt to lengthen the amount of time in between my salon visits... I touch up.  Ok, I try. Or rather make a mess of... The beautiful work they've done. 

This should be like crayons in a coloring book. I never seemed to color outside I the lines there. Ok, maybe I did... But I added shading with my forest greens and rays to my suns shining. Even after a mug, my precision should increase. It doesn't. I'm more wobbly and I end up knocking over open bottles of hot cha cha pink all over my white carpet.  

For the first two weeks of the "making it last" event, I do a fine job of glopping that goo on. I'm a pigment applicator legend in my own mind. The nail brush glides over the already glossy toesies. Easily. Perfectly. But the following two weeks? Oh geez. If I look at it wrong, the enamel chips off. I'm good at many things. Underwater basket weaving. Polka dot dancing. Bench pressing great grandmothers. But this? Im kind of like a manicuring leper. And when I paint over the deranged, half missing hues, I get lumps and the tints run over on my skin. It's a precious nightmare. 

Obviously, the easy solution would be to buck up and get a damn pedicure. Cringing. Pushing away at the thought. Sit at that damn salon? for two hours? You do it. Whining. Stomping my feet. If I could go every six months... You'd hear less complaining and see shiny happy little piggly wigglies. 

Fuzzy Rush

I'm late. Really late. Running so far behind that, even if, I was using a catapult to push me airborne… there wouldn't be enough inertia in the universe to get me past all this traffic. Bumper to bumper. One way ticket to other side of the proverbial U.S. tracks Or Bust. Why is there all this traffic at 4:00 a.m. anyway? Trashy Lingerie Mid-Summer Dream Sale? Where is everyone going? Crazy. Or leaving from? Crazy. Round-trip. It's not New Year's. Or is it? It's not Halloween. I wish. My cat-woman costume is freaking AWESOME! Nope. It's a bloody Wednesday for fucks sake! Who's out driving around, at 4:00 a.m., on a bloody Wednesday?! Me. Maybe the exhausted looking taxi driver next to me has the 411? Taxi Driver. And me. Or not... He has enough problems in his own vehicle... Rowdy  patrons and what appear to be a tizzy of drunken excitement. On a Wednesday. At 4:00 a.m. I'm definitely confuzzled here. And these days, it doesn't take much for confuzzlement to ensue. Maybe I should have inhaled that second cup of joe this morning. Maybe it would have brought me some clarity. Or maybe needed to add a splash of whatever those drunken riders got into my mug. There's your clarity. Los Angeles. A city built on broken inebriated dreams and annoyed Taxi drivers. On a Wednesday. At 4:00 a.m. Who might also be hittin the sauce.

I should have known today would have started like this though. Yesterday was fairly blaze and uneventful. Time spent with family is super imperative… especially when its forced... because, nature, gave you the flu and said, YOU MUST, spend time with your family today. Suckers. 

Flu has passed. And it's back on the road. What's a little morning flight to get the day started?! And I still can't figure out why others make the security line take so long. It's not a pop quiz. You don't need a study guide. Wear flip flops. Hop out of them. Take off your jewelry. Clink. Clink. Put ALL your garbage in the plastic tub provided. One easy drop spot. Seems so simple. Yet so many lack the common sense of it. It's tough being part of a massive culture dependent upon the human bi-products of our public school system. Summer School was an option people. It's like I'm out on a wild airport safari -insert quirky Aussie dialect here for effect- quietly watching the mama bear angrily removing her belt for the screening machine... She huffs. And she puffs. She mumbles obscenities -within reason- to the TSA agent, who kindly reminds her he's just the messenger. And to take off the damn belt. Come on lady, you've done this before. Man up. Your pants aren't going to just slide to the floor in perfect comedic timing... Are they? It's like people are gluttons for punishment. Hi, I'd like to sign up for a beating please. Oh... Table for one. Bless you, kind sir. Oh, I'll put on this extra fashion accessory and THIS time, I'll get through the terminal's clearing house ... Believes aforementioned woman. Who, then, becomes so hostile while having to -once again, at another airport- remove her waist leash. Denied. Duh, lady... When will you learn to live life... simpler? Why are you fighting rules that are -momentarily- still part of our wacky society? Rhetorical. Do not answer. Did you NOT have your Wheaties this morning? No, really. Breakfast is the most vital meal of the day ...and are you possibly missing your daily vitamin intake? Maybe a silver multi-vitamin suits your age bracket. Need a V8 juice to go? High in sodium. But hey, better than nothing at all. Too much red meat? You know, it can make you angrier if your body doesn't fancy those carcinogens. Moo. Mad cow. Moo. 

Welcome to Flight 123BlahBlah... This is your Captain. Please relax... And fasten your seat belts for take off. Eye mask on. Blanket and neck pillow. Check. Yes, Captain Airplane Sexy Pants. Let's hoist this hunk of metal to the skies... Yes sir. I'm relaxed. 

Stuffed Trout

Why is carry-on baggage so small? You really can't fit much into them. No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to pack my suitcase light. I am the type that really earnestly believes they pack light and don't need much to survive on; Yet, somehow, my little handkerchief is always overflowing on my little hobo stick. Sounds more like a  metaphor for my life. Alas, I'm no Bear Grylls. So, maybe I'm not stuffing a wild trout in my satchel anytime soon but nonetheless, it seems a bit overzealous to assume any female could possible fit everything belonging into her traveling tackle box.

I start with a pair of running shoes. Gotta stay fit. Check. Workout clothes. Gotta look cute while staying fit. Check. Sports bras. Gotta keep "the girls" in place while staying fit. Check. Add a pair of evening heels. Check. Just in case… I go out somewhere. On a hot date. Ok, probably less likely a date is happening; But, for the sake of the argument, can we at least pretend I'm on a hot date every evening? No? Thanks y'all. I'm glad my confidence isn't weighed by public opinion. Add a dress for said shoes, I'm least likely to wear. And most likely to wear reading in the bathtub since I'll be home comfortably in my hotel. Check. Add a pair of heels that will work with my everyday outfits. I figure, at least three outfits that I can rotate should do me. I add my blousy top with jean shorts. A sundress. And leggings with a cute mid-drift top. Wait. That last one needs a different pair of shoes. Not the everyday ones that match. But the espadrilles with the leopard print at the front of the toe. They show my personality. Throw in my rhyme books, pens, my thesaurus… and some junk novels. Can't forget the toiletries. Gotta keep myself smelling yummy… for aforementioned bathtub date. Go ahead, yuck it up. One of these days I will have a date and y'all going to shit yourselves. Oh! Snacks. Gotta have snacks. Juice-filled gummy bears. mmmmm….

Ok, three pairs of shoes, four outfits, food, shampoo, work-related crap… what else… oh yes, hair rollers. Or do I take my crimping iron. I'll take both. They don't take up that much room. They say they're travel sized on the packaging I bought them in. Plus, what if I want to just go low maintenance. The crimping iron is the best way to go about that. A quick touch up here and there every day and I'll be out the door in two seconds flat. But, I will still need my rollers in case I… right. Bathtub novel reading doesn't count… yeah, yeah. Sigh. Toothpaste. Whitening strips. What if I put in my full size toothpaste? I know it's more than a three-ounce tube but I can slip that one past security. I mean, who's going to take away my dental responsibility to my beautiful teeth? No airplane troubles ever came from having pearly whites, did they? Everyone will understand my need to keep up on my oral hygiene. Let me add my red evening shorts onsie. Just in case. You never know. It's a hot little number and I may need it. Shut up.

Ugh… my suitcase won't shut. Where am I going to put my 5-lb bag of Swedish Fish. I NEED those for the plane. Where is Bear Grylls when you need him? I know he could pack my rolling case with just my essentials. And clearly, all I have stuffed this trout with, IS… essentials. Oh, I spy with my little eye a pair of ballet flats I am definitely going to need. What? Hush. They're black, with sequins on the toe. I need them. And, I'm pretty sure I can stuff them into one of the outside pockets. Maybe just need to grease the squeaky wheel a little bit to make it fit… But, I can make it fit. After sitting on my suitcase, using a crowbar and enlisting the help of my son… it is finally ready to travel. Oh poo… where am I going to put my jewelry? I need jewelry. Just in case.

Magic Wand

For whatever reason, I attract people to me, who feel the need to spill their every secret. I wish this would stop. It always happens when I'm not in the mood to be chatty. I choose the word secret because I feel a lot of the times when I am told things… they are usually things, I would suspect, are never told. To anyone. Anywhere on the planet. Ever. Except to me. Oh, I'm a lucky girl. For example, this guy I had a brief; Yet, informative conversation states to me: I broke up with my girlfriend to give my wife a chance to make things right… I'm a good dude. But my wife didn't pick up the dogs today after going out with her friends last night so fuck her. I'm a good guy. So I asked my girlfriend to move out because I needed a pause. I'm sorry, douche bag says what?!  Well nothing I'm say is going to come out right no matter what I say. I feel a sneeze coming on - ACH-LOOOOSER! Excuse me, you were saying flim-flam mcgee?

So, let me get this straight… Your giving your marriage a "2nd chance" and asked your girlfriend to move out so that this could happen. A uniquely defined "pause." For you're girlfriend. Who doesn't know your said pause is to make your marriage work. Your WIFE, forgot to pick up the dogs and take them who cares where, so fuck her -the wife, not the girlfriend- you're over the wife and now are going to have the girlfriend move back in? Over dogs? But you love them both? hmmm… let me think about this. Oh! I got it. You're an asshole. Not a good guy at all. Why is this guy trying to convince me he's great anyway? Why does my opinion matter? It doesn't. And you can see all over his face the panic that he can tell my insignificant ass doest believe any of the bull crap coming out of his pie hole. I try, but I can't bite my tongue on this walking relationship catastrophe, so I before I can stop my words, I say, well, it sounds like you're trying to convince yourself you're a good guy but you're really a two timing dick. Oops. I tried. There was sincerity in there. A little bit. Right? This is the type of bologna I hear that makes me NEVER want a relationship. Ever. Why play games with those women? What's wrong with you? Why play games at all? This isn't Parcheesi. I don't get it. I want someone who I think is special and great… and who thinks the same of me. Geesh. Get castrated, you neanderthal. You clearly, can't handle your penis responsibility. If you want to try your hot dog out on many different types of buns, then at least be straight up honest about it and not string along your sesame seeded bun on the side. I hope both those women dump you. And your hot dog. 

On the subject of people talking to me about random things…
The same day I run into a very attractive guy who proceeds to open up with a rather odd conversation where a man told me that he has the ability to… Uh… Service himself. Slow down. I know what you're thinking. All guys do that. Yes, true. And most girls. Well, most girls should be anyway... It would alleviate a lot of female internal self esteem issues. Maybe I'm wrong; But, when you know what you need… Shrugs. I stray from the point. Kids, if you're under 18. Close this post NOW. It only gets dirtier from here. And I'm not proud of it. But I'm going to continue writing about it anyway. Mostly because I have no shame. The visual this gentleman gave me, wasn't of a gesture with his hand. Like I, or you, would presume. No. He sort of... Bent over? Forwards? To motion that he can indeed serve himself to his own junk. With his mouth. Orally…

Go ahead. Sit on that visual. Stew on it. Riiiight. I thought he was kidding. He wasn't. I wished he was kidding. No I didn't. I had so many questions! I was like a little kid here. Try and stop me. I will chase you around this parking lot until I get answers. Throwing rocks. Or soda cans. Here I am, seated with a literal circus freak. An, in the flesh, wizardry yielding self-pleasing man-whore… Who whores on himself… ON HIMSELF! This conversation can only go south folks. It already has. And, I HAD to know more! Once in a while, even I'm entertained by intrigue. Or my perversion. Either way. If I have to abracadabra you to make you stay, this conversation was continuing. Isn't spellbinding a sign of love? No. A man with supernatural powers was present, in front of me. This enchanting sorcerer is WAY better than the cheating gimp I couldn't escape fast enough earlier. Screw that guy. I found a unicorn.

I wondered, if you had a girlfriend, would you let her see you do this magic trick? No. Is it that you are flexible? I don't know. How did you figure out you could even do this? Uh, I tried it. Do ALL guys try to do this? Yes. At least once? Yes. At 14? Yes. Is your magic stick… uh larger than average? If I say yes, will all these questions stop? No. Why are you able to do this? I want to break out in tarantism right now. And everyone who knows me knows I love to dance. And why aren't you home right now… doing this? On a web cam. You're missing out on your million dollars. I'd pay to see that magic wand. What's your job? Flight attendant. That would definitely make airline food more interesting. Pass me the pretzels.

The Illest Princess

So for the past two days I have been down with the flu. I loathe being ill. I'd rather get kicked in the stomach by a zebra, carrying a hippo on it's back. I don't know.. The point is, my inherent need to run a muck and harass others has been swiped from me. I get to watch 30-year old paint dry while I lay around all day and do NOTHING. Let me speak plainly. I'm a big ass baby when I don't feel well. I'm dramatic. I'm Whiney. And for the sake of wondering, yes I DO, look great while torturing nearby family and friends, but let's not focus on shallow quandaries. I'm literally too sick to move. Bones and muscles are achy. Like a grandma. I'm stuffed up. Like a plush teddy. I'm hot and sweaty. Like a whore in church. I'm cold and clammy. Like a grandma. I can't find my temperature. Maybe I'm dead. I'm not hungry but I'm starving. Bi-polar hunger... Is that a thing? If I eat I will vomit. Bulimic bile of barfery. I don't think that's a thing. My ability to illicit feelings of disgust here are limitless. I know, attractive. Your welcome.

So here I am flipping through the hundreds of television channels with nothing really on tv to watch. Dr. Oz is really terrifying by the way. I don't understand why each demonstration is played out in a melodrama. Poking holes into a makeshift stomach and pouring what is supposed to be food into it to show something about allergies. I'm not quite sure how the Oz-man got from holy tummy to allergies but then again, I fell asleep after my cheap order of wine from room service. When will I learn... When. Will. I. Learn. Hotels don't offer great wines with their room service. In my hazy ordering session, I went dizzy with delight when I saw an alcohol selection to choose from. I spoke the words Cabernet Sauvignon... And a fermented catastrophe showed up at my door. With a twist off cap. If I had a food company, I'd pay Dr. Oz to convince you why you NEED my product too. Million dollar marketing idea. Just a thought. Some random guy on television spitting cockamamie ooze, is the only guy with the big magic noodle to fix America. Who do I make the check out to? 

So in an attempt to kick this flu's ass, I shower. Finally. If I try to sleep one more hour, or annoy any more friends... chances are I will be lonely permanently. Forcing me to buy an angry polar bear to submit them all into submission. There is no escaping our friendship. I have an angry polar bear to prove it. Oh and yes, you will put up with me when I am sick. Googling: how to buy polar bear... With anger issues... I get dressed and throw on some heels. Chip my toe polish. What the... Really?! Dab here. Dab there. Ah, bringing my sexy back never looked so good. Woo! Good thing I travel with nail polish, right? 

I look hot again... Now to slap on the war paint. Can't leave my room looking like a troll.  Little blush. Some lip gloss. A last glance at the beautiful girl looking back at.... Aw, man. Troll. Puffy eyes. Grab the mascara. Glop. Glop. Glop. Nope. The heavier the smear on the eyeliner, the closer I get to my cousin, the raccoon. A raccoon with billowy eye bags. I need a cucumber. Get your mind out of my gutter. I'm going to slice it up and lay it on my eyes. Perverts. Drastic times call for drastic measures. Or a fairy godmother.either way, I need to rid myself of these hideous under eye circles. Stat. Bippity. Boppity. Boo.

One last gander at my image. Maybe the high heels are a bit much. Ho. Ok, just to double check, I reach into the armoire for my flats and somehow fall into the far depths of the tall dresser face first. This klutzy habit has to stop. But we all know it won't. Wait until you see how I try to move doorways with my hips. The hallways never move and I get bruises; But, my body still doesn't comprehend depth perception and the role it plays in relation to my curvaceous proximity. I carefully pick myself up, out, of the dresser and slip on the flats. Frumpy. Back to the heels. Ho. Yup. I need to do what it takes to disengage any admirers from the puffy eyes somehow... So hooker heels it is. No one will notice any coughing and hacking this evening with my six-inch foot sparklers lighting the way. Or my bulging eye sockets. Win-Win! Now, if only I can manage not to trip over my own two left feet...

The Spectacle

Yawn…Wake up in the morning reaching for my glasses on the nightstand. I can't see where they are and I'm not entirely convinced that Its because I'm blind as a bat or the fact that my nightstand is participating in it's own dirty game of camouflage with me. As I twiddle my fingers across the surface to find my vision goggles, I knock them clear off the surface and they land in the fluffy carpet... Submerged. Between a dresser and a soft place. Across the room. God bless it... Really? Now I'm forced to brave my morning -pre coffee- without my nerd gear. With the sight of a bat. This is going to be fun. How many times have I pondered what it would be like to get LASIK and have the vision of an angel. Can you hear them singing? I don't. Stupid angels. I could get that done but I don't. I'm too chicken. It's my eye sight for fucks sake. So much can go wrong. But, then a gain, here I am using brail with my carpet trying to get that location on my current visual amendment.

Fine, I'll throw in my contacts. I won't have to dweeb myself into a trekkie social abyss with my specs today. I'm actually don't have any real issues with wearing my glasses. I've been stone blind since I was in third grade. My own parents would amuse themselves by putting tape in the middle of my eye glasses and act like there was an emergency, with which, I would need my circular frames to witness said apocalypse. I'd throw them on in a tizzy and enter the room and my whole family would just laugh… and laugh… and laugh. Sounds abusive. But, I tell you what, it built my character and when I was teased in school I didn't give a damn. Four eyes. Yep, I can see double the amount you can dummy. Suck off. Erkell. Yup. Wasn't he supposed to be a genius? Right. What else you got? Nothing? Ah, shocker. Add to it I had the haircut of a boy for my entire childhood. I was a little kids' teaser feature film. Ask me if I give a raging peanut that you're going to continue to make fun of me. Right. I thought so. Bye, thanks for playing.

 My contact lenses aren't proving to be that much better a remedy today. I cleaned them last night before plopping the lenses into their respective casing yet somehow I'm feeling a twinge of death in my left eye. My goodness! What is that? A sand spur? In my eye? A grit of pebbles? I take them out and rinse them multiple times. Like a doctor cleans his hands incessantly for half an hour. Still pangs with a burning sensation now. What in goats milk is going on here? So, I open a new pack… maybe they're time is up on this earth. Ah… finally. Success. Nope. Something still isn't right.

I sit around in defeat for a while until finally acknowledging what I need to do here… So, I get up. Slowly, sigh as I hear the music of death play in the background. And I put my glasses back on. Dammit. Time to brave the day. Where the hell is my coffee… 

Simon Simpleton

How do I begin? A Simon Simpleton is a reference I use for the moronic species of male that keep trying to date me. Not every guy falls into this reference; But, since, my picker seems to be off… it's time to analyze my selection process.

#1 OMG He's So Hot Probably not the anecdotal option I should live by. This type of guy tends to be fun and exciting. And lazy in bed. Oh. Oh. Yeah. You're a lazy dead fish. Thanks. Did I get mine? uh, yeah, but luckily for you I know how my body works. This guy usually has NOTHING to really offer but his charismatic demeanor keeps you feeling alive with your fucked up endorphins flying out the ass that sits on your shoulders.

#2  The "I Don't Need More Friends" Guy
This one tries reign you in as there "one and only" except you've found out they just want to add you to their list of loyal subjects. This type sells himself as the sensitive guy who's always getting screwed over; But, he's really dialing on the low.It's hard to play me like an idiot. Truth has a way of finding it's way to me. I'm not one of those girls that takes dishonesty lightly.  Stop with the bullshit. You don't respond for days? Oh, gotcha douche bag. This guy is easy to spot because he usually only goes for the chick that doesn't want a relationship. He wants to win the challenge. And when he does, he's done. So is she. And her. Oh, she's going to be your wifey. Don't forget that one with the big booty. As long as she squashing on it, you want to be down for life with her too. Best believe, I ain't mad at ya. Do you. But, don't fucking think that I'm going to be here to entertain your wandering eye-ass... If we down for the fun of it and we have an understanding, then it is what is. Do not -DO NOT- come at me like you want to club me down like a caveman and keep me for life. I will ensure, upon discovery of your piece of shit ass, that I befriend a saber tooth to take you out for dinner. 

#3 We're Soulmates 
He's hot, he's available and we connect on so many levels it's insanity! He wants what I want. I want what he wants. Everything is quadra-perfect! Then, he disappears without nary a snicker… or a text to tell me he is over it. This elephant in the room is charming, manipulative and uses these tactics to get on your level and find what makes you want him. I hate this guy. He disguises himself as "The One" to bed you, and then POW. Fucks you over. Give em the 90 day rule Ladies!

#4 Jealousy Is Sooo Sweet
Right. Like a sour and rotten apple is edible. If we are in agreement that we are exclusive… Not that I'm in that place right now, but for argument's sake and while I'm awaiting on my prince to ride in on his white horse… You are more than allowed to have female friends. That is not an issue for me. I'm not the jealous type. I'm not insecure by other women. And please note that, I, in fact have many male friends. That are gorgeous. Probably well endowed. Don't ask how I know. And are more chivalrous than a gay man is talented at pointing out a well dressed couture outfit. So, be secure enough in your own mini-manhood to deal with that as well. 

#5 Let's Play House
No. Let's not. Pretending to love someone. Pretending to be attracted to them. I don't know about you but I just can't fake when it comes to matters of the heart. Or apparently I can't pretend when it comes to much of anything else either. Read between the lines, friends. Of course I can't pretend to keep my big mouth shut either. No matter how much that other person seems to believe how sure that you belong together, if I don't feel it in my heart... I just can't muster the energy to fake it 'til you make it. I don't care how much money the person has. It's not mine anyway. and what's your fiscal earnings have to do with how you will treat me anyway. Nothing. What they can offer me… If you can find a Pegacorn, I can be swayed. Bottom line, If I'm not feeling it, aren't I a better person if I just live by that truth? Dudes actually get upset that you're not into them. Red flag. They can't "figure" me out or figure out "how" I could POSSIBLY, not be into them. Im a Pegacorn; therefore, you need to BE a Pegacorn. It's that simple kids. Dude, the heart wants what the heart wants. If your arrogant, pushy or try to force me to love you, odds are you will only push me further away. You can't make me love you. Thank you Bonnie Raitt.

The skinny of it all is, maybe, we always want the guy who makes our heart skip a beat. Chemistry that makes us lose our minds. And a love that is whimsical and adoring. And if he can provide a life for us or help build an empire together; even better! Whatever. All that crap is garbage. I want a mister that can actually be about me. Care about my well-being. Actually, love me and stuff. It's like I'm trying to start a cornfield with a banana peel. I have yet to find ANY guy that follows through, wants my inner happiness to keep growing with or without them, has an insane amount of character and strength that would woo me…. and, what the hell, a fancy trip never hurt either.

…And if you have dated me, tried to force me to date you, or I've avoided dating you and you think this post is about you. Get over yourself. No body cares about your inflated egos. I know I'm a catch. Problem for you is, none of you idiots did. Now that sentence, was for you.