Wednesday, December 31, 2008

Why Women Hate Men

You'll never guess what I picked up for you on New Years Eve .... a MAN.

He's hilarious and he makes me cry/laugh. You must visit him at his blog, but also read his car advertisement on his companion blog. But then, when you're done, come back to me! Where's your solidarity?

Tuesday, December 30, 2008

The Hard Way - Conclusion

After one night of perfect safety and peace I felt stronger and optimistic that I could salvage this well-deserved tropical vacation. The ship was to sail to another island that day and I planned to go ashore. Of course I was freaked out about the possibility of a Dave Encounter but I figured there’d be lots of witnesses so I should be safe. Besides, I could not spend another day in my poo poo dungeon.

I wanted to play in the blue waves and get a tan on the white sandy beach. There were loads of local Caribbean women there shouting at me to buy this or buy that. One woman wanted to braid my hair for $10. I said all I had was $3 and she said sternly “I’ll do half. Sit here!” Obedient and stupid, I handed her my $3 allowance for the day and sat on the burning hot sand. Her thick black hands worked fast and strong, pulling little tiny strands of my blond hair into intricate rows. It looked like I had a little farm growing on my scalp. She finished the right side of my head and walked away. I felt stupid but I tried to play it off anyway. I spent the day on the beach and felt self-conscious the whole time. I met some nice people on the ship and small talked for a while. Then I told them the whole story and all about Dave. The asked if I’d like to join them for dinner that night. I was so happy to have someone to talk to, especially since they were going to pay for dinner. I was planning on leaving with Carlos, this ship waiter, later that night for some clubbing, but I’d have dinner with my new friends first.

I returned to my shit room for a shower and to dress for dinner and dancing. I noticed how warm I’d become. Really hot, actually. I stood in front of the little steamy mirror in the bathroom and beheld the scorching site of me. I was hot pink from head to toe, save the bikini lines. But worst of all was my scalp. Between each row was a raw strip of skin that resembled half cooked bacon. It felt like thumbtacks dipped in salt had been hammered into my head. But only on the one side. I slid on my black leather dress and four inch heals and left for the evening anyway.

After dinner I caught up with Carlos. He asked if I’d like to go have some fun with him on shore. Maybe go to a club and dance. I was ecstatic and I eagerly agreed. He was suave and polite. He looked pretty nice in a pair of white slacks and silk shirt. I’d be fine with him, I thought.

As we walked to a local club, I could sense a complete change in his demeanor. He dropped the suave routine as soon as we were away from the ship. Instead of small talk and polite questions, he was silent and fast moving. I was unsettled. We entered a small club with live reggae. He told me where to go and sit while he talked to his friends. Pretty soon he came over to the table to see what I wanted to drink. “A coke, please” I replied quite kindly. He looked shocked. “You can have some rum too, okay?” he said. “No, I don’t drink alcohol” I replied. He went to the bar and returned with a coke. He sat next to me and told me that I was being boring. I needed to learn to have fun. He seemed more and more impatient as the night wore on. We did not dance or talk. He just drank and pouted.

Carlos on the ship was different than Carlos off the ship. I had been such a sucker! Why had I thought Carlos would be any different than Dave? He just kept getting angrier and drunker. I kept getting hotter and more frightened. I got up the nerve to ask him if we could go back to the ship. He shot me a daring look and said “Go ahead, I’m staying!”

Oh shit, now I had to walk through the streets of a Caribbean town in my black leather dress, four inch heals, and half braided head. I’m sure anyone who saw me knew I was looking for a cruise ship. I was frightened and lost. I started to get a sick feeling and then I saw my ship. Thank God.

I returned to my shit hole and started to sob from relief and self-pity. I liked to watch myself cry really hard because there’s just something about the out of control contortions my face makes that normally I don’t get to see. So I sat in front of the mirror and watched myself cry while I tried to take out my tiny braids. It took over an hour and when I was done I checked for bleeding. My hair frizzed out like Rosanna Rosanna Danna on one side. I was too tired and depressed to take a shower, so I just laid down and cried myself to sleep.

I had managed to completely avoid Dave until we offloaded the ship. We were all standing around with our luggage waiting for our bus to the airport. That’s when the Purser Bitch asked us for our bus tickets. Oh my God! I don’t have any tickets!!! I told her that I didn’t have them. She stopped short, put on her very nicest grin, and said “That’s not my problem, ma’am.” Wow, what a twat. I pleaded with her “He took the tickets. I don’t have any money or credit cards, please just let me on the bus so that I can get to the airport!” She was pleased with my dilemma, you could tell by just looking at her. “Please, you can’t just leave me here!” and she gave me her favorite line “There’s nothing we can do.”

Dave had everything. I spotted him up ahead in the swarm of sunburned cruisers. He was standing there with his stupid square camera case strapped across his chest like a … well a tourist, I guess. By now I was no longer afraid of him, I was pissed. I stomped over to him and demanded my bus ticket and plane ticket. I stood there with my hand outstretched, palm up, waiting. He rummaged through his suitcase and made this puppy dog face and said “I thought you had them.” “What the Hell would I be doing with the tickets? Look in your stupid camera case, I saw you putting them in there a few days ago.” I said disgustingly. Sheepishly he pulled them out and handed them to me. Relief. “Here they are! I have a limo waiting for us at the airport if you need a ride back home?” he said in a most pathetic tone. “Fuck You! I never, ever want to see your face again!” I shouted and damn it felt so good. Then he asked for his jewelry back. Looking back I wish I would have kept it and then sold it for some new tires. But I took the high road and threw it at him instead.

As it was the very last day in the United States of America to fly on an airplane and smoke, I was quite happy to find myself in the smoking section. Not only that, but I had the last smoking seat, on the last day, with an empty seat next to me. I took the last $3.00 out of my purse and ordered a headset so that I could watch the movie and relax. I was grateful to be alive and going home to my little boy. I was happy not to have to spend another night in my shit hole eating turkey and mayo sandwiches and reading the same book over and over again. I was pleased with myself for telling off Dave, too.

Halfway through the flight, a big drunk guy stands over my seat and asks if he can sit down and have a smoke, as he was mistaken for a non-smoker when seat assignments were made. I said “sure”, being very careful to not give the impression that I was interested in chit-chat. I pointed to the headset stuck in my ears and ignored him. But it didn’t work. As soon as I’d begin to the movie he’d say something again. I tried to just ignore him but he was too drunk to get the message. He’d finish his cigarette and go back to his seat only to return a few minutes later for another one. Argh!!

“Hey, can I buy you a drink?” he slurred. “No, I don’t drink” I said in a monotone, irritated response. He replied “Neither do I!” He had a surprised look on his face, like we just found out we were distant cousins or something. “Oh really? Then why are you holding a vodka and slurring your words?” I snipped. He replied sadly “Well, I hadn’t had drink for a couple of years, but I’m afraid of flying and I slipped today.” I was stunned. His atonement slapped me in the face. He suddenly looked frail and helpless. I told him that I hadn’t had a drink for a couple of years either. I told him he could sit next to me if he wanted to. He slumped next to me and all his former bullshit just slipped away. He was so humble and grateful that I let him sit next to me. When the stewardess passed by he handed her the vodka and asked for coffee. He kept drinking the coffee and we talked about drinking and talked about being sober for hours.

After at least a pot of coffee (and zero movies) we heard the captain make his announcement “We will be landing soon ….” The man next to me tensed up and fell silent. He asked me if I would hold his hand while we landed. Now I know you think I’m a sucker, but I had to hold his hand. I was so brave and he was so scared. I was so sober and he was just sober. I remember the feeling of the wheels touching down and his big hand squeezing my skinny little hand. I thought that maybe this was why I had to go on the trip, just to sit next to this guy and help him get on his feet on the ground.

When we got off the plane, he gave me a big bear hug and thanked me for helping him get sober. In the corner of my eye, I spotted my mom and my little son. I said goodbye to the man and headed over to my family. Little Sean had been staying with his father and caught pneumonia. This sweet little pale face looked gaunt and tired. He had dark circles under his beautiful blue eyes. My heart aches today just as much as it did then, when I think about him being sick without me. I was so grateful to be home, with Sean.

When I returned to the law office the next day, I told my boss, Steve, about the horrible ordeal. He was much older and had a reputation for being a hot-head. After hearing my story, he shook his head in a disapproving way and said “Sharon, there are only two kinds of guys in this world, guys who want to get you in bed, and gay ones. And if they say they’re neither, they’re lying.” I hoped he was one of the gay ones. Yuk.

I hung onto the key from my shit hole and the postcard from Dave for many years. I wanted to always remember that in this world, you just can’t get something for nothing. But I had to learn the hard way, didn’t I.

The End

10 Questions for Real Friends

You know those "get to know you" emails? There's a list of questions to answer about yourself and then you send it back to the sender and all your friends. I need to know who writes these questions and what are they trying to get at? For example, whether a person prefers spicy, cheesy or plain hamburgers is of no interest to me at all.

Here are questions from the BloggerQueen for you to answer and pass around. They are so much more interesting. Please feel free to cut and paste this into an email and pass it around. You should also write your answers in my comments for the blog. Come on, I dare you ...

10 Questions for Real Friends

1. Would you ever get plastic surgery? If so, what?
2. Who would you kill if you got a Get out of Trouble Free, card?
3. Did you ever make yourself throw-up just so that you can fit more in?
4. One Night Stands ... good or bad?
5. What's in your underwear drawer besides underwear?
6. Did you ever damage a car without leaving a note?
7. If you had to give someone a blow-job, who would it be:
Michael Jackson or Dick Cheney?
8. What's your favorite color (no, just kidding. Who gives shit?)
9. What have you lied about to impress people?
10. Ever went streaking? Tell me all about it.

Thursday, December 18, 2008

Me, but older

You think you’re cool? Even though you’re a grown-up, you still have some style left, right? You’re not quite as thin and tight as you were when you were younger but guys still check you out sometimes. They’re usually old but hey, what the hell. Maybe sometimes you can squeeze your ass into something from the juniors section. After all, aren’t those other departments for people a bit low on the cool scale?

Yesterday morning I thought I was somewhat, a little bit, hopefully cool and hip. By afternoon the veil of denial was lifted and there stood a middle-age woman. Me, but older. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of the Older Me in the mirror at the gym. I’ll be running on the treadmill and feeling really awesome about myself. I’ll have my iPod blasting techno punk and I’m visualizing my goddess self running through a dark damp forest and kicking butt along the way. Then, out of the corner of my eye, is the Older Me in the mirror. She does not look like a techno punk goddess running through a forest; she looks like a floppy housewife with a bright pink face. My legs are not gazelle-like, in fact with each step my feet kind of wind outward and I look like a sissy dork trying to catch up with the cool kids.

What brought this all on was a trip to the consignment shop yesterday. I’m ashamed to say that I was trying to pawn some clothes and shoes for Starbucks money. I had some feeling of dread as I approached the hip, cool, 20-something shop across the street from the J.C. But, sadly, I had faith in myself again.

I plopped my three paper grocery bags on the counter and filled out some paperwork. The sweet young shopkeeper (I’ll call her Carnela, I just made it up) said to be patient, that there were two people ahead of me. I decided to get a healthy fruit smoothie a few doors down. Too bad, on the way was a pizza shop that sold by-the-slice. They made me come in and eat a piece. But it was only $2.50.

Then I returned to the consignment shop and tried on some jeans that barely covered my c-section scar. They looked fine as long as I was standing in front of the mirror and holding in my stomach; but my food babies were going to pour over the top like a root beer float on a hot day if I bent over. I decided to get some t-shirts for my YOUTHFUL nephews while I waited. Only $18.00 for four shirts.

Carnela called me over to the counter to tell me how much money she’d give me for my fabulously cool shoes and skirts. Apologetically, she said “I’m sorry; your items are too mature. We won’t be able to take them.” I laughed and dropped my head. The reality set in while I replayed the assault out loud “… too MATURE? Oh my God!” Then out of sheer pity she said “but we’ll take this pair of sandals. Is $6.00 okay?”

All in all, the hour of humiliation cost me $14.50 and probably 25 grams of fat. But as cracked as my delicate ego was, I did finally arrive in the Reality Department, third floor. I looked at the girls shopping in the store and tried to picture them in my black patent leather sling back Franco Sartos and came to the conclusion that they would only wear my stuff to a job interview … at funeral home. And I would only wear their clothes to a costume party. So, we’re even.

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

Merry Christmas Blogger Queen!

Want to know what you can get Blogger Queen for Christmas? It won't cost you a cent or even much time:

1. Send your favorite Blogger Queen story to some friends with a link to

2. Check out my advertisers. They are important to me, personally.

3. Leave comments. You don't have to be witty or even spell anything correctly. But unless you leave a comment, I don't know if anyone's out there. It's really easy to leave a comment. You can either be yourself or anonymous, I don't care. But I read all the comments, I can promise that.

Thank you so much for reading my posts and supporting me. (You see, I can be serious sometimes!).

Love and Cheer,
Sharon the Blogger Queen

P.S. The Hard Way - Part IV is coming ...

Monday, December 15, 2008

The Hard Way - Part III

I only had a few minutes before I knew he’d return to the ship’s cabin to either find me packing or discover me gone. I spotted a postcard and a small box on the desk. Dave the Platonic Friend had spent a short afternoon on the tiny tourist trap island in the Caribbean and apparently brought back a gift for me. The card was rich with oblivious remarks about his love for me. He wanted me to spend the evening with him at the casino on the island. I opened the small box and there was a diamond and topaz pendant necklace. The gemstone was the size of two mini marshmallows and hung from a delicate gold chain. I was horrified.

I threw all my clothes and cosmetics in my cheap little suitcase that I borrowed from my mom. I took the necklace and the postcard. The whole episode took less than five minutes and I was out the cabin door and running down the hallways. My heart was pounding, terrified that he’d see me and flip-out. He was obviously unbalanced and potentially dangerous. He had tricked me into coming on this stupid cruise and taken advantage of me in my sleep. I hated him even more because of the necklace and the postcard.

I had to keep going lower and lower in the ship before I finally reached my little cabin. The Purser Bitch who obviously thought I was a harlot gave me a cabin that nobody else wanted. She said there was a prior plumbing problem but it was “all they had.” I opened the little oval door with my key on a little red oval key ring. Instantly I was kicked back with the strong smell of the Bowels of Hell. The stench made me gag. The ship’s doors are all the same, you have to step over the bottom to get in or out. This apparently served as a kind of reservoir for shit water that spilled from the bathroom and into the cabin during the prior plumbing problem. It had soaked into the freshly shampooed carpet, but the reek was still there.

As fast as I could, I lugged my suitcase over the door ledge, turned on the little light, and locked the door behind me. I was a safe prisoner. I had four nights left on this free vacation, but my measly $100 had already been depleted by half. This was an all-inclusive cruise; all the booze, food, and gas station owners you wanted, but I only wanted the food. By now Dave probably realized that the cabin was vacated and he must be falling apart, surely crying into a pillow and planning his hunt for me. There was no way to leave the the cabin. I pictured him in my frightened imagination creeping through the hallways and waiting to pounce. I found there was an in-room menu but the only items that were complimentary were cold sandwiches. “Good enough” I said and dialed the number.

The room was much like my previous one, but only had one small bed. There was no window because it was so far down in the ship. My sentence was all too quiet with no television or radio, this allowed my mind to conjure up the very worst scenarios and feel completely hateful for him and me. When my pathetic dinner was delivered the knock on the door made me jump. I wouldn’t answer until they said “room service!”

That night the ship was on the move and the weather was rough. I was awakened with the violent rocking of the ship and overwhelming nausea. I stumbled toward the bathroom and threw up my turkey and mayo on white sandwich in the little silver airplane toilet. Alas, the rejection of my stomach’s contents did not relieve my sickness and the smell of the room was fierce. I had no choice, I had to open the door and let some air in. It seems that every other poor fool on the cheap deck had the same idea. For as far as I could see down the hall, doors were opened and the sound and smell of retching was thunderous.

The need for fresh air was absolutely necessary, Dave could go to hell. Besides he was probably still wallowing with his broken heart and planning our murder/suicide. I threw on a summer dress, grabbed my key and my smokes, and headed for the deck.

The ship was rocking back and forth but the night clubs and dining rooms were still lively. There were about 50 of us on the deck in front of the wheel house. The night was wicked and beautiful. The waves crashed against the ship and sent curtains of water splinters over me, then the warm wind would take its turn and blow them off. The bright moonlight lit the wave caps and outlined the clouds drifting quickly past. It made me feel powerful to leave the cabin, like I had just given Dave the finger and said “Go ahead, what are you going to do about it Skinny?” and I fantasized about throwing him overboard.

One of the ship’s waiters came up to me to ask if I needed anything and inquired about my trip. I spilled my guts in a very dramatic way. He was very tall, dark, and sort of handsome. He apologized for my bad luck and invited me to go to shore with him the following night – his night off. I instantly agreed and was happy that some nice man had taken pity on me and offered to take me out on the town. Because, after all, didn’t I deserve something nice? If I had scrutinized the situation, I would have appreciated the similarities, but again, I was too involved with the prize to consider the price.

To be continued

Friday, December 12, 2008

The Hard Way - Part II

I was going on a seven day cruise to the Caribbean with Dave, my platonic friend. We’d fly from California to Florida where our ship would launch the following day. All expenses were paid; I just needed souvenir and cigarette money. It was really hard, but I scratched up $100. This meant that an essential bill would not be paid, but it simply had to be. Fall out be damned!

We arrived at our hotel in Florida. It was a tall tacky looking white building with turquoise chairs and faded pink flowers made out of crinkly fabric stuck in white pots. At the heavily lacquered front desk they handed us our keys … to the same room. I felt very uncomfortable about sharing a room with Dave my platonic friend but he seemed super happy. When we opened the room door and walked past the fluorescently lit bathroom I saw the bed. One king bed. I had a horrible feeling that he requested it this way but I didn’t have the nerve to ask or argue. He assured me that he was sorry we had to share a bed but he would be a perfect gentleman.

That night, who knows what time, I was lost in deep sleep. I was half conscious but aware of some cuddling. Not wanting to wake up and not knowing who it was, I just enjoyed the body heat. But it went further and then too far. Before I had a chance to fully wake-up and resist, it was over. I felt sick and scared. I questioned myself and my motives. Did I bring this on? Did I try and stop him? Finally, I resolved to believe the easiest thing for me to handle and still go on my cruise. I talked myself into believing that I liked him more than I thought I did. I sucked it up and said to myself “Well, I guess we aren’t just friends anymore” and I went on with the voyage as planned.

Deep down, but not very deep, I was humiliated and really angry at him and myself. But if I allowed myself to feel those feelings I would have to do something about them and I just couldn’t bare it.

Boarding the cruise ship was more dramatic than I’d dreamed. The massive entryway with inside/outside carpeting being inundated with tourists of every kind was overwhelming. I’ve never liked being in a giant crowd of people because I believe they are all looking at me. This is an indicator of an ego large enough to necessitate a massive entryway. Dave knew many of our fellow shipmates because Union 76, the gas station that he owned, had given away hundreds of these incentive vacations. He would introduce me as his “friend, Sharon” but I could not mistake a certain twinkle in his eye. I wished he would just spell it out for them “This is Sharon; she’s willing to do ANYTHING for a vacation!”

We each had a key to the room, but he used his to enter the cabin. It was a teeny tiny room with one little round window like the ones you see in the old ship movies. There was a bathroom that looked exactly like the one on the plane and there were two thin beds against opposite walls about three feet apart from each other. This meant I was safe while I was sleeping in my catatonic state.

He was so impressed with everything – like a 13-year old on her first limo ride. I just wanted to slap him to knock some of the enthusiasm out of him. It was only a cruise ship, for God’s sake, not exactly the Plaza Hotel! We dressed for dinner as if we were going to a fine restaurant. I wore one of my work dresses from my law firm job as a legal secretary, and he wore grey slacks that his mother must have picked out for him in junior high. His short sleeve blue shirt was tucked in sloppy and his tie was wide enough for Ed McMahon. Astonishingly, he blended in nicely with the rest of the winners from Union 76.

I could tell this mess hall really wanted to be a fine restaurant what with the massive chandeliers hanging down and all, but it felt more like the Titanic (there, I just couldn’t write another word without making that connection). The poly-blend table linens, that’s an oxymoron by the way, were the same pale pink as the fake flowers from the hotel. I loath this color, especially when it’s mixed with turquoise and fake crystals. We were sitting with a large table of gas station owners with bad table manners.

When we returned to our, what would you call it, State Room, he opened the lid on top of his head and let all of his crazy thought bubbles out to float around the room. “Pop – I love being with you, you’re so beautiful – Pop – This is an amazing time in my life with you – Pop - I would like to have children – Pop – with you – Pop Pop – We could adopt if you don’t want to have any more – POP!” Oh shit.

I heard my heart beating in my stomach where all the rice pilaf and chicken Cordon bleu was sitting. I wanted to go home to my money problems, my mundane job, and my sweet little son, but I was stuck on a ship with this crazy guy. I couldn’t sleep that night for fear that he’d make his away across the 36 inches that separated us. It's not that he was large, muscular, or tough in any way, but crazy carries a lot of weight on the danger scale.

The next day we stopped at some island designed just for cruise ship tourists but I couldn’t get off the ship with him. I told him to go without me, that I wanted to rest. After some soul searching and a nap, I went to the Ship’s Purser to explain my situation and ask for help. “I went on this cruise with a man claiming to be a ‘friend’ but he’s taken advantage of me in my sleep and now he’s talking crazy talk. I’m really afraid to find out what he’s going to do next! I need to get out of that room this afternoon while he’s on the island, please.”

Her expression was flat. Her chin dropped and she peered at me over her glasses so that she resembled a stereotypical school teacher and replied “I’m sorry miss, there’s nothing we can do.” We? Who the hell was she referring to and why couldn’t “they” understand that I had an unstable roommate. She had no empathy no matter how much I pleaded, so I resorted to frantic threats. “Listen, if he rapes me in the middle of the night, I will sue you. Personally. You are ignoring an imminent threat on board. Isn’t it your responsibility to keep your passengers safe? I’m writing all of this down for the Complaint which I shall file as soon as I return to my law firm. She sighed as if to say “I give up” and said they did have one room available. She gave me a key.

During my bitch exchange, I had hoped Dave had not returned to the room. It seemed that admitting my predicament out loud served to snap me into quite a state of terror, the kind where I was running down hallways as if someone was chasing me. But I didn’t make it in time. He had returned to the room and left again. I knew because he left a box and a card addressed to me.

To be continued

Thursday, December 11, 2008

The Hard Way - Part I

Ridiculous, really, that I thought I could get something for nothing. But it is one of the lessons in life that must be learned the hard way. This is the story of


I was dating another car mechanic, his name was Dave. It was a symbiotic relationship: I was saddled with a 1978 Cutlass with four bald tires, a dead alternator, and dirty oil; and Dave was naive and needy, two personality traits that I would usually avoid when dating but I had certain automotive needs and he owned the station.

When I agreed to a date with him, I tried to mean it. I energized myself with the potential of finally finding a “nice” guy. I only lasted a couple of dates before I exhausted my supply of denial. Nice guys were not my gig. I simply advised him that although he did nothing wrong we were meant to just be friends, but that’s all. He took it well on the outside. His insides had other ideas.

I would still go to his gas station once in awhile to say ‘hi’ and keep this friendship balloon full of helium a little longer. One afternoon, as I was pumping the last three dollars I had into my gigantic V8 engine, he quick-stepped out of the garage, wiping his oily thin hands on a dirty red rag. His hair was so thin that it looked painted on his head and his features were almost boyish. But he was “nice.”

“Guess what? I have some good news!” he shouted before he even reached me. “My station won a free cruise for two to the Caribbean!” His shit brown eyes were round, surrounded by his feminine lashes, looking downright innocent.

“That’s great.” I said with fake enthusiasm. Why did he have all the luck? I was put out and full of self-pity. Here I was a single-mother with no financial support or real education trying to support my 4-year old son. Things had gotten very bad for us. Here’s a glimpse: I stole toilet paper from work because I’d run out at home and had no money to buy more. My son would have water on his cereal, if we had cereal. I was rolling coins to buy gas. So vacations were not on the horizon, not even in the peripheral.

He was quiet for a minute and then said “I want you to go.” I was confused. Did he want to give me the trip or take me with him? I didn’t know whether I should automatically accept or get more information. But, God, a cruise? That would be so lovely I couldn’t even imagine it. But no matter, I could not accept such a huge gift from a “friend”, could I? He said he knew how hard it was for me and I deserved a vacation. A break from all of this and that and he was right. I really deserved it, in fact, the world owed me this. I was Cinderella part one long enough and I wanted to be Cinderella part two! But I could tell by the puppy dog look that he was going too.

“Dave, there’s no way I can go on a cruise, especially with you. We’re just friends remember? I’ve explained that to you.” He looked amused and patronizing. “Of course, Sharon. I’m not insinuating anything else. I understand we’re just friends but I think you need this more than anyone else I know. We’ll just go as friends.” I couldn’t resist.

to be continued ....

Tuesday, December 9, 2008

The House with STDs

What's the first thing you do when you know someone is coming to the house? Stash that crap!

I have an appointment with the cable guy this morning. His name is John and he's going to bundle my services and save me $30 per month. According to my husband, that works out to $360 a year. This is almost the exact price of a iPod Touch that my daughter wants for Christmas. So, keep your fingers crossed honey.

The appointment was for 8:00am. This left me hardly any time to prepare: I sprayed smelly stuff in the downstairs bathroom that always smells like pee. I blame this on the previous owners' eight-year old son. Boys are notorious for peeing on floors and I'm not convinced that some other people in this house have grown out of it. We've tried everything to evacuate the smell except ripping the subfloor out and replacing all the plumbing.

Then I cleaned the bedrooms (i.e., I systematically shut each door). I hauled the pile of little shoes, backpacks, and discarded lunch bags from the entry hall. Lastly, I brushed my hair but forgot my teeth.

When the cable guy came to his appointment this morning, he thought he'd be dealing with a responsible adult so he's talking in big words like router and co-ax like I know what he's getting at. I just nod and say "Hmmm" and "uh-huh" and he keeps on going, bless his little heart. "Where's the access to the crawl space?" he says. Shit! Its in the worst bedroom in the most horrible closet. I hope he doesn't have dust allergies or a weak stomach. I was also forced to give him access to the girls room and I could almost hear his voice in my head "Is this the best you can do all day?" I'm hoping he thinks I have a full-time important job that keeps me from organizing and cleaning all day.

John is going to disconnect me all day long. No television, no internet, no phone, no music. Obviously this is a conspiracy to make me clean all those embarrassing areas out of sheer boredom and shame. I feel like I'm at the gynecologists office and I just accidentally farted during the exam. This is humiliating.

Friday, December 5, 2008

Looking for a Fight?

I was shopping in a grocery store that wasn't familiar to me. This takes extra focus and patience because they put everything in the wrong place. I usually start from the right of the store in produce and make my way through each and every aisle except for pet food and cleaning products, both of which I let other people deal with. I always finish up in the bread/bakery section on the far left. I do not stray from my pattern.

In this alien store, I was perplexed because the produce was on the left. What a stupid, stupid place to keep the produce. Everyone knows its supposed to be on the other side of the store, God! So I gather a cantaloupe and a head of lettuce. I only had a few items to get so I skipped some aisles. I didn't want to financially support a grocery store that ignored logic and had it all wrong. At last I entered the final section on the other side of the store and that's when I noticed my purse was missing.

My heart stopped and I turned red all over. My adrenaline kicked on hyper speed mode and I ran .... RAN .... to the front of the store so that I could watch the exit doors. I grabbed a large guy that worked there and said "My purse is missing from my cart. I think someone stole it! Watch the exits for a big red purse!" I paced like a shark. I played out the scenario in my head of how I was going to get my purse back. I do this all the time; imagine different scenarios where I need to get my kids out of a burning building, stave off a rapist, roll out of a moving vehicle, rescue a choking victim, chase a kidnapper in my car, ad infinitum. I think I'm ready for anything.

As I'm stalking for my opponent, I realize how I can trap him. I tell the grocery guy "Call my cell phone! Its in my purse" Ha ha ha!!! Perfect. It will ring, they won't be able to turn it off and I'll get 'em. It was late and the store was rather empty so it was quiet enough to hear the custom ring tone. We waited and hushed and listened. Ready to pounce.

RING, RING, RING .... The grocery guy and I locked eyes and I said in a quiet evil voice "I'm going to drop kick the mother fucker" I full throttle sprinted to the left of the store to take back what's mine. There it was, my big red purse in a shopping cart. Also in the the shopping cart was a cantaloupe and some lettuce. I looked around and no one was there. Confused and a little disappointed, I returned to the front of the store. I looked in the other cart and realized it wasn't mine. I had stolen someone's cart way back in the vegetable aisle. Apparently the person who had their cart stolen just gave up and got a new cart. My purse and cart were sitting there all alone for about 30 minutes, nothing was missing.

I had to admit to the grocery guy and the manager what a huge mistake I had made. I was apologetic and humiliated. The manager assured me that people lose their carts all the time (yah, probably old people)and there was nothing to be embarrassed about. The grocery guy said quietly "I've never heard anyone say 'I'm going to drop kick the mother-fucker' before." His eyes were all wide and innocent.

This is why my husband worries about me.

Thursday, December 4, 2008

Poopy Pets

Did I mention that I'm an inventor? Well, I am. I made up the Poopie Pets! This one is named Party Pooper and he hates to have any fun at all. He just lays there and has a really stinky personality.

Monday, December 1, 2008

Jesus was Not Even a Capricorn!

I wrote this poem just for you. Merry Christmas!

Jesus Was Not Even a Capricorn!

Clawing out of Thanksgiving Fog
Stumbling into the Christmas Blizzard
Writing the cards that nobody reads
Forgetting to mail them, again.

‘Tis the obligatory merry-ish season
Deck the halls with remorse and debt
Hark the angel's fall from treetop
Tra la la la la, I wish I were a Jew

Oh Holy Shit
I forgot to invite my mother-in-law
Oh Holy Night
I'm out of her Will, again.

Written by Sharon the BloggerQueen
copyright 2008