Scared to look away for fear it may reanimate.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Be Afraid...
Came home to this on my dining room floor.
Scared to look away for fear it may reanimate.
Scared to look away for fear it may reanimate.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Quick and Dirty.
I have become more of a guest blogger because my life is in transition. I figure Dana will need me to step up for real while she goes guest someday too. So the scales of the universe will balance themselves. Here are a couple of snippets from my life in flux.
Setting: Subway, yes I am a Sandwich Artist.
Players: Me. Nameless OCD freak I work with. I say this with affection.
NOCDF: Lorie! I asked the Easter Bunny for a mail order bride! I hope he doesn't disappoint me.
Me. NOCDF, I'm sorry but I feel that is more of a leprechaun thing and St. Paddy's day is over so you are out of luck this year.
NOCDF: No Lorie! You are wrong!
I was right no mail order bride for him. But this gives you an idea of the sparkling banter that goes on at Subway. At least when he isn't singing the Barney closing song for me. I work with other people but he is the one that is most likely to be future blog fodder.
I sent this text to my daughter....
The western medicine man has prescribed for me many elixirs. I need to retrieve them. Could you transport me to the castle where they are held? I will pay you in Monster, cookies and any snack foods you may require.
She responds WTF are you talking about? I thought it was obvious that I needed a ride to Walgreens. Clearly Sarah and I need to work on our interpersonal communication skills.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
A Public Apology
A few weeks ago, I publicly mocked my brothers' UFO footage on this blog. In which my bro and I argue who has the best alien footage, and celebrate the baby Jesus. I have to apologize to him. Because last Friday night, I saw the aliens and I am pretty sure they saw me, too.
He kept saying that he saw these yellow ball lights over Lake Erie that had wavy edges like tentacles. They were apparently hovering and didn't appear to be moving at all, but rather shifting. I told him he was "full of horseshit and a drunk." (I think that's a direct quote. It's close enough.)
So last Friday night, I was dead asleep. At 1.23 am, something woke me up. I listened for the usual ghost sounds that live in my house (that's another story, for another day) but there weren't any. I roll over and look at the husband. No movement, he might be dead. Everything normal there. Me, dumpster kitty and Seymour ( poodle #1 ) went to check on the kids. The kids are sleeping soundly, as are the other dogs they use as blankets, Zyk and Mr. Pickles. So I went downstairs. Look around. Nothing. But something feels wrong, so I check all the doors. Everyone of them is locked. So I start back upstairs with my tiny minions trailing behind me.
My house, as I have mentioned, is old. At the landing to the front staircase, there is a giant door to nowhere. All glass, top to bottom. It's probably 7ft tall and totally useless, as it does not open and would only lead to nothingness if it did. We have several doors to nowhere in our house. It's part of the charm. We don't actually have Lake Erie in our backyard, but the view from this door is all sky over the lake. And that's when I see them.
Three glowing yellow balls, each radiating tentacles and hovering over Lake Erie by the cliff. They aren't moving per se, but there is a subtle wiggly hovering movement.
"Holy Shit! It's Dan's aliens! He's not a drunk!"
I stood there, transfixed. I kept rubbing my eyes, trying to unsee what I was seeing. I don't really want to see aliens. I am pretty sure any sort of alien business would end badly. Watch any sci/fi movie! But no matter how I turned my head, or stood on my tip toes, they remained completely stationary, just wiggling. I am pretty sure I was moaning. And that's when the freaky bit happened.
I swear they all wiggled and sort of turned towards me. I can't explain it at all, but I got this sudden goosepimpley feeling that they were looking at me. I know. It sounds insane. But there it is. I felt certain they were suddenly looking at me looking at them.
So I ran back to my bed and hid under the covers, a known alien and monster safety zone. I shivered there, thinking "I know I'm wide awake! I was just looking for a weird noise! Why am I seeing this? Why are the yellow balls wiggling at me?" I hid there for another 10 minutes or so, then decided to get up and look again, but this time out our back bedroom window. I was thinking that maybe it would be either gone (oh please) or maybe a different angle would make what I saw make sense.
So I tiptoed across the floor to the window and used my fingers to push the wooden shutters apart. 3 glowing balls. I dropped the shutters back into place. Broke out into flop sweat. Counted to 100. Slowly pushed the shutters apart again. Yellow wiggly balls with tiny tentacles. Run back to bed. I have seen The Fourth Kind.
I don't want to end up getting my back broken by troll aliens because I looked at them. Briefly consider calling 911. Work that through to its logical conclusion
Me: Send everything you've got! The glowing light balls are looking at me and want to break my spine! They saw me!
Operator: How much crack did you smoke, miss?
and discard idea because the fine is, like $5000. So, I do the next best thing.
Me: (hissing) Winston! Winston! Damn it, wake up!
Winston: uuuuuhhhhhh.
Me: (slapping him) Wake up! Winston! Right now!
Winston: (jumping out of bed) What? Where's the kids? What's wrong?
Me: Look out the window! There's aliens over the lake and I think they know I saw them!
Winston: (silence)
Me: Damn it, I'm serious! Go look! Please!!!
He walked the walk of a man tallying up how much a divorce would cost long-term to the front window and looked out.
Winston: Nothing. I see nothing.
Me: The lake is out back of the house, not the front! Come on! I'm scared!
I made him look out the bedroom window and the landing door to nowhere. He saw nothing. He refused to speak another word to me even though I was obviously terrified of getting my spine broke and he went back to bed. But explain this:
He woke up the next morning with a raging case of pink eye. To quote the nurse at the urgent care center: "His eyes are maroon!" See? You can't explain that, can you? My guess is that the aliens don't want certain people to see them and so they gave him pink eye! Sneaky little bastards.
Yes, I absolutely believe in the existence of aliens. It is too sad to consider that we are the only "intelligent" life in the universe. Because that's not saying too much. But in the calm light of day, I can tell you that I don't think the glowing wiggly light balls mean us any harm. I doubt aliens would want to actually make contact with us. We are idiots. As a race. I think they probably get a laugh out of watching us, but they don't want to hang out with us. I have a friend on a popular social network (a-hem) who may or may not be the voice you hear when you call that certain 3 digit emergency number. The one that starts with 9. And the calls she gets ALONE would be enough to encourage any alien race to make the trip and watch us. Like reality TV. For aliens. I was always under the impression that 911 was for "bleeding out the eyes, someone is stabbing me" emergencies. She gets calls like:
there's a guy running people over with his car at Shooters.."
or
caller: I don't know what I need.. I'm at --- motel and I was just woke by a noise and there's two mice runnin around the floor an I'm scared and no one is answering the phone at the front desk.
operator: ma'am - you're calling 911 because you're afraid of mice??
caller: yes
or
0319 this morning
caller: I need an ambulance. My girl's toenail just came off and she in pain
operator: really? um..ok, I'm transferring you to ....EMS
and
caller: I don't think this is an emergency, but I was driving South on 77 and I saw what appeared to be a hand on the side of the road?
and finally
caller: I'm just calling because there's airplanes flying all over -------every day and I was wondering what you could do about taking them out.
operator: ma'am, are you asking me to call all the airports and request they ground all flights because the planes are scaring you???
caller: well, yes, if you could.
OK, one more...
caller: I'm getting verbal abuse from my son
operator: how old is your son?
Any one of these would be more than enough reason for me to make an intergalactic journey in my glowing space ball, maybe bring some nachos and beer and just sort of park it over Lake Erie and tune in for a while. How are aliens in glowing balls hovering over the lake listening to 911 calls any different from someone in, say Rocky River, OH watching Jersey Shore? Yeah. It's not. Perspective; now you have it! I want to go on the record right here and say to anyone in a squiggly light ball who may be reading this:
~dana
He kept saying that he saw these yellow ball lights over Lake Erie that had wavy edges like tentacles. They were apparently hovering and didn't appear to be moving at all, but rather shifting. I told him he was "full of horseshit and a drunk." (I think that's a direct quote. It's close enough.)
So last Friday night, I was dead asleep. At 1.23 am, something woke me up. I listened for the usual ghost sounds that live in my house (that's another story, for another day) but there weren't any. I roll over and look at the husband. No movement, he might be dead. Everything normal there. Me, dumpster kitty and Seymour ( poodle #1 ) went to check on the kids. The kids are sleeping soundly, as are the other dogs they use as blankets, Zyk and Mr. Pickles. So I went downstairs. Look around. Nothing. But something feels wrong, so I check all the doors. Everyone of them is locked. So I start back upstairs with my tiny minions trailing behind me.
My house, as I have mentioned, is old. At the landing to the front staircase, there is a giant door to nowhere. All glass, top to bottom. It's probably 7ft tall and totally useless, as it does not open and would only lead to nothingness if it did. We have several doors to nowhere in our house. It's part of the charm. We don't actually have Lake Erie in our backyard, but the view from this door is all sky over the lake. And that's when I see them.
Three glowing yellow balls, each radiating tentacles and hovering over Lake Erie by the cliff. They aren't moving per se, but there is a subtle wiggly hovering movement.
"Holy Shit! It's Dan's aliens! He's not a drunk!"
 |
| Like this, but scary as shit. And wiggling. |
I stood there, transfixed. I kept rubbing my eyes, trying to unsee what I was seeing. I don't really want to see aliens. I am pretty sure any sort of alien business would end badly. Watch any sci/fi movie! But no matter how I turned my head, or stood on my tip toes, they remained completely stationary, just wiggling. I am pretty sure I was moaning. And that's when the freaky bit happened.
I swear they all wiggled and sort of turned towards me. I can't explain it at all, but I got this sudden goosepimpley feeling that they were looking at me. I know. It sounds insane. But there it is. I felt certain they were suddenly looking at me looking at them.
So I ran back to my bed and hid under the covers, a known alien and monster safety zone. I shivered there, thinking "I know I'm wide awake! I was just looking for a weird noise! Why am I seeing this? Why are the yellow balls wiggling at me?" I hid there for another 10 minutes or so, then decided to get up and look again, but this time out our back bedroom window. I was thinking that maybe it would be either gone (oh please) or maybe a different angle would make what I saw make sense.
So I tiptoed across the floor to the window and used my fingers to push the wooden shutters apart. 3 glowing balls. I dropped the shutters back into place. Broke out into flop sweat. Counted to 100. Slowly pushed the shutters apart again. Yellow wiggly balls with tiny tentacles. Run back to bed. I have seen The Fourth Kind.
 |
| OK, it'd be cool to have abs like that. But otherwise, no. |
I don't want to end up getting my back broken by troll aliens because I looked at them. Briefly consider calling 911. Work that through to its logical conclusion
Me: Send everything you've got! The glowing light balls are looking at me and want to break my spine! They saw me!
Operator: How much crack did you smoke, miss?
and discard idea because the fine is, like $5000. So, I do the next best thing.
Me: (hissing) Winston! Winston! Damn it, wake up!
Winston: uuuuuhhhhhh.
Me: (slapping him) Wake up! Winston! Right now!
Winston: (jumping out of bed) What? Where's the kids? What's wrong?
Me: Look out the window! There's aliens over the lake and I think they know I saw them!
Winston: (silence)
Me: Damn it, I'm serious! Go look! Please!!!
He walked the walk of a man tallying up how much a divorce would cost long-term to the front window and looked out.
Winston: Nothing. I see nothing.
Me: The lake is out back of the house, not the front! Come on! I'm scared!
I made him look out the bedroom window and the landing door to nowhere. He saw nothing. He refused to speak another word to me even though I was obviously terrified of getting my spine broke and he went back to bed. But explain this:
He woke up the next morning with a raging case of pink eye. To quote the nurse at the urgent care center: "His eyes are maroon!" See? You can't explain that, can you? My guess is that the aliens don't want certain people to see them and so they gave him pink eye! Sneaky little bastards.
Yes, I absolutely believe in the existence of aliens. It is too sad to consider that we are the only "intelligent" life in the universe. Because that's not saying too much. But in the calm light of day, I can tell you that I don't think the glowing wiggly light balls mean us any harm. I doubt aliens would want to actually make contact with us. We are idiots. As a race. I think they probably get a laugh out of watching us, but they don't want to hang out with us. I have a friend on a popular social network (a-hem) who may or may not be the voice you hear when you call that certain 3 digit emergency number. The one that starts with 9. And the calls she gets ALONE would be enough to encourage any alien race to make the trip and watch us. Like reality TV. For aliens. I was always under the impression that 911 was for "bleeding out the eyes, someone is stabbing me" emergencies. She gets calls like:
there's a guy running people over with his car at Shooters.."
or
caller: I don't know what I need.. I'm at --- motel and I was just woke by a noise and there's two mice runnin around the floor an I'm scared and no one is answering the phone at the front desk.
operator: ma'am - you're calling 911 because you're afraid of mice??
caller: yes
or
0319 this morning
caller: I need an ambulance. My girl's toenail just came off and she in pain
operator: really? um..ok, I'm transferring you to ....EMS
and
caller: I don't think this is an emergency, but I was driving South on 77 and I saw what appeared to be a hand on the side of the road?
and finally
caller: I'm just calling because there's airplanes flying all over -------every day and I was wondering what you could do about taking them out.
operator: ma'am, are you asking me to call all the airports and request they ground all flights because the planes are scaring you???
caller: well, yes, if you could.
OK, one more...
caller: I'm getting verbal abuse from my son
operator: how old is your son?
Any one of these would be more than enough reason for me to make an intergalactic journey in my glowing space ball, maybe bring some nachos and beer and just sort of park it over Lake Erie and tune in for a while. How are aliens in glowing balls hovering over the lake listening to 911 calls any different from someone in, say Rocky River, OH watching Jersey Shore? Yeah. It's not. Perspective; now you have it! I want to go on the record right here and say to anyone in a squiggly light ball who may be reading this:
"I for one welcome our new alien overlords! Please do not feel the need to break my spine, probe me or give me a raging case of pink eye! I plan on total cooperation and collaboration!"
~dana
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Get Your Voodoo Off My Sidewalk
So I found part of a jaw bone on the sidewalk yesterday. It's obviously an attempt at a voodoo curse or something. But the joke's on whoever put it there because I checked and you're supposed to use chicken teeth and blood and stuff. And I already live under a curse a gypsy put on me at my mom's garage sale back in 1997, so I laugh at your voodoo. * It's lazy voodoo at best. Nice. Really nice, people.
Yes. I brought it inside. For science.
~dana
* Long story short, I was helping my mom with a garage sale. This, I swear to God, gypsy showed up and wanted to by my mom's old Vegas showgirl dress (that is a long story) for $15 when my mom had marked it $100. My mom wouldn't back down. Next thing I know, the gypsy is pointing her fingers at us in this bizarre fashion and screaming at us in Romani. Nothing has been the same since. We live under a gypsy curse.
PS Any of my clever readers have any clue who this used to reside in?
 |
| figure 1 |
 |
| figure 2 |
~dana
* Long story short, I was helping my mom with a garage sale. This, I swear to God, gypsy showed up and wanted to by my mom's old Vegas showgirl dress (that is a long story) for $15 when my mom had marked it $100. My mom wouldn't back down. Next thing I know, the gypsy is pointing her fingers at us in this bizarre fashion and screaming at us in Romani. Nothing has been the same since. We live under a gypsy curse.
PS Any of my clever readers have any clue who this used to reside in?
Monday, April 23, 2012
Paging Dr. Cooper
Ahhhh. The boy child. I love him but he scares me. Currently, of my two children, he is the one making my right eye twitch. He better get it out of his system fast, because his sister is coming up right behind him and heading into the tweens. It's my understanding that I will need to reroute my all-seeing Eye of Sauron onto her for at least 10 years.
My friends know that I call the boy "little Dr. Cooper." He is overly slender, quirky and serious and has a giant brain. I stopped understanding his school work about 2 years ago. So, if he has trouble with a math problem, I take a picture of the equation (which just looks like feathery bits of squiggles to me) with my IPhone and send it to Winston, if he is out of town. He looks it over, because he went all the way through, like, Calc 21 or something mental like that. Then he sends back another set of feathery squiggles. Little Dr. Cooper looks them over, laughs as if daddy is a charming idiot and says, "Well, that's not helpful at all. Is that what old fashioned math looks like? That's hysterical. Never mind, I'll figure it out while I sleep tonight."
You can imagine this is rather trying to live with. I find myself turning into the mom from Malcolm in the Middle, screaming things like, "If you're so smart, why do I have to tell you to brush your teeth every day, huh?" I always feel like, even if I win an argument with him, I have actually lost but I am too simple to understand why.
Last week, he came home and tossed an enormous packet of papers at me.
Me: What's this? What does Our Lady of the Perpetual Shake-Down need money for now?
Boychild: Some research thing they want me to do. Just sign it, ok? Don't make me talk about it.
Me: Maybe you could research the reason you are unable to get through a day without 2+ hours of Call of Duty. Or why you torment your sister. Holy crap! It's like (flip flip flip) 21 pages! I'm not reading all this!
Henry: Like I said, just sign it, Mommy! And it's 23 pages. That's what those little numbers mean at the bottom of the pages.
Me: Huh. Look at that. Little numbers.
Henry: Sigh.
After skimming the large print bits, I discovered that Our Lady of the Perpetual Shake-Down wants the boychild and his brain to do a brief stint at Case Western in their research lab. It's not like he's going to be creating radioactive superheroes (I wish) but he'll be learning the day to day techniques and record keeping that goes on in a lab. In the experimental biology lab. Being ever vigilant of a zombie apocalypse, some pages stood out to me more that others...
Severe illness and possible death? Unknown consequences? What, like a zombie outbreak? Or like, Rise of the Planet of the Apes? And there were pages after pages of descriptions of all the things I was waiving the right to be upset about. They went on in some detail about possible...
1. Explosions and/or asphyxiation.
2. Tissue damage and hearing loss
3. Teratogens. I had to look that up. It is a chemical that messes with your reproductive bits and makes you have squid children.
4.Neurotoxins! Fun!
Me: And you want to do this? Are you sure, honey? It sounds like a lot of... work. And there's the chance you will grow a third eye.
Henry: Mommy, it'll be awesome. They have mutated mice!!! I will be handling mutated mice!!
Me: Not super excited about this. It sounds gross. Mutated like how? Like having tentacles? Or extra limbs?
Henry: No, like they mutated their BRAINS! So they are crazy smart and stuff. It's gonna be awesome!
Me: I forbid you to drink or eat anything while you are there!!! I won't have those lab nerds mutating your brain! Wait! Are you helping study the mice, or are they studying you studying the mice?!?! I've read Flowers for Algernon! It ends badly! Don't eat anything, do you hear me?!
Henry: Mommy. Calm down. It's fine. Just sign it and stop talking at me, OK?
Now, I am sure you are all thinking the same thing: Listen to her brag about her son. Disgusting. I am so done reading this blog. Everyone thinks their kids are so damn smart! I don't have to listen to this crap!
But listen to what happened later... and you will understand why he scares me and makes my eye twitch.
The kids are into fencing. And honestly, I am sure there are those of you out there who think it's some sort of elitist crap sport, but I would ask you this: Who doesn't want to run around with a sword? Who doesn't secretly want to be a Jedi or a pirate? The first time my kids went to fencing class and were handed a foil, it was like a light went on over their heads and they started getting all three musketeer and stuff.
So, after fencing the other day we were eating my Polish Pad Thai, and Henry looks at me and says, with great drama:
"Mommy, I have decided I am going to the Olympics. Please don't get upset and start crying or anything."
Me: Why would I get upset? That's a great goal, honey!
Henry: Well, I just meant you might be worried or something. You know.
Me: Why would I worry? Well, I mean, maybe you should set a lower first goal. Like, maybe, set a goal for county, then state, then nationals. Jumping right to the Olympics seems a bit much, but I like your enthusiasm! Go for it!
Henry: But aren't you worried about me dying?
Me: (sensing suddenly I have no clue what we are discussing) Why... would... you. .. die? Who dies at the Olympics?
Henry: Don't people die at every Olympics?
Me: Well, sure, I guess. Like the crazies who do skeleton or, like, the luge or half pipe. But you're talking fencing. So... like zero fencers die.
Henry: That's a lie! 50% of all the fencers at the Olympics die!
Me: What the hell are you talking about?
Henry: Well, I mean, you get to use real swords at the Olympics, right? So the loser dies! 50% of all Olympic fencers die!
Me: People don't kill each other at the Olympics!!! And they don't fence with real swords! It's not a duel to the death! It's the freaking Olympics!
Henry: But you use real swords. That's true, right? I mean, that's what I'm training for, right? A sword?
Me: NO!! And the loser in the Olympics doesn't die! What do you think? Usain Bolt wins every track race and then they line up the losers and shoot them with the starting gun?
He looked at me, hopefully.
Me: NO!! They do not! And there is no stabbing with swords either! What is wrong with you? The Olympics is about national pride and competition! It's not the Hunger Games!
He was very quiet for a minute. He sat there, blinking. I swear I could hear a humming coming from his processor. Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink. And then he said...
"I can't imagine why anyone would want to go to the Olympics if there are no swords. It just sounds stupid now. I don't want to go to the Olympics anymore, Mommy."
The he cleared his plate and went sadly and silently to his room. And I watched as yet another childhood dream, like Santa Claus, evaporated for my little boychild. No stabbing at the Olympics. Do you see what I mean? I feel like I need to throw some hardcore parenting at him, but I am not sure how or what. It's like, "Oh, my sweet honey, I am so proud of you... OMG what the hell is wrong with you!" at the same time. And later this week, he will have access to mutated lab mice.
~dana
 |
| Mommy's watching you, dear. |
My friends know that I call the boy "little Dr. Cooper." He is overly slender, quirky and serious and has a giant brain. I stopped understanding his school work about 2 years ago. So, if he has trouble with a math problem, I take a picture of the equation (which just looks like feathery bits of squiggles to me) with my IPhone and send it to Winston, if he is out of town. He looks it over, because he went all the way through, like, Calc 21 or something mental like that. Then he sends back another set of feathery squiggles. Little Dr. Cooper looks them over, laughs as if daddy is a charming idiot and says, "Well, that's not helpful at all. Is that what old fashioned math looks like? That's hysterical. Never mind, I'll figure it out while I sleep tonight."
You can imagine this is rather trying to live with. I find myself turning into the mom from Malcolm in the Middle, screaming things like, "If you're so smart, why do I have to tell you to brush your teeth every day, huh?" I always feel like, even if I win an argument with him, I have actually lost but I am too simple to understand why.
Last week, he came home and tossed an enormous packet of papers at me.
Me: What's this? What does Our Lady of the Perpetual Shake-Down need money for now?
Boychild: Some research thing they want me to do. Just sign it, ok? Don't make me talk about it.
Me: Maybe you could research the reason you are unable to get through a day without 2+ hours of Call of Duty. Or why you torment your sister. Holy crap! It's like (flip flip flip) 21 pages! I'm not reading all this!
Henry: Like I said, just sign it, Mommy! And it's 23 pages. That's what those little numbers mean at the bottom of the pages.
Me: Huh. Look at that. Little numbers.
Henry: Sigh.
After skimming the large print bits, I discovered that Our Lady of the Perpetual Shake-Down wants the boychild and his brain to do a brief stint at Case Western in their research lab. It's not like he's going to be creating radioactive superheroes (I wish) but he'll be learning the day to day techniques and record keeping that goes on in a lab. In the experimental biology lab. Being ever vigilant of a zombie apocalypse, some pages stood out to me more that others...
 |
| Not your standard field trip permission slip. |
Severe illness and possible death? Unknown consequences? What, like a zombie outbreak? Or like, Rise of the Planet of the Apes? And there were pages after pages of descriptions of all the things I was waiving the right to be upset about. They went on in some detail about possible...
1. Explosions and/or asphyxiation.
2. Tissue damage and hearing loss
3. Teratogens. I had to look that up. It is a chemical that messes with your reproductive bits and makes you have squid children.
4.Neurotoxins! Fun!
Me: And you want to do this? Are you sure, honey? It sounds like a lot of... work. And there's the chance you will grow a third eye.
Henry: Mommy, it'll be awesome. They have mutated mice!!! I will be handling mutated mice!!
Me: Not super excited about this. It sounds gross. Mutated like how? Like having tentacles? Or extra limbs?
Henry: No, like they mutated their BRAINS! So they are crazy smart and stuff. It's gonna be awesome!
Me: I forbid you to drink or eat anything while you are there!!! I won't have those lab nerds mutating your brain! Wait! Are you helping study the mice, or are they studying you studying the mice?!?! I've read Flowers for Algernon! It ends badly! Don't eat anything, do you hear me?!
Henry: Mommy. Calm down. It's fine. Just sign it and stop talking at me, OK?
 |
| Yes. I signed this. God help me. |
Now, I am sure you are all thinking the same thing: Listen to her brag about her son. Disgusting. I am so done reading this blog. Everyone thinks their kids are so damn smart! I don't have to listen to this crap!
But listen to what happened later... and you will understand why he scares me and makes my eye twitch.
The kids are into fencing. And honestly, I am sure there are those of you out there who think it's some sort of elitist crap sport, but I would ask you this: Who doesn't want to run around with a sword? Who doesn't secretly want to be a Jedi or a pirate? The first time my kids went to fencing class and were handed a foil, it was like a light went on over their heads and they started getting all three musketeer and stuff.
So, after fencing the other day we were eating my Polish Pad Thai, and Henry looks at me and says, with great drama:
"Mommy, I have decided I am going to the Olympics. Please don't get upset and start crying or anything."
Me: Why would I get upset? That's a great goal, honey!
Henry: Well, I just meant you might be worried or something. You know.
Me: Why would I worry? Well, I mean, maybe you should set a lower first goal. Like, maybe, set a goal for county, then state, then nationals. Jumping right to the Olympics seems a bit much, but I like your enthusiasm! Go for it!
Henry: But aren't you worried about me dying?
Me: (sensing suddenly I have no clue what we are discussing) Why... would... you. .. die? Who dies at the Olympics?
Henry: Don't people die at every Olympics?
Me: Well, sure, I guess. Like the crazies who do skeleton or, like, the luge or half pipe. But you're talking fencing. So... like zero fencers die.
Henry: That's a lie! 50% of all the fencers at the Olympics die!
Me: What the hell are you talking about?
Henry: Well, I mean, you get to use real swords at the Olympics, right? So the loser dies! 50% of all Olympic fencers die!
Me: People don't kill each other at the Olympics!!! And they don't fence with real swords! It's not a duel to the death! It's the freaking Olympics!
Henry: But you use real swords. That's true, right? I mean, that's what I'm training for, right? A sword?
Me: NO!! And the loser in the Olympics doesn't die! What do you think? Usain Bolt wins every track race and then they line up the losers and shoot them with the starting gun?
He looked at me, hopefully.
Me: NO!! They do not! And there is no stabbing with swords either! What is wrong with you? The Olympics is about national pride and competition! It's not the Hunger Games!
He was very quiet for a minute. He sat there, blinking. I swear I could hear a humming coming from his processor. Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink. And then he said...
"I can't imagine why anyone would want to go to the Olympics if there are no swords. It just sounds stupid now. I don't want to go to the Olympics anymore, Mommy."
The he cleared his plate and went sadly and silently to his room. And I watched as yet another childhood dream, like Santa Claus, evaporated for my little boychild. No stabbing at the Olympics. Do you see what I mean? I feel like I need to throw some hardcore parenting at him, but I am not sure how or what. It's like, "Oh, my sweet honey, I am so proud of you... OMG what the hell is wrong with you!" at the same time. And later this week, he will have access to mutated lab mice.
~dana
Thursday, April 19, 2012
I Think I Nailed Gay Fabulous
So a few weeks back, my friend Audrey calls me up and...
Audrey: Hey, Suzette says I have to go be her representative at this gay photography exhibit because she's going to Dominica. So you're coming with me.
Me: Ooooh. Sounds fun! Man gay or woman gay? Both?
Audrey: Oh, no, honey. All men. The photographer, Gabriel, is gay and takes mostly pictures of naked guys. I gave him a facial the other day. He's beautiful!
Me: It's not going to be all that creepy bondage shit, is it? That stuff gives me nightmares.
Audrey: Who cares? It's free wine. Don't be a baby.
So I got off the phone and called Winston and...
Winston: Winston McSwain.
Me: Oooh, honey! Audrey invited me to a nude photography exhibit. Squeee!
Winston: (no doubt shaking off a fog of engineering, says wearily) Great, honey. Have fun. Are you sure you won't be forced to tend bar?
Me: Shut up. It's in Ohio City, home of Cleveland's sexy people. I'll be fabulous!!!
Winston: What's for dinner?
But as the date approached, I started to panic. I am not sexy. I am not fabulous. I Zillowed the address and discovered that not only was it in sexytown, but the exhibit was in a $750,000 4 story townhouse, filled with edgy swank. I scrambled through my closet and felt rising panic as I realized that
1. I haven't bought pantyhose in years. And I probably need Spanx-type coverage. Head to toe.
2. I cannot squeeze into the few borderline awesome dresses I own, due to Ashley Judd-steroid puffiness, that is due to fade in 8 months or so.
3. I don't want to be the boring housewife who showed up at an artsy affair reeking of Anthropologie Wackiness or Banana Republic Dull.
4. My go-to LBD is all awesome Velvet-labeled and covered with drapey mummy wrapping bits that look chic AND forgiving, but I am sick to death of it.
So I called Audrey.
Me: I am freaking out. I hate all my clothes. What are you wearing?
Audrey: Relax! Just wear anything! We won't stay long.
Me: So help me God, I will kill you. What is the dress code? I don't want to look like a schmuck.
Audrey: Oh, fabulous. Gay Fabulous, darling!
Me: What the hell does that even mean?
Audrey: It's all super tight tailoring and high end labels. But it's going to be all gay guys, so what do you care, anyway?
Me: I don't want those bitches trash talking about my clothes as soon as we leave! What are you going to wear?!
Audrey: Oh, my mom bought me a new dress but Tom hated it so he bought me a new dress, too, so I'll probably wear one of those.
Me: Goddamit!
At which point I called Winston...
Winston: Winston McSwain
Me: Audrey says it's gay fabulous and I don't actually own anything that's not sad as fuck so I have to go shopping. I have no choice!
Winston: What are you talking about??
Me: The nude thing. Everybody else is wearing "gay fabulous." I only own "sad housewife." Audrey says it's going to be all tight high end labels and shit. So, I'm sorry, but I have to go shopping. I have no choice in the matter.
Winston: I am not shelling out so you can look gay fabulous! Private school! 3 poodles, a 100 year old wreck and now the cat! No!!!
Me: You had to bring up the cat! I love her! She completes me!
Winston: What's for dinner?
So the day of the event dawns, and by some miracle I discover that I will be home alone for an hour before Audrey picks me up. My daughter is off to a sleepover and the husband and boychild are going to a movie. Which is a bonus, because then I can decide ALONE what I am going to wear and not have to suffer their input. This is the sort of helpful input I receive from my darling family...
Me: My ass is huge. OMG I am falling apart.
Henry: You're not fat, Mommy. Well, except for right here by your...(begins reaching towards me and pointing towards my midsection)
Me: Grounded! If you finish that sentence you are grounded! And if you touch me I will hurt you!!!
Then there's the dressing room advice from my daughter.
"Oh, Mommy. There is no way you are getting those pants up over your thighs. Don't be mad. I love you."
And even the husband. I love him, but I can't count on him for honesty.
(sees me doing my drunken impersonation of Slash at a birthday party)
"Baby, you're hot!!"
(sees me in my jammies covered zit cream )
"You're hot!"
(sees me in Lakewood Hospital in a body brace and my face covered with medical tape)
"You're so hot."
(sees me standing in a marsh cause my feet are hot)
"Hey, hottie."
What I am trying to say is that he is unreliable.
So for once I am able to dress in whatever I can assemble, with no peanut gallery to make me cry. So I dug out a pink lace polyester dressy thing that I got from a resale shop on Etsy for $20. It is just lace, no lining and I had intended to have a matching pink tube dress made for underneath. Yeah, that never happened. But it is so gorgeous. In desperation, I put on a black satin slip and put the lace thingy over it for modesty. (kinda) A little on the weird trampy side, but I figured at least those bitchy gay men could not accuse me of pedestrian dressing. And I felt pretty, which helps a lot.
So Audrey and I show up at the swanky do... me in my trampy pink victorian lace and her in a delicious black and ivory silk fleur de lis dress. I love her too much to hate her for always looking like an elegant Barbie doll. The townhouse is all awesomeness and filled with tightly dressed very manicured men and giant canvases covered with male junk. We made a bee line to the bar. For courage.
Imagine my surprise when we get to the bar and see that the bartender is none other than the bride, Martina, from the gay wedding we went to last fall. I went to a gay wedding and served shitty sangria Apparently her "husband" knew she needed cash and hooked her up with the gay party set to tend bar. As Audrey and I proved, anyone can do it. Poorly. We all air kiss, and then the bride grabs our hands and says, "Your bar tending brought me much happiness and blessings to our marriage. I love you both. You are good to Martina."
I just stared with my mouth open, thinking "Really? Our shitty bar tending brought blessings to your marriage to an openly gay man?" But Audrey jumped in and said instead, "Yeah, well we're not fucking bar tending tonight, honey. 2 red wines! Fill 'em up."
We started making our way from room to room, each room having several easels with black and white images of men, their junk and interesting props. Like pianos, motorcycles, gazebos and violins. We stopped at the buffet and Audrey started scarfing down sushi, while I chugged more wine.
"Oh my God, this sushi is amazing; why aren't you eating any?"
I shuddered, replying, "I cannot put sushi in my mouth surrounded by penises. Let's head to the roof, I need a smoke."
We made our way to the roof and soaked in the splendid views of an abandoned lot, the lake, the Cleveland skyline and an industrial site, all while we smoked our little hearts out and chugged more wine. Not surprisingly, many of the men there joined us in our Absolutely Fabulous binge, and it was big fun. I discovered that better than 50% of them were wearing salmon pink on their bodies somewhere and so was I, so I kept screaming, "Twinsies!" It made sense at the time...
When we went back inside, we decided to nose around a little bit. We are very nosy. So we busted into the owner's suite to check out the bathroom. It totally delivered. A huge beyond all reason tub that could (and probably does) fit 5 grown men. A shower the size of a garage with more jets than an automatic car wash.
Audrey: Holy Shit! It's a rock star shower! Gabriel's gettin' it ON!
Me: Hey, did I ever tell you what Mike (our friend Victoria's husband) said when he saw our 2 person shower at our old house?
Audrey: No! What did Mr. Mike say? This oughta be good.
Me: He was helping Winston move the our mattress over to the new house because I insisted on squatting in it before the movers came and when he saw the huge shower he yelled, "Allllriiiight, Winston! Wife's got a full piece back tattoo and you're got a Tommy Lee shower! My man!!" Winston's still riding that complement.
Then we started screaming "Tommy Lee!" over and over again and then, very mysteriously, Audrey started singing Love Song by Tesla, so I was fumbling for a lighter to give her a proper salute. That's when the high point of my evening occurred.
Suddenly, Audrey stopped singing and I saw her eyes bugging out, staring at something just over my right shoulder. I whipped around, fully expecting to see that Gabriel had caught us petting his fancy towels and bath soaps. Instead, what was creeping through the door was an old man, dressed like a gayish version of an English lord. Shiny nut brown loafers, beautiful tweed suit, crisp monogrammed dress shirt with cufflinks (well, it was salmon pink, but you get the idea) and of all things, a cravat. It was like David Niven was slinking through the door at us. But gay fabulous.
He was sliding across the floor, with his hands stretched out towards me, and all I could think was "Bela Legosi! He wants to eat my soul!" (I was drunk. Under the best of circumstances, I am paranoid.) I tried to back away, but the only place to back to was the sex shower. So I stood there, clutching the tiny dress purse I had stolen from my daughter's toy box, prepared to smack him with it.
"My darling, I followed you all the way up here! I had to tell you, I am in love with your dress. You make me think of Emily Dickinson. Sweetheart, you are a vision."
Me: (WTF?)
(outloud) "What a kind thing to say! My goodness!"
(now, David Niven is petting my cheap lace on my arm) "It's just that you don't see this sort of elegance nowadays. You look like the perfect lady from an age gone by. My dear, you enchant me."
I look down at myself. I am sloppy drunk, reeking of cigarettes, wearing cheap lace over A SLIP from Target. What I wanted to say was, "I look like a whore, but thanks. Hey, tell me. You're as pale as I am, and yet you have managed to find the PERFECT bronzer! Wherever did you find it? I must own it!"
What I actually said was, "You are the sweetest thing. What a charming complement! Have a wonderful evening! Isn't it all marvelous?" Then I slunk around him, followed closely by a choking Audrey. We ran to another bedroom and collapsed in giggles on a giant bed. Where we were soon joined by two Maine Coon cats. So we rolled around for a while, petting them and insisting into their precious ears that we loved them more than anything. Honestly, where was Mr. Gabriel Photographer? Two drunk white chicks, rolling around on navy blue satin with giant cats? Get the camera!!!
No, he was downstairs, air kissing and mingling and, if the line to the paypal terminal was any indication, making money hand over fist. And while we're on the subject, I feel I need to mention my thoughts on his art.
I lead a sheltered life, which is how I like it. Audrey gets me out of my comfort zone. All the male nude photography I have ever seen is fairly limited and I have never liked any of it. It makes me nervous. The men all seem bruised and depressed and filled with shame. And then I feel bad for looking at it. And while there were a few pictures of fragile young men in angel wings laying broken on beaches... there was so much joy in the other pictures. I don't know why they're so happy to be naked, but good for them!
One picture showed two nudie men reaching across a dining room table, toasting each other and laughing. Another showed 3 men in mime paint pressed up against the glass of a green house. (Hello, Dolly!) Another showed a man chained to a motorcycle on a train trestle. (Do you need a permit for that?) There was one featuring a man playing piano and chugging whiskey. My favorite? Two hugely buff nudie men in a gazebo drinking some Coronas. And that was what captured my eye most, except for the weenies. Every man looked outrageously happy! They were all laughing and smiling! They looked like they were getting ready to watch Sports Center or play horseshoes! And I thought, "What a refreshing perspective! There is no way I want to see that much penis over my fireplace, but good for you for removing all that shame crap from gay nudes!"
We did leave early, so we could go over to Victoria's house and get drunker on pear brandy. We spent the rest of the evening hooting and screaming "sausage fest!" I am calling the whole evening a win because I think I nailed gay fabulous. And considering I have been at home covered in children and pets for the last 12 years, that's quite an accomplishment for me.:) Can't wait till Audrey needs a date again. She's the best sort of nuts.
~dana
PS. In all fairness, I should point out that Winston took the backboard/neck brace pic AFTER he knew I still had the use of my limbs. He also shot video because I was high as a kite.
PPS. I keep going around and around about all that joy on their faces and trying to figure out why the hell it impressed me so. And it just clicked, when I remembered this conversation I had with my friend Camille, about George Takei (Star Trek's Mr. Sulu). I said to her, "I used to totally hate Mr. Sulu because he was so bitchy and kept hatin' on Bill Shatner. But now, I don't know why, I sorta love him. He's so cute I want to pinch him!' And wise Camille replied, "That's because he's OUT! The last place you want a gay man is in a closet." And thus, all the joy. I had so much fun, there wasn't a single bitch at that party. Just joy!
Audrey: Hey, Suzette says I have to go be her representative at this gay photography exhibit because she's going to Dominica. So you're coming with me.
Me: Ooooh. Sounds fun! Man gay or woman gay? Both?
Audrey: Oh, no, honey. All men. The photographer, Gabriel, is gay and takes mostly pictures of naked guys. I gave him a facial the other day. He's beautiful!
Me: It's not going to be all that creepy bondage shit, is it? That stuff gives me nightmares.
Audrey: Who cares? It's free wine. Don't be a baby.
So I got off the phone and called Winston and...
Winston: Winston McSwain.
Me: Oooh, honey! Audrey invited me to a nude photography exhibit. Squeee!
Winston: (no doubt shaking off a fog of engineering, says wearily) Great, honey. Have fun. Are you sure you won't be forced to tend bar?
Me: Shut up. It's in Ohio City, home of Cleveland's sexy people. I'll be fabulous!!!
Winston: What's for dinner?
But as the date approached, I started to panic. I am not sexy. I am not fabulous. I Zillowed the address and discovered that not only was it in sexytown, but the exhibit was in a $750,000 4 story townhouse, filled with edgy swank. I scrambled through my closet and felt rising panic as I realized that
1. I haven't bought pantyhose in years. And I probably need Spanx-type coverage. Head to toe.
2. I cannot squeeze into the few borderline awesome dresses I own, due to Ashley Judd-steroid puffiness, that is due to fade in 8 months or so.
3. I don't want to be the boring housewife who showed up at an artsy affair reeking of Anthropologie Wackiness or Banana Republic Dull.
4. My go-to LBD is all awesome Velvet-labeled and covered with drapey mummy wrapping bits that look chic AND forgiving, but I am sick to death of it.
So I called Audrey.
Me: I am freaking out. I hate all my clothes. What are you wearing?
Audrey: Relax! Just wear anything! We won't stay long.
Me: So help me God, I will kill you. What is the dress code? I don't want to look like a schmuck.
Audrey: Oh, fabulous. Gay Fabulous, darling!
Me: What the hell does that even mean?
Audrey: It's all super tight tailoring and high end labels. But it's going to be all gay guys, so what do you care, anyway?
Me: I don't want those bitches trash talking about my clothes as soon as we leave! What are you going to wear?!
Audrey: Oh, my mom bought me a new dress but Tom hated it so he bought me a new dress, too, so I'll probably wear one of those.
Me: Goddamit!
At which point I called Winston...
Winston: Winston McSwain
Me: Audrey says it's gay fabulous and I don't actually own anything that's not sad as fuck so I have to go shopping. I have no choice!
Winston: What are you talking about??
Me: The nude thing. Everybody else is wearing "gay fabulous." I only own "sad housewife." Audrey says it's going to be all tight high end labels and shit. So, I'm sorry, but I have to go shopping. I have no choice in the matter.
Winston: I am not shelling out so you can look gay fabulous! Private school! 3 poodles, a 100 year old wreck and now the cat! No!!!
Me: You had to bring up the cat! I love her! She completes me!
Winston: What's for dinner?
So the day of the event dawns, and by some miracle I discover that I will be home alone for an hour before Audrey picks me up. My daughter is off to a sleepover and the husband and boychild are going to a movie. Which is a bonus, because then I can decide ALONE what I am going to wear and not have to suffer their input. This is the sort of helpful input I receive from my darling family...
Me: My ass is huge. OMG I am falling apart.
Henry: You're not fat, Mommy. Well, except for right here by your...(begins reaching towards me and pointing towards my midsection)
Me: Grounded! If you finish that sentence you are grounded! And if you touch me I will hurt you!!!
Then there's the dressing room advice from my daughter.
"Oh, Mommy. There is no way you are getting those pants up over your thighs. Don't be mad. I love you."
And even the husband. I love him, but I can't count on him for honesty.
(sees me doing my drunken impersonation of Slash at a birthday party)
 |
| sad. not hot. |
"Baby, you're hot!!"
(sees me in my jammies covered zit cream )
 |
| tired, not hot. |
"You're hot!"
(sees me in Lakewood Hospital in a body brace and my face covered with medical tape)
 |
| yeah, he took that picture. |
(sees me standing in a marsh cause my feet are hot)
 |
| "Let me out of the car, I am sticking my feet in that water." |
What I am trying to say is that he is unreliable.
So for once I am able to dress in whatever I can assemble, with no peanut gallery to make me cry. So I dug out a pink lace polyester dressy thing that I got from a resale shop on Etsy for $20. It is just lace, no lining and I had intended to have a matching pink tube dress made for underneath. Yeah, that never happened. But it is so gorgeous. In desperation, I put on a black satin slip and put the lace thingy over it for modesty. (kinda) A little on the weird trampy side, but I figured at least those bitchy gay men could not accuse me of pedestrian dressing. And I felt pretty, which helps a lot.
So Audrey and I show up at the swanky do... me in my trampy pink victorian lace and her in a delicious black and ivory silk fleur de lis dress. I love her too much to hate her for always looking like an elegant Barbie doll. The townhouse is all awesomeness and filled with tightly dressed very manicured men and giant canvases covered with male junk. We made a bee line to the bar. For courage.
Imagine my surprise when we get to the bar and see that the bartender is none other than the bride, Martina, from the gay wedding we went to last fall. I went to a gay wedding and served shitty sangria Apparently her "husband" knew she needed cash and hooked her up with the gay party set to tend bar. As Audrey and I proved, anyone can do it. Poorly. We all air kiss, and then the bride grabs our hands and says, "Your bar tending brought me much happiness and blessings to our marriage. I love you both. You are good to Martina."
I just stared with my mouth open, thinking "Really? Our shitty bar tending brought blessings to your marriage to an openly gay man?" But Audrey jumped in and said instead, "Yeah, well we're not fucking bar tending tonight, honey. 2 red wines! Fill 'em up."
We started making our way from room to room, each room having several easels with black and white images of men, their junk and interesting props. Like pianos, motorcycles, gazebos and violins. We stopped at the buffet and Audrey started scarfing down sushi, while I chugged more wine.
"Oh my God, this sushi is amazing; why aren't you eating any?"
I shuddered, replying, "I cannot put sushi in my mouth surrounded by penises. Let's head to the roof, I need a smoke."
We made our way to the roof and soaked in the splendid views of an abandoned lot, the lake, the Cleveland skyline and an industrial site, all while we smoked our little hearts out and chugged more wine. Not surprisingly, many of the men there joined us in our Absolutely Fabulous binge, and it was big fun. I discovered that better than 50% of them were wearing salmon pink on their bodies somewhere and so was I, so I kept screaming, "Twinsies!" It made sense at the time...
When we went back inside, we decided to nose around a little bit. We are very nosy. So we busted into the owner's suite to check out the bathroom. It totally delivered. A huge beyond all reason tub that could (and probably does) fit 5 grown men. A shower the size of a garage with more jets than an automatic car wash.
Audrey: Holy Shit! It's a rock star shower! Gabriel's gettin' it ON!
Me: Hey, did I ever tell you what Mike (our friend Victoria's husband) said when he saw our 2 person shower at our old house?
Audrey: No! What did Mr. Mike say? This oughta be good.
Me: He was helping Winston move the our mattress over to the new house because I insisted on squatting in it before the movers came and when he saw the huge shower he yelled, "Allllriiiight, Winston! Wife's got a full piece back tattoo and you're got a Tommy Lee shower! My man!!" Winston's still riding that complement.
Then we started screaming "Tommy Lee!" over and over again and then, very mysteriously, Audrey started singing Love Song by Tesla, so I was fumbling for a lighter to give her a proper salute. That's when the high point of my evening occurred.
Suddenly, Audrey stopped singing and I saw her eyes bugging out, staring at something just over my right shoulder. I whipped around, fully expecting to see that Gabriel had caught us petting his fancy towels and bath soaps. Instead, what was creeping through the door was an old man, dressed like a gayish version of an English lord. Shiny nut brown loafers, beautiful tweed suit, crisp monogrammed dress shirt with cufflinks (well, it was salmon pink, but you get the idea) and of all things, a cravat. It was like David Niven was slinking through the door at us. But gay fabulous.
He was sliding across the floor, with his hands stretched out towards me, and all I could think was "Bela Legosi! He wants to eat my soul!" (I was drunk. Under the best of circumstances, I am paranoid.) I tried to back away, but the only place to back to was the sex shower. So I stood there, clutching the tiny dress purse I had stolen from my daughter's toy box, prepared to smack him with it.
"My darling, I followed you all the way up here! I had to tell you, I am in love with your dress. You make me think of Emily Dickinson. Sweetheart, you are a vision."
Me: (WTF?)
(outloud) "What a kind thing to say! My goodness!"
(now, David Niven is petting my cheap lace on my arm) "It's just that you don't see this sort of elegance nowadays. You look like the perfect lady from an age gone by. My dear, you enchant me."
I look down at myself. I am sloppy drunk, reeking of cigarettes, wearing cheap lace over A SLIP from Target. What I wanted to say was, "I look like a whore, but thanks. Hey, tell me. You're as pale as I am, and yet you have managed to find the PERFECT bronzer! Wherever did you find it? I must own it!"
What I actually said was, "You are the sweetest thing. What a charming complement! Have a wonderful evening! Isn't it all marvelous?" Then I slunk around him, followed closely by a choking Audrey. We ran to another bedroom and collapsed in giggles on a giant bed. Where we were soon joined by two Maine Coon cats. So we rolled around for a while, petting them and insisting into their precious ears that we loved them more than anything. Honestly, where was Mr. Gabriel Photographer? Two drunk white chicks, rolling around on navy blue satin with giant cats? Get the camera!!!
No, he was downstairs, air kissing and mingling and, if the line to the paypal terminal was any indication, making money hand over fist. And while we're on the subject, I feel I need to mention my thoughts on his art.
I lead a sheltered life, which is how I like it. Audrey gets me out of my comfort zone. All the male nude photography I have ever seen is fairly limited and I have never liked any of it. It makes me nervous. The men all seem bruised and depressed and filled with shame. And then I feel bad for looking at it. And while there were a few pictures of fragile young men in angel wings laying broken on beaches... there was so much joy in the other pictures. I don't know why they're so happy to be naked, but good for them!
One picture showed two nudie men reaching across a dining room table, toasting each other and laughing. Another showed 3 men in mime paint pressed up against the glass of a green house. (Hello, Dolly!) Another showed a man chained to a motorcycle on a train trestle. (Do you need a permit for that?) There was one featuring a man playing piano and chugging whiskey. My favorite? Two hugely buff nudie men in a gazebo drinking some Coronas. And that was what captured my eye most, except for the weenies. Every man looked outrageously happy! They were all laughing and smiling! They looked like they were getting ready to watch Sports Center or play horseshoes! And I thought, "What a refreshing perspective! There is no way I want to see that much penis over my fireplace, but good for you for removing all that shame crap from gay nudes!"
We did leave early, so we could go over to Victoria's house and get drunker on pear brandy. We spent the rest of the evening hooting and screaming "sausage fest!" I am calling the whole evening a win because I think I nailed gay fabulous. And considering I have been at home covered in children and pets for the last 12 years, that's quite an accomplishment for me.:) Can't wait till Audrey needs a date again. She's the best sort of nuts.
~dana
 |
| blurry, out-of-focus iphone pic, but you get the idea. |
PS. In all fairness, I should point out that Winston took the backboard/neck brace pic AFTER he knew I still had the use of my limbs. He also shot video because I was high as a kite.
PPS. I keep going around and around about all that joy on their faces and trying to figure out why the hell it impressed me so. And it just clicked, when I remembered this conversation I had with my friend Camille, about George Takei (Star Trek's Mr. Sulu). I said to her, "I used to totally hate Mr. Sulu because he was so bitchy and kept hatin' on Bill Shatner. But now, I don't know why, I sorta love him. He's so cute I want to pinch him!' And wise Camille replied, "That's because he's OUT! The last place you want a gay man is in a closet." And thus, all the joy. I had so much fun, there wasn't a single bitch at that party. Just joy!
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Why NOT Use Craig's List to Find Your Baby Daddy?
I have a confession to make. Although I was very much in love with James Hetfield at the time, I made out with Winston throughout the one and only Metallica concert I went to. I was very certain throughout high school that I was meant to marry a James Hetfield sort or at the very least Sebastian Bach. But Winston and I had just started dating. Actually, this was one of our first dates; not a bad way to start off a relationship. We went with a bunch of our friends, some of whom follow this re-dunk-u-lous blog and can attest to the fact that not only did we just sit on the grass at Blossom Music Center and make out, but that one of them had to thump us and point out that someone had not only set fire to the grass but that there was also a smallish fire on the roof and that something of an evacuation was taking place. So I don't remember how awesome that concert was. And I pray to God that they tour again soon, even though it's likely that we'd do it again just for nostalgia.
And karma being what it is, we sat as far apart as we could on a trash bag the following year at Blossom when we saw the Moody Blues, not even speaking. Due to some argument of significant importance that I can't remember.
And the tickets? 20 bucks each. I swear. If we wanted to see Metallica today, you know the tickets would be at least $150. And we'd be forced to listen to some political rant from Lars. I know the tickets were $20 because I sold one of my extra tickets to ED THOMPSON and that motherfucker has yet to pay me back for it. And then, he had the nerve to drive past me on Center Ridge Rd. in Westlake in 1995 and yell out the window in his slacker holler, "Heeeeeeeeeey Daaaaaaana! Whaaaaaaat's uuuuuup?"
Somewhere in Westlake there is a family of 4 in a Ford SHO Taurus who saw a 20-something me scream, "I want my $20, you dick!" at a crappy Chevy sedan.
Anyway, my point is that we all do weird or short sighted things when we are young, and usually at a rock concert. Or a reggae concert. And if you've seen Pink Floyd in concert, you definitely did something you don't remember because, I swear, just walking into the old Municipal Stadium when Pink Floyd came to town would have caused you to fail a piss test.
I wanted to create this seamless link here to show you this article I read at Fuse online yesterday. But two things prevented that.
1. When I Googled "how to insert article into blogger," what initially scrolled up in Google was "how to insert a tampon." Obviously, I nearly choked to death laughing, picturing someone saying, "What the hell do I do with this tampon? Wait a minute! Eureka! I'll Google it!"
2. I think just reading the URL is enough. Enjoy.
http://www.fuse.tv/2012/04/help-find-the-man-who-impregnated-woman-in-megadeth/motorhead-concert-bathroom
~dana
So much awesome. My favorite line is "raw dog." Being a bookish housewife, I was unfamiliar with that term. It is succinct and elegant. I'd love to hear yours in the comment section. :)
And karma being what it is, we sat as far apart as we could on a trash bag the following year at Blossom when we saw the Moody Blues, not even speaking. Due to some argument of significant importance that I can't remember.
And the tickets? 20 bucks each. I swear. If we wanted to see Metallica today, you know the tickets would be at least $150. And we'd be forced to listen to some political rant from Lars. I know the tickets were $20 because I sold one of my extra tickets to ED THOMPSON and that motherfucker has yet to pay me back for it. And then, he had the nerve to drive past me on Center Ridge Rd. in Westlake in 1995 and yell out the window in his slacker holler, "Heeeeeeeeeey Daaaaaaana! Whaaaaaaat's uuuuuup?"
Somewhere in Westlake there is a family of 4 in a Ford SHO Taurus who saw a 20-something me scream, "I want my $20, you dick!" at a crappy Chevy sedan.
Anyway, my point is that we all do weird or short sighted things when we are young, and usually at a rock concert. Or a reggae concert. And if you've seen Pink Floyd in concert, you definitely did something you don't remember because, I swear, just walking into the old Municipal Stadium when Pink Floyd came to town would have caused you to fail a piss test.
I wanted to create this seamless link here to show you this article I read at Fuse online yesterday. But two things prevented that.
1. When I Googled "how to insert article into blogger," what initially scrolled up in Google was "how to insert a tampon." Obviously, I nearly choked to death laughing, picturing someone saying, "What the hell do I do with this tampon? Wait a minute! Eureka! I'll Google it!"
2. I think just reading the URL is enough. Enjoy.
http://www.fuse.tv/2012/04/help-find-the-man-who-impregnated-woman-in-megadeth/motorhead-concert-bathroom
~dana
So much awesome. My favorite line is "raw dog." Being a bookish housewife, I was unfamiliar with that term. It is succinct and elegant. I'd love to hear yours in the comment section. :)
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