And We're Back!!

I've been in a bit of a funk lately. In fact, according to my blogging history, I've been "funking" over two months.  I don't think the reason for it is all that interesting; just your garden-variety heartbreak, really.  And while the "emotional me" plods through the house, sighing and flopping on the couch; the "analytical me" is nagging that "we need to get SOMETHING done here, people!"

Of course, the way I tackle my sadness is to fill my life with pointless crap. I work longer hours. I offer to scan two hundred boxes of home slides and Super-8s for my father. I become obsessive about scraping the paint off my house. So obsessive, in fact, that I'm afraid the amount of wood I've removed from the clapboards could effect the structural integrity of the building. Or at the very least, make it look like a bullet-pocked building in Beirut circa the 1980s.

Another pointless and time consuming habit I've adopted: a dating app.

I signed up and created a profile in my typical manner. I took a fake picture off the web:

But I DID write accurate information in the profile fields. I guess I was thinking that anyone willing to see past my looks and appreciate my unbridled wit and conversational charm would be pleasantly surprised to find that I DON'T have a mustache when they meet me in real life. At least, as long as we meet before 7:00 PM.

I actually received a lot of replies in the first couple of hours of signing up, and I chalk that up to the "fresh-meat" sensibility. Initially, these responses were sweet. "How RU", "UR hot", "U up 2 party?", and "I'd lick that pussy" were among the dozens of messages I got. But, of course, as the days went by a few suitors rose in the ranks and in my affection; each developing his own style of discourse as we messaged back and forth. 

Potential suitor #3:  Goes by the name LEMONADE_MAKER, which I think means he's optimistic or some shit. But for some reason, it sounds dirty to me. In fact, I snort every time I get a notification saying "LEMONADE_MAKER sent you a message!"  He and I have this banter going where he asks me to meet him somewhere for a first date. I say "No. Not interested." Then, he'll start writing in all capitals and accuse me of "NOT OPENING THE BOOK!"  I think this is a reference to judging a book by its cover, but it's such an esoteric way of not saying what he means that I usually wrap up the conversation with "Is this thing on?"  We've done this for about two weeks. Every night.  

Potential suitor #2:  Goes by the name RJ102 and is 28 years old.  Let me say that again... He is 28 years old. I could have birthed this boy.  He is a very attractive black man/boy...which makes me very very suspect. I mean, really? Why the hell would this man/boy be messaging me? So, I play up the old-lady-ness of myself.  I say things like "Can I find this Instagram at the library?" And he ALWAYS tries to explain the complex workings of the digital age in a very detailed and patient way. But I interrupt him as much as I can. And I tangent the conversation, which usually ends when I pretend to fall asleep mid sentence. I talk to this guy two or three times a day.

Potential suitor #1:  Goes by the name AxeMan. I am not sure if that's a typo. Which was actually the topic of our initial conversation. I suggested he might want to throw a double "S" in there. He thought I was being antagonistic and "off-puttingly suggestive". Our messages consist almost ENTIRELY of bickering and passive-aggressiveness. Tonight's topic: 

HIM: Do you really have tear tattoos on your face, and do you realize those are gang tattoos given to people when they serve time. 

ME: Yes.  Did you have a good day?

HIM:  They usually mean you've killed someone. Did you kill someone?

ME (after a pregnant 15 minutes):  Of course. But that's not why I got the tattoos.

Here's the thing, though. This shit takes TIME. A lot of time. And that is just PERFECT for me right now. So, I will surely keep you posted as I can't see how this could go wrong.

I'm a Facebook Reject...Twice: My History of Self-Sabotage

I work with some of the oddest, rudest, most super offensive people I've ever met.* I absolutely love it.  Every year, at the end of May, we have a company dinner to celebrate the start of our season, and one thing each of us has to do is stand and say something about ourselves that no one else knows. Do you know how hard it is to come up with new things every year that will surprise, and hopefully shock, the wackos I see almost every day?

Last year, I panicked about this dinner days beforehand because I felt that I had nothing interesting to share. I considered saying that I had a tail or that I was really a man,** but at the last moment, I decided to reveal that in 2005 I had joined this new-fangled thing called Facebook. I explained to the crowd that I had enjoyed the Facebook for about four months, and then I was kicked out. Asked never to return. I swear it. And here's the thing: what I thought was a pretty lame confession actually brought the room to a halt. Two-thirds of those present had never known life WITHOUT Facebook. My confession was the modern day equivalent of being excommunicated.

What was supposed to be a one minute confession soon turned into a melee. Questions were shouted from the floor: How is that possible? Did you appeal? Are you serious?

I began to slowly recount the timeline of events leading up to my Facebook dismissal. I explained how I had started my account in early 2005, but how I kept procrastinating about adding a profile picture. I told them that Facebook kept nagging me about it, reminding me that people with pictures had more friends. The kids listening all nodded in agreement; they knew exactly what I was talking about. Facebook is RELENTLESS about collecting friends. I mean, I know the seduction of collecting. As a kid I was a collector of all kinds of things: matchbox cars, stamps, model rockets, and lentil beans***. So, at Facebook's urging, my OCD kicked in, and I started to get a little hooked on the idea of amassing friends. But I still didn't have a decent picture, so I decided to borrow one from the web:

It didn't look like me EXACTLY, but rather, looked like how I felt then. I thought that was appropriate enough. And here's the thing, I used my real name and my real address. Just the picture was fake-ish. And you can't tell me that kind of thing doesn't happen every day on millions of Facebook profiles.

My two sisters were also on the Facebook, and all three of us had had a really hard time posting anything. We're an oddly shy group, and for some reason, posting stuff about our lives seemed like bragging.****  I can't remember why, but I decided one day to bite the bullet and post. And I did. I wrote about how I had just been released from rehab, and that while I knew it was my third time in, I really felt that this one was going to stick.  I begged my sisters to let me see my kids, whom, I explained to my 37 friends, the court had taken from me. My sisters replied to my "wall", without any prompting from me, that according to court mandate they could only send pictures of the kids in profile. And, in fact, they did. They posted current pictures of my REAL kids in profile. I thanked them profusely and publicly, and then proceeded to try and get them to lend me a little cash.

This train-wreck-in-slow-motion was, apparently, perfect bait..."friends" starting coming out of the woodwork, and it became addicting. The fame went to my head. I started to raise the ante. My sisters and I would have horrifically public Facebook fights and then laugh together at night as we sipped our drinks of choice and watched the friend requests pour in. For several months, I enjoyed a level of fame that I had only dreamed of. When I went to the center store to get gas, I would see people stop their conversation and stare, whispering to each other and pretending not to see me. It was amazing. And too good to last.

What I hadn't taken into account was that during this time, I was the vice president of the district school board and president of the financial committee. From what I can gather, some do-gooder must have contacted Facebook about the inaccuracy of my reporting, because one day about four months in, I got a notice that my account had been disabled due to IMPERSONATION. I tried to contact Facebook...but let me tell you, it's IMPOSSIBLE. It makes calling the Department of Human Services look like a cakewalk.

How can one impersonate oneself? Isn't it my god-given right to project myself in a bad image if I choose to? Nonetheless, I had no recourse...but I had my story.

So, this was the story I relayed to the group of 130 co-workers sitting in a small banquet hall.  And, over the last year, I have enjoyed the notoriety of being the Facebook Lady. But just last week, as I was talking to one of my co-workers about Facebook and Russia and what-not, she suggested that I try opening another account, now that enough time had surely passed. I considered it throughout the morning. And to be honest, I was a little nervous that I WOULD be able to get an account; that I'd just be known around the office as the Double Jointed Lady or the Lady With Five 0'Clock Shadow.

But the gauntlet had been thrown. When I had a moment, I called my co-worker to my desk and began the process of starting a new Facebook account.  I entered my information and pressed submit. I immediately got a message saying "Your account has been permanently disabled". I shouted "No Fucking Way!" But secretly, I was pleased.

However, my co-worker was undaunted. She said I needed to set up an account from a computer that had nothing to do with the real me. She offered hers. I went into her office and began again, using her computer and a newly created gmail account. And...it worked!

Within 20 minutes, I had friended all of my office people and had posted a link to FoodTruckWarehouse. I was determined to do it right this time...and then I got bored. Less than 30 minutes into my newly created Facebook page, I posted this profile picture:

To my credit, I still believe I was thoughtful about the aging process, given the 12+ years that had passed since my first profile picture. I think it was realistic. 38 minutes into my second Facebook excursion, my profile disappeared. My gmail pinged, and I received this notification:

And there you have it. My legacy of self-sabotage remains intact. I can't explain the compulsion I have to do this kind of thing. But to be honest, I think Facebook has done me a favor. Nothing good would ever come from my having an account. I truly am part of the problem; never part of the solution. And, at least I'll have something interesting for the upcoming what-you-don't-know-about-me dinner.

*  And that says something because my work career has included laboring for an excavation company, working as a midway carny, and delivering mail for the U.S. Postal Service. All of which were rude and offensive environments, but not nearly as entertaining. 

** But for real...I couldn't do it because the possibility that someone else in the room had the same confession was too great. 

*** I shit you not. I had no idea what lentils were, and I continued to be oblivious until half way through college.  All I did know was that I kept finding these perfect green-to-yellow little THINGS on the kitchen floor at my friend Amy's house. Keep in mind, this was life in rural Maine and the only beans I thought existed were Yellow Eye, Kidney, and Pea. And those beans lived in crockpots. With mustard and molasses. But Amy's parents were back-to-the-landers from California, and they also walked around the house nude. Enough said.  

****  I'm not sure why we thought it would come across as bragging. We weren't doing ANYTHING anyone else could possibly be envious of: "Wow! Just got home from catching earthworms with old man Tuttle to sell at the center store! Going to do a quick tick check and get myself to bed!"  

How My Fascination with Certain Men Gets Me in Trouble

I recently got myself in some hot water because I obviously don't know how gmail works. I had been invited to a potluck with a group of moms whom I don't usually do anything with, and I was a bit flattered to be asked into the clique. I thought I was responding "I'll bring a bok choy salad!" to this group of no-nonsense women using my very respectable work gmail address. But evidently, I was still logged into this gmail which APPARENTLY has the accompanying picture of Mr. Rogers giving the finger* with every correspondence. 

Needless to say, there was a bit of backlash about it.** But really, can anyone keep track of emails? I can't believe I'm the only one who has made this mistake. Give me a break.

So, I took the opportunity to ask one of the millennials in my office to help me figure out what went wrong. I tend to answer emails on my phone, and I handed it over to her, asking if she could make my professional work email the default. Just so it wouldn't happen again. She started scrolling through the list of accounts and exclaimed, "Why do you have so many email addresses?"

Wait, what? 

Doesn't everyone have multiple emails? I mean, depending on what you're signing up for or answering? I'm sure you didn't sign up for your Ashley Madison account using your home email address...just saying.

But I will admit, I do have quite a few email addresses. And mostly because a long time ago, I started collecting the addresses of game show hosts. I don't mean I collected THEIR emails. I started to create email addresses in their names. I can't tell you why. But what I can tell you is that I became intrigued with the popularity (or not) of certain hosts.

For example, the first in the collection was G.Rayburn1999@yahoo.com. I remember getting that one before gmail even existed. I picked that number because it was the year of his death. But soon I got another address because I didn't want Gene to be lonely. I picked Richard Dawson. But despite my attempts to use either Richard or R, everything was taken. I ended up having to settle with rdawson1289@yahoo.com. That COULD mean 1,288 other people were paying homage to the great Mr. Dawson before me! It became a little like stamp collecting, and ultimately, I've collected over 26 different email addresses*** not including my real work emails and my personal emails. 

So who's the most popular TV game show host according to the gmail machine? Alex Trebek. I got his about 5 years ago and it was at 19088 at that point. I have no idea what it is today. And the least popular? As you can see, it's the one I use on this account: psajak1. Meaning, only Pat and I use that email address. Nobody else. It kind of makes me sad. That's why I use it the most.

I always imagined that there was animosity between Alex Trebek and Pat Sajak. I think the first time it occurred to me was while reading National Lampoon in 5th grade****, and they quoted Mr. Sajak as saying:

"Every now and then, if you're very quiet in the studio, you can actually hear my brain cells die and hit the ground. But you have to listen carefully."

I think I fell in love with Pat a little because of his self-deprecation. And somehow a rivalry between him and that upstart Alex Trebek, who hosted that "smarty-pants show" that my father would snort at while changing channels to find the M*A*S*H reruns, was born. I know now that I had simply internalized a kind of anti-intellectualism and imagined a cold war between the two. And I always assumed it was a creation of my own making.

UNTIL, I read a short story written by my most favorite author of all time, David Foster Wallace. It's called Little Expressionless Animals, and it has a sub-plot that highlights the animosity I imagine exists between Sajak and Trebek. I was completely mind-blown and once again, in love*****. 

www.theparisreview.org/fiction/2547/little-expressionless-animals-david-foster-wallace

In any case, I hope my email issues have been resolved. Thank you, young millennial****** whom I won't mention by name, for helping this old lady keep her shit straight. I can't promise it won't happen again. But I'll try my best.



*  Which is one of the greatest photos ever taken and is hopefully archived in the Smithsonian.
**  Luckily the potluck was postponed and I haven't had to face them in person yet. They're going to let me know when it's rescheduled. 
***  Gene Rayburn, Richard Dawson, Bob Barker, Alex Trebek, Pat Sajak, Bob Eubanks, Monty Hall, Regis Philbin, Chuck Woolery, Allen Ludden, Wink Martindale,...well, you get the idea.
****  Let me explain why and how a 5th grader might have a subscription to National Lampoon (god rest its soul). I found an old NL issue in our second-hand piggyback camper when I was in 2nd or 3rd grade and thought it was hysterical. Much better than MAD or Cracked. I finally convinced my mother to cancel my Ranger Rick subscription for NL in 4th grade by telling her that it was National Geographic for kids. Because it came in a similar brown wrapper and had illustrations by R. Crumb on the front, she bought it. 
***** I wrote David several letters and tried to explain the magicality of it all. I never heard from him. But I still think of him fondly as he hung himself in 2008. I'm not saying that because I think I had anything to do with it. But, it would sort of fit a pattern in my life...
******  Not to go on, but I remember when I was on the school board and we'd be asked to add exorbitant funds to our technology budget for "computer literacy and instruction". I was always the board member who voted "NO" on those hikes. Simply because hiring an adult to teach kids how to use a computer is ridiculous. It still is. I mean, they are born knowing that stuff. Case in point, when I first got a smart phone, my son somehow reprogrammed the texting application so that certain typed words changed into other ones. But not until you pressed "send". He was 7 at the time. And here's one of the texts I ended up sending to both the President of the Board and the Superintendent (spelling mistakes are his):

Hello Paul and Poop Stane, 

I received the board packet and had a few questions about the transportation expenses. Could you give me a fart buble when you have a chance? Thanks so much.

I still don't know how he did it. But I did use it as an example supporting my case during the next budget review.

Why I MAY Get a Mother-of-the-Year Award

It's been a tough couple of weeks here. I won't bore you with the details, but one side-effect from the stress has been a micro-flare up of my MS*. A couple of weeks ago, my jaw started feeling tired. Like I couldn't relax it enough. And it's progressed to where sometimes it's hard to chew or talk. Before you get all worried, I DID see my doctor. And my neurologist. And I had scans and EKG's. I'm a picture of health. Hopefully it will just go away.

In any case, I was kind of tired of eating soup by the third week. I'm not much of a cook and really have no tolerance for recipes and whatnot. Sometimes I don't even heat the soup. Just saying.  So, one night last week, it occurred to me that a smart person would "go to the experts" for easy, quick, and no-need-to-chew dinner options. And with that, I downloaded the TLC app and started watching My 600 Pound Life.

The show is surprisingly addictive, and I was in the middle of Season 4 when my son came home from boarding school for the weekend to visit me. Not wanting to continue passing my food-related issues on to him**, I tried to sneak watch it on Friday night. I sat on one end of the couch with my headphones on while he sat at the other end, playing on his computer. A real slice of American family time, I know. But I was so into Dottie's story (Season 4, Episode 6), that I didn't notice when he got up to use the bathroom and walked by my screen.

When he asked, "WHAT are you watching?!" I stammered and blushed and tried to explain myself. I claimed it was for an assignment.  I said it was suggested to me. Finally, I tried to blame it on my daughter who wasn't even home. He stood there, calmly staring at me while a screen-frozen and tearful Dottie shotgunned a can of whipped cream. I was humiliated.

And then, he did EXACTLY what I had done to him when I found out that he was secretly watching Game of Thrones...He said "Let's watch it together and then we can pause it and talk about any scenes that confuse or upset us." What a bastard!

So, we sat and watched. And, I realized that I had forgotten about why I had started watching in the first place. It dawned on me during the episode of Sarah's story when she makes a huge TaterTot casserole. My son said, "Wow. That sounds really good." And I had to agree. I made a mental note to grab some Tots when I went shopping the next day. Soon, we were skimming through episodes, taking notes of some of the finest "recipes" created by these (for-lack-of-a-better-term) professional eaters.

Who knew that a bag of potato chips crushed into a tub of cream cheese could be so tasty? Thank you, Lupe!  And a bowl of Nilla wafers in milk with sliced banana and Hersey's syrup? Thank you, Stephen! And hot dogs dipped in peanut butter? Delicious, Olivia!. Soon, I had several food ideas, all requiring little to no chewing effort. Also, I had spent an evening with my son that actually included conversation and laughter. AND, I know he won't starve when he goes off to college. I'd say that deserves a nomination at least.

*  I don't even know if that's a real term; I think I made it up. 
**  The fact that I may have already done damage in this department could effect my Mother-of-the-Year award. In fact, there are a couple of other factors that could complicate my award status:

• When, as a child of three, he kept asking me if I liked him or his sister better. Finally, out of sheer frustration I said, "To be honest, I like your sister a little more."
• When we took a surprise trip to Florida and the kids had to get up really early in the morning to catch a plane they didn't even know they were taking... I woke them up by screaming "FIRE". 
• When we spent hours trying to perfect the art of stealing a wrist watch off a person without them noticing
• When we reprogrammed his Speak-and-Spell to say "Donkey Punch" (look it up)
• There are a couple more...but I think you get the idea.

The Unanticipated (But Not Unpleasant) Side-Effect of Mucinex

I'm not feeling very pretty this weekend*. Not that I usually feel elegant under normal circumstances, but this weekend I'm trying to get over a cold. I'm in those last stages when you have a cough that takes you by surprise as you're talking to someone, and then you feel obligated to say "I'm getting over a cold" in the event that they suspect it may be cholera**.

These are the kinds of coughing fits that take on a life of their own. They don't hurt, but when they start I have to say to myself, "Well, let's see where this goes...". I am completely at their mercy. And they usually end with my throwing up a little bit, but, more alarmingly, I have started to PEE myself during the apex***.

I suppose I should be ashamed at admitting that. But it's just a LITTLE pee, and it only happened twice. Only twice, probably, because I spent the rest of the evening sitting on the toilet watching Nurse Jackie, coughing and peeing without a care in the world. It was strangely liberating.

It was during this pee and mucus fest when I noticed something that, in all honesty, I've noticed before. I simply hadn't had the forum to state it publicly: taking Mucinex makes my crotchel area smell like mint****. It's not a spearmint or peppermint smell; more a medicinally-mint smell. I actually googled Mucinex to see if they referenced this side-effect on their website, but I didn't find anything about odors. I also tried to find a comment field to alert the company. I guess I was thinking that while it's not the first smell I would CHOOSE to smell like, it's not unpleasant. I mean, it might make for interesting marketing. Companies have made millions selling products that smell questionable. Take Axe for example.

After I got bored with googling "Mucinex makes my crotch smell", I just googled "crotch smell". Here's a quick PSA. Don't do that.

But, I did find this interesting info-graphic, although I was disappointed that "Mucinex" wasn't on the list.

I also found it interesting that of the 6 possible reasons cited, the one I said "Ewwww" to was "Forgotten Tampon". Hey, I'm a busy lady. I know distraction. But really? I guess I assumed a "forgotten tampon" would show itself the door, so to speak, before too long. In any case, save that image, print it out, and hang it in your office. Don't say I never taught you anything.


* Despite this whole blog-thing starting out as a "How to Entertain Yourself When You Live in a Boring State", I'm telling you how I spent my weekend. It might not be exciting, but it was slightly entertaining. So suck it.
** I say cholera as opposed to whooping cough or TB because said coughing outbursts are accompanied by vast amounts of roiling mucus that I try to daintily wipe from my mouth-chin-cheek-forehead as if nothing resembling an Eva Carrière ectoplasmic event just occurred.
*** I know, I know...women pee themselves.  Eventually. But this is not a problem that I've had before, and I purposely chose to have two C-sections to avoid this issue. And to avoid hemorrhoids. And to avoid a flaccid vagina. I can say with assurance that I have now only dodged one of these. So far.
**** No shocker that this topic hadn't come up organically in prior conversations

Snow Day Binging

Today was another snow day. Snow days always sound exciting the night before. I usually go to bed with a list of things I plan to accomplish during this freebie-clean-slate day. For the record, very few of those things actually get done. I'm a great planner; just not so good with the execution. So, despite the fact that I had laundry and bills and a kitchen to paint, I was bored and couldn't bring myself to do any of it.

Instead, I wandered through the house, convincing myself that any chore was probably a bad idea because the power could go out at any time. Painting? I would ruin the brushes if I couldn't run water to clean them properly. Laundry? The clothes would smell if they stopped mid-cycle and would have to be re-washed anyways. Bills? I'd have to wade through the snow to get them in my mailbox (which would probably be destroyed by the plow). You see what I mean?

I started to pick through a pile of papers and books that had been accumulating for some time when I came across one of my old journals*. I started flipping through this journal, and it made me sort of chuckle. It was a diet journal. One of many. You see, I have always been on some kind of diet or another. It's just one of my hobbies I guess. It started back when I was in third grade and thought my parents were trying to poison me. I would only eat foods that were either packaged or that I watched being prepared. One might think this would cause a child to lose weight. Alas...no.  I ballooned. And then, when I got over my "poisoned"gig, I bounced from one fad diet to another, all of which I read about in my grandmother's Readers Digest. I did the Grapefruit; the Melba Toast and Prunes; the Cabbage Soup; the Eat-Anything-You-Want-But-Spit-It-Out-Before-Swallowing (I made that one up myself). If it didn't cost anything for a membership, I was in**.

This journal wasn't from my childhood though. This one started in 2012. And the first page was titled "Things I Didn't Eat Today". I remember when I wrote it. My kids were young and I was always hearing about POSITIVE reinforcement. I guess I figured that instead of writing down everything I DID eat, it may be more encouraging to list the things I DIDN'T eat. And also, because I'm competitive, I remember thinking that I could get into the challenge of listing more and more foods everyday.  This page in the journal wasn't even slightly filled. In fact, I had listed only one thing: an apple.  The folly of this plan isn't lost on me now, but at the time, it seemed bulletproof***.

Page two was dated late 2012 and was simply a list of TV shows and documentaries. Now, before I go on, I want to remind readers that I'm SHARING here. Please don't judge my inclinations; I am fully aware of my shortcomings. The page was titled "Do It Yourself Anorexia" (Which doesn't really make sense. Isn't all anorexia DIY?.. But I digress). There were a ton of titles. Everything from classic The Karen Carpenter Story to TV show Intervention. I remember watching most of them, trying to glean strategies from people who had perfected the art of not-eating. I always considered myself a quick learn, but evidently I have some kind of brain block in the food disorder matrix. I simply could not master anorexia. I mean, I'd do ok for a day or two. But then you better bar the door****.

The last page was just a little odd. It was dated 2013 and was titled: "Why I Eat and (How to Stop It)". Again, maybe not the most sentient title, but you know what I meant.  There was a list of garden-variety reasons why I overate. Sadness (get new friends). Depression (get better drugs). Boredom (take a class). But the one that was actually interesting was The Urge. It was number 6, but probably should have been number 1. And the solution in parenthesis was (remember the Hood man).

When I was a kid in the late 70's and early 80's, there were these TV commercials for Hood Milk with a little guy, the Hood mascot, made of some kind of horrid clay-mation. His name was Harry Hood*****. If you watched the video above, you need no further explanation. There was something about that little guy that completely bothered both me and my sister Karmen. We actually talked about it back then, and we both had a similar urge when he would appear on the TV screen. We both wanted to pick him up and SQUEEZE him. Like really hard. But we were only kids, and we never delved into the conversation more than to say exactly that, and it was always in combination with the miming of squeezing something in both hands and scrunching our faces up with slitted eyes.

It was only when I got older that I started to think maybe Karmen really wanted to squeeze him because she thought he was so cute? Maybe her squeezing was a mothering response? All I know is that my squeezing urge was something very very different. It was a weird and hard-to-describe tingling awakeness. I wanted to squeeze him, but I also wanted to roll him up into a ball like super soft white bread. And then pop him in my mouth to feel that creepy little Hood man stick in my teeth. Or, and even stranger still, I kind of wanted to roll him up and stick him in my vagina. And then just walk around with him slowly suffocating. I know! Super fucked up. But it was The Urge that made me want to do it. I can't tell if it was sexual or just a hunger response. I truly don't know. The best word I can find to describe it: predatory. Not the most satisfactory descriptive, but it's the best I can do******.

That was all that was in my journal. The rest was blank. I wasn't exactly sure what to do with it, so I just put it in my cabinet of curiosities for now. And I guess the day wasn't a total waste. The power's still on. The pile of paper crap is cleaned up. And I guess one could say I cleaned out the freezer. Not bad, considering.

* Now, I love journals. Like a snow-day-eve, they hold so much promise. I am simply a sucker for those pages and pages of blankness. I have a ton of them, but I usually only write in a few pages and the rest goes unused...sort of like the actual snow day itself.
** I feel the need to admit that, as I perused the journal, I was eating leftover chicken wings that my friend Damon had brought over the night before. Unheated. I like them that way because I also tend to eat the bones and they're crunchier when cold.
*** By the way, after the chicken wings, I moved on to frozen T.G.I.F. potato skins with cheddar and bacon.
**** I was now enjoying two grilled everything bagels from the freezer, with melted cheese and tomato soup. Delicious. At the same time, I was heating two State Fair corn dogs.
***** As a kid, I never actually knew his name. I had to Google it just now. And I'm a little disturbed by the sexual innuendo, frankly. But I guess sex sells.
****** (I know, these asterisks are ridiculous) I mulled over the Hood man while polishing off a bucket of PF Chang's pot stickers from the freezer. Cooked of course. What do you think I am, some sort of barbarian?

The Lava Fondue Showroom and House of Bacon

PART 3

In order to get to the Lava Fondue Showroom, we had to go down a hall in the back of the House of Bacon, past the bathrooms and the kitchen, and then up a ramp into a small alcove outfitted to look like a vintage hotel reception area. We showed our tickets to the girl behind the desk, and she told us to follow her as she swung open the bookcase to her left. It was totally Scooby-Doo. 

We walked through the bookcase entry and into the Showroom. There was a small stage at one end of the room; a bar against the wall, house left; and several cabaret tables filling the floor space. I'd say the whole place could seat a solid 50.  Damon and I took our places at the bar, ordered drinks, and perused the menu. Damon had never had fondue before, which seemed ABSURD, so we ordered the House Ale Fondue (a basic fondue with bread and veggies) and the Potatoes Dauphine (balls of deep fried mashed potato).  My official review: it was pretty good. I mean, the fondue was fondue. Like all fondue, there's never enough cheese, right? Which means the cheese must have been pretty good. Case closed.  And the mashed potato balls were fine, but they really needed salt and would have been great with a huge slab of butter on top. Or sour cream. Or both*.

At showtime, the place was packed. And the audience was a mixed bag. Most surprising to me was the number of people who looked over 70.  Not that I have a problem with that demographic. It just wasn't exactly what I expected.  And speaking of that demographic...Damon and I got totally off-topic while enjoying our cheese (which explains the dearth of notes about the meal)**. 

The lights went down, and a young woman stepped on stage. Music started and she began to dance. Not terribly well, but she started to unbutton her shirt, so I decided to withhold judgement.  A couple of other women joined her. They tried to dance suggestively with each other. It was not exactly embarrassing to watch; it was just...not sexy.  And here's a thing that may have made it LESS sexy: it became apparent that the grandparent-y people in the crowd WERE grandparents. Or parents. Here to watch their offspring perform. Like a common dance recital. And when "Jareth" came on stage with a gigantic codpiece and began rubbing it all over the dancers, these old people lost it. They hooted. They cat-called. I swear I heard a man in his mid 80's claim to be lifting (without his hands, mind you) the cabaret table he was slumped at.

I'm not sure if you're familiar with the Labyrinth story-line. I was not. And I believe I can say that I am still not. I watched the movie once. Sort of. My sister Heather had talked my mother into renting it at the Short Stop gas station in town along with one of the two VCR machines available. This was how it was done back in the day. And the Short Stop typically had three movies to choose from: Hot Dog...the Movie; Against All Odds; and Duran Duran's Rio video compilation. We had seen all three a million times. Evidently, Heather was ecstatic about the new video addition and badgered my mother to bring it home. I happened to be on the TV room couch convalescing from having my wisdom teeth removed*** when Heather started watching it. And so, I watched Labyrinth while zonked on Percocet. It was like a fever-fueled nightmare of sorts.  I guess in terms of accurate stage production, the Lava Fondue Showroom performance wasn't far off the mark.

I learned a few things watching my first burlesque show, and because of that, I consider the night a success. First, "burlesque" doesn't mean naked. It means dancing around in your underwear with band-aid things over your nipples.  Second, codpieces come in many different shapes and sizes. Third, grandparents will attend anything their grandchildren do and LOVE it.  Fourth, I have really good rhythm for a white girl because it was driving me crazy that Jareth couldn't seem to hump with the beat of the music. Last, the combination of cheese and bacon and fried potato makes Damon fart more than usual. Bad farts. So bad that he ended up changing his own answer on his fart survey.  Live and learn.

* But then again, these are suggestions from two individuals with blood pressures nearing the "Hypertensive Crisis" arena.

** So, Damon's parents are in Florida for the winter, and he had received a text from his father just as we ordered. I've tried to replicate the texted conversation accurately:

Dad:  HOW ARE YOU SON? HOT HERE WHAT ARE YOU DOING
Damon:  Why are you yelling?
Dad:  COOKIE AND DIANE ARE COMING OVER TONIGHT. AT 20:00
Damon: (...)
Dad: TONIGHT
Damon:  Are you guys planning on swinging?
Dad:  NOT SURE. WELL [sic] SEE WHAT HAPPENS
Needless-to-say, the two of us spent the following 30 minutes debating the meaning of this exchange, and the conclusion we came to was this: it totally sucks when you think you're slipping something funny into a conversation with your parents that you don't expect them to pick up on. But then they come back at you with a response that shakes your foundation. It happens a lot with my own mother, but Damon seemed to have had little experience with it. He totally didn't appreciate my lecture on at-least-your-parents-have-a-healthy-albeit-non-traditional-sexual-appetite. I tried several times to broach the topic, but apparently it's now "off limits".
*** "Removed" is a euphemism in this context. It was a hatchet job. It's also a story for another time. But let's just say, I am STILL spitting out bits of teeth that slowly erupt from my gums.