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my milkshake brings all the crazies to the yard

18 Nov

 

I’m still not exactly sure what Kelis means by “milkshake,” but I would like to announce that I am an owner of one. How do I know? It started last year. Before I had a milkshake, my yard was void of all the boys and now that I have a milkshake, my yard is overflowing with them.

It sounds exciting, I know, but wouldn’t this have been way more useful about 5 years ago? I don’t want it now. It’s too overwhelming. I’m busy and I just want to live my life. Also, it’s not like it’s just nice, honest, hot guys up in my yard–I’ve got old guys, creepers, crazies, homeless men, trashmen, white trash men, hipsters, douche bags, married dudes, alcoholics, 15-year-old boys, a guy with anger issues, guys with girlfriends who want threesomes  and even a guy with a foot fetish.

How do I give back this milkshake!? I think I got a dud or something. I just want to be me and be with someone who is himself and together we’ll fit.

Also, whoever that person is would probably find this funny:

 

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do midgets…

16 Nov

My old roommate was really short and had trouble reaching the pedals in her car. It got me thinking…do little people drive cars?  Is there such a thing as pedal extensions?

I decided to look it up and become more knowledgeable on the subject.

I typed “do midget,” but I didn’t even get to learn about their transportation options because my attention was drawn to the much more important inquiries asked by the rest of the world:

I have a good feeling that you’re okay with the fact that I wasn’t being politically correct that day.

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Peter, the asexual Geppetto

7 Nov

In 2005, I had a brief lapse in judgement (one of many) and decided that I hated Baltimore so I dropped everything and moved to London, England. I moved in with some Irish guys, got a job and eventually went on some fancy dates with British dudes. It was a rollicking good time.

I love the British accent and whenever a British guy approached me, I swooned and I swooned hard. Ladies, here’s the thing–just because it has a British accent, does not mean you should accept all date offers. There needs to be a filter. I didn’t have a filter, so when 32-year-old Peter Mahoney approached me for the first time and said I was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and we were going to get married some day, I enthusiastically replied, “YAY!” and three days later we went on a date.

The date was nice, but something seemed kind of “off.” I thought maybe it was because he was trying too hard, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. My reaction at the end of the date was “eh.” We went on a couple more dates and each was as “eh” as the last. There was no spark and I couldn’t tell if he was quiet, boring or asexual. He finally kissed me on the third date. It was awful. We went back to his house and he kissed me again. It, too, was awful. He gave me some tea and we stared at the wall. No one spoke. Then, when we went up to his room, I wasn’t allowed to turn on the light. How odd. When I asked why he told me not to worry about it. Then, he asked me if we could just cuddle. It was all very weird.

When I opened my eyes the next morning, the very first thing to catch my eye was a tiny wooden marionette. I looked at the shelf above it and there was another, but it was larger. Then I saw another. And another. One was dressed as a clown but it didn’t have a face. Then I realized that none of them did. Wooden marionettes were everywhere and none of them had faces. There were at least 25 of these things. Why?! Fear built within me and I shook him awake. I needed answers. “So, I couldn’t help but notice these faceless marionettes,” I noted casually. “I make and collect them,” he responded, “and I also have some puppets downstairs.” It was time for me to leave.

When I got to the bottom of the steps I received a surprise greeting from his mother, and guess what? She had made us fucking breakfast. His dad poured me some coffee. I ate as quickly as possible, went home and never talked to him again.

I had no clue he lived with his parents. I had no clue he made faceless marionettes. You know what? If you’re into puppetry or you want to make marionettes, you make those creepy fuckers and then share it with the world because that’s what you do and you love it. Own it and you’ll find someone who is loving and proud to own it with you.

I, however, was not going to be that girl. I know I can do better than “asexual Geppetto.”

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pepper tooth

19 Oct

Recently, I went to Grano Pasta Bar with my friend Dee Dee. After a couple of glasses of wine, I had a substantial realization about friendship:

Your friends should only be considered “true friends” if they can tell you when you have pepper tooth.

Pepper tooth – 

When a food particle, usually a spice, can be seen in between the teeth or along the gum line (often between the central and lateral incisor).

It is a known fact that all people with teeth get pepper tooth. Thankfully, when it does happen, our true friends will inform us of the intrusive particle.

These same friends might do other small, important favors for you. For example, my friends understand what I mean when I flair my nostrils. Upon seeing the nostril signal, a friend will discreetly check if I have any bats in the cave (boogers). Thank you for doing that for me, true friends.

In conclusion, cherish your true friends. If we did not have them, we would all walk around looking absolutely ridiculous. I would probably have a unibrow, pepper tooth and my dress would be tucked into my underpants (which has happened to me twice and seriously, you would be simply amazed by how long the general public will let you go with your dress tucked into your fucking underpants).

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Thoughts from a drunk girl

13 Oct

A number of people have told me that I am very profound when I drink. I decided to write what I’m thinking/saying over a couple of drinking sessions to see if I could come up with answers to some of life’s biggest questions. It didn’t happen, at least not yet:

1. Hugging really is kind of funny when you think of it as a strangle you haven’t finished yet.

2. Is there a god? If so, I wonder if he reads my blog. If he does, he probably shakes his head a lot.

3. I am lying on my bathroom floor. I’m topless. My puppy is sitting at my head and I’m wondering, does he know I drank too much? Is he judging me? I wish he knew how to get me some Taco Bell. Or just a snack. I just asked him to get the snack and he’s just staring at me.

4. How many licks to the center of a tootsie roll tootsie pop? They say the world may never know, but I do know–it’s 314. I have the certificate to prove it.

5. If I could go back in time, I’d have a serious make out session with Potsie from Happy Days. He’s so dreamy.

6. Why won’t anyone in this hot tub harmonize with me? Dina harmonizes with me. I wish she was here in this hot tub. Hot Tub Harmonies–our new singing group.

7. Guys, I have a good idea. What if we take pictures of our breasts (clothed) in different spots so you can see a chest to the side and like….my science lab in the background? Boobs in the Workplace: An Exploration. OR how about boobs in the front, and beautiful scenery in the background? Except we would be wearing clothes. Boobs around the world, but clothed. A calendar. Think about it.

8. I want Dwayne Wayne glasses. I actually want to be him for Halloween, but I understand that wouldn’t be very easy, so I will settle for the glasses.

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Friday Drabble – Hazy Memory

30 Sep

A drabble is a 100-word story.  Write your own 100 word stories on Fridays, and tag them with “friday drabble”. This is my first.

____________________

The ceremony was quick. We threw rice at the happy couple.

Another happy couple. I couldn’t remember much that happened afterward—funny, considering it was a summer spent trying to forget the past.

I recall a beach surrounded by libations and laughter aplenty. Dee and I chased a jellyfish with sticks like little kids.

Flash forward. Next bar, bachelorette party. We weren’t invited. An unimpressive douche bag got my number, I never called back.

I awoke topless on my bathroom floor. Hopeless.

Dee sent a photo. I don’t remember doing this. Hmm, I wonder if Arthur Fonzarelli needs a wife?

 

 

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My night with Wolfman Jack/The reason I stopped drinking cheap vodka

23 Sep

Last year at this time I was running around like a crazy person because I was moving, buying a house, celebrating my birthday, meeting my boyfriend and basically drinking every single night of the week at Frazier’s with my pal Dee Dee. One evening, when I finally had a few minutes to relax before going out, my brother showed me a clip from Burt Sugarman’s Midnight Special:

I enjoyed it, had a good laugh at pretty much everything happening in the video and moved on. My subconscious, however,  had different plans–that tart.

That night, while I slept, my subconscious awoke, got all skanked up and took me on over to the house of Wolfman Jack for perhaps the most disgusting sex dream experience that I’ve ever had in my life. It was awful. Thinking about it now sends shivers down my spine, and no, I don’t mean the good kind. Why would my subconscious betray me in this way? I thought we were friends, but no, not that night. That night my subconscious whore had sex with Wolfman Jack while You Sexy Thing played in the background on my subconscious stereo. Gross.

This is the look he had on his face the whole time:

How appalled are you right now?  Then, to make matters worse, Wolfman Jack kicked me out of his house after he was done. That ass! I didn’t have time to pick up my clothes so I walked home naked. My subconscious even went through the trouble of making the mascara run down my face as I cried. I was just so hurt that Wolfman Jack used me like that.

So what the hell? What did it all mean? Was that some sort of warning? Did Wolfman Jack’s ghost channel me through the cheap vodka I drank that night? How did my subconscious know his address? The world may never know.

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my knight in shining nakedness

12 Sep

Once upon a time, in the far away land of Charm City, I dated a guy who owned a sword. This was not just any sword, no–it was a magical sword sworn to protect me from intruders (I suggested that a baseball bat would be more appropriate, but was quickly told that I “don’t know anything about anything”). So, he became my knight. Ah me, young love.

The castle he rented was….quaint. It was also filthy and hot, so hot that we had to sleep naked. The entire place smelled like a stinky cat farm, but I didn’t mind because I loved him so and knew (imagined) that some day we would get married and move to a larger, more majestic castle in Suburbia–a land rumored to have little to no sightings of crack whores. There, so I’m told, I would never again have to hear the neighbor beating his wife, nor would I have to see a prostitute give a 9 am blowjob. It sounded like a dream come true and with him, it was going to be great.

One HOT summer night, as my naked knight snored soundly next to me, I awoke to a rustling in the room. I looked around, but saw nothing. Then I heard it again. Suddenly, my knight sat up and whispered, “don’t move.” He grabbed his sword and swiftly thrust it into the pile of clothes and other shit he had lying around.

He turned on the light and there he stood, completely nude, with a BIG mouse on the edge of his sword. I screamed. It was the most disgusting thing I have ever seen in my life. It was hardly heroic. We didn’t even get to ride off into a sunset or anything. That evening, I learned that I don’t and will never need a knight–I need cleanliness and modern strategies for catching/removing city creatures.

That happened ages ago. We broke up and life moved on. Whenever I see him in my neighborhood, a breeze of nostalgia uneasily moves through me, but then I remember times like that night. I am happier now, and hey, the house I bought in Hampden doesn’t smell like a stank ass cat farm. Bonus.

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