Category: blog

The other day I arrived home to find someone had pulled my rubbish bins in from the street, pulled my gate shut, and placed my pruners on a bench outside my back door. I asked several people if they were party to this and all said no. After being home a few hours I stepped outside to throw something in a bin and discovered it and the other bins were full – they were pulled in prior to being emptied by the city. This took the suspicious level up a notch.

 

A few days later, I stopped by a friend’s place to ‘get my hair done.’ The next morning (real morning for me – before 8 AM), as I did the drive of shame through my neighborhood, I noticed a man sitting on my rock wall. I got closer and realized it was TooStalky.

 

“How you doing?” he asked, emphasizing the ‘ing,’ as usual. “Fine. What are you doing?” I replied. “Waiting to work at your neighbor. When this finish (points to the leaves on my tree) I come back and clean up the rest, maybe mow your lawn,” he told me. “Clean up the rest?” I asked. “I rake leaves for you the other day. Front yard, back yard. You give me some money?” Mystery solved – makes so much sense, I can’t believe I didn’t think of him right away. “I didn’t know you did, didn’t ask you to, and don’t have any money on me,” I said. “Come on, you always have money. Just give me a little bit.” “Not today,” I replied.

 

I could see why someone may think I would have cash on me. Although I wasn’t in my heather grays, I was returning home early in the morning, hair ‘styled,’ coat buttoned all the way, wearing tights and high heel boots – kind of suspect. Despite how things may have looked, I still had no cash. As hard as it is for a pimp out there, it’s even harder for someone who just wants their hair styled every now and again.

While chatting with ROFL about pomegranates he told me he doesn’t eat the entire aril – he basically eats to the seed and then spits the seed out. His coworker interjected, “I used to eat all of it, but the miss doesn’t like them, so now we sit on the porch and spit the seeds out.” “You have a miss again? When did that happen? Was that from your online dating?” I asked. “Yep. One date and a few months later we’re still spitting seeds,” he replied.

 

“That online stuff works for people his age. For people your age…” ROFL started to say and then stopped mid-sentence. “My age? Really?” “I’m just saying, I wouldn’t want to be dating at my age, let alone online, ” he said and added, “It just seems as people get older they have more baggage.”  “I may have junk in my trunk, but I do not have baggage,” I replied. “Either way, they’re checked the same,” his coworker quipped. “That’s it. I’m backing this trunk up. Beep, beep, beep, beep,” I told them and backed out of their office space with my junk high in the air. “I’m off to change the age on my dating profile.”

While in New York, Bruiser’s beau told us we had to go see a specific psychic. Apparently, he had been to her the day before and found everything she said to be spot on. I’m not a believer in that stuff, but I like reading my horoscope occasionally  – if I don’t like what I read, I just read a different sign – so I figured I would try it.

 

Part of my skepticism comes from the fact that I have waited outside the door of a psychic’s place of business on more than one occasion. In my opinion, if they are really psychic, they should known I’m coming and be ready and waiting.

 

Oreggano went before me and, because the psychic didn’t have change for a ten dollar bill (again, should have known/been prepared), Oreggano paid for my visit. Within two minutes – almost halfway through my extraordinary time with her – she informed me I would be getting back with the guy I was married to that one time I was married. She also told me I was surrounded by negative energy and that I was concerned about education.

 

I can guarantee the getting back together won’t happen (but I did pick up my wedding dress from my mom’s house, just in case); I am concerned about the psychic’s education – or lack thereof; and I don’t find Oreggano, Sleepless, Live Longer or Beaner to be negative energy. In fact, their energy was quite positive until I told them I’d be getting back with my ex.

 

Psychics are supposed to have some sort of extrasensory perception (ESP), but I don’t believe it – especially after that comment about my ex. I think they’ve got ESD – (ex)trasensory deception and, luckily for them, people don’t always have change for a ten.

 

It’s official, I have no foreign objects in my body to declare. I can safely and honestly pass through Customs. Well, I still have France in my pants, but that’s OK, everybody loves France.

 

When I met with my doctor to remove my IUD, she was quite concerned about what I might do to prevent pregnancy. Clearly, she doesn’t read the blog. I advised her pregnancy is not a concern or even an option for me at this time, however, should any opportunities arise, I would dip into my winning Obama condoms.

 

She removed the IUD, held it up to show me and asked, “Would you like to keep it as a souvenir?” “It would look really spectacular in my shadow box full of used condoms,” I replied.

 

Ultimately, I ended up leaving the IUD with her to dispose of – I don’t want to have to declare or explain anything to others.

According to Dr. Eric Gaze and The National Numeracy Network, in order to maintain a ‘stable global population,’ every woman must have 2 children. Doing so, helps ‘replace’ herself and the baby daddy (assuming, of course, there is only one baby daddy).

 

Based on these numbers, I’m not entirely doing my part; neither are most of my friends. Instead of making babies, I’ve been in the business of preventing them, via the use of contraceptive devices and not sharing or shaving my nether regions – the latter appears to be the most effective contraceptive. Apparently, it is time for me to step up.

 

I primarily came to this conclusion, not because of Dr. Gaze and the triple N, rather, because of costs.  Based on insurance coverage for contraceptives, compared to costs and tax incentives for dependents, it appears to be more cost effective for me to ditch contraceptive devices, think globally, and have another baby.

 

My out-of-pocket cost ($500) for a new contraceptive implant is as much, actually more, than a global ready mobile phone and I don’t get a ‘new every two’ option. “If I’m going to think globally, I’d rather do so by getting a global ready phone with a nice camera so I can take pictures of my contributions to a stable global population,” I told That’s Not Chinese.  “Well, you might want to make sure you hook up with someone internationally this time,” she advised me and added, “By the way, it costs you nothing to pick up condoms at Planned Parenthood.”

 

She makes a good point. Free is far less expensive than the cost of a new, global ready phone. Although, I do need a new, global ready phone and I really don’t need a global, fetus ready body.

 

That said, it isn’t like I haven’t attempted to maintain a stable global population; I do have MiniMe. So, for now, I’ll just spend the money on a new phone, ‘check in’ at places like Planned Parenthood, and hope for the best.

Being that Tree and I are both single, we often discuss dating, crushes and the like. Tree recently decided to try online dating, without much success, “I think the word is out on the street that all I want to do is cuddle, so nobody is interested.” I suggested he cuddle with FatGirl and he replied, “He always wants to do more.”

 

Later that night, while at a gay bar with Tree and FatGirl, I met one of their friends who told me (when asked how he knew FatGirl), “We used to party together years ago; we’d do ecstasy and then cuddle. He always wanted to do more, but I didn’t let him.” “That’s the second time I’ve heard that today,” I replied.

 

The next night, I stopped by Sleepless and Ice Cream Man’s house. We were discussing the cuddling comments when Ice Cream Man said, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your movie suggestions. Why did you think we would like a porn about a gay 16-year-old in Thailand?” “What are you talking about?” I asked. “The movie you recommended, Boy,” Sleepless interjected. “Boy is about an 11-year-old kid in New Zealand who is obsessed with Michael Jackson and yearning for a relationship with his dad,” I advised. “Not on Netflix,” Ice Cream Man quickly informed me, then said, “We’ll show you. One more shot and we’re watching porn.”

 

Sure enough, Boy is a film about a 16-year-old boy in Thailand who hooks up with (this includes cuddling) a young male dancer at a gay club. Oh, boy. Being that the New Zealand version also includes a young boy and dancing, I can see how the two could be confused.

 

 

 

November, while recognized as a month dedicated to increasing awareness about men’s health – specifically prostate and testicular cancer – has been a month dedicated to drag queens for me.

 

In the past two weeks, I’ve been to two drag shows, dressed in drag, watched Paris is Burning, and received drag queen make-up tips from Live Longer. If Tootsie was Drag Queen 101, I’m in the master’s program. From all of these things, I’ve learned you might be a drag queen if you:

• wear high heels
• overline your lips
• draw on your eyebrows
• wear a lot of eye makeup
• have big hair
• own and wear wigs
• own props
• are attracted to men
• are attracted to women
• can dance
• can’t dance
• like being on a stage

 

The last, and most important trait (second only to appearance), is this:

• you can lip sync

 

If, however, you cannot lip sync well, or at all, do not fret, it is not a priority. A good portion of the queens we recently watched perform appeared to have learned to lip sync by watching old Chinese movies with English (poorly) dubbed in. For me, this made the performance far more entertaining and kept me on the edge of my seat wondering, “Will they move their mouth at the same time as the lyrics?” Not always, and it didn’t seem to matter.

 

It got even better when their bottom lip quivered. Lip quivering during a performance is the sign of a skilled lip syncing drag queen – an art learned after years of practice, much like tucking. If you can lip (quiver) sync and tuck, you definitely might be a drag queen. Just like we’re all a little bit country and a little bit rock n’ roll, we’re all probably a little bit drag. As RuPaul so wisely said, “We all came into this world naked. The rest is all drag.”

With the day of all feasts upon us, Live Longer and I decided it would be a good idea to have muumuus set aside, just in case we needed them.

 

Thus, I grabbed a couple of my muumuus, threw them in the bag with the heavy whipped cream, brandy, port, wine, pies and cheesecake and headed to her house.

 

As we finished the main course, and we were just about to pull out desserts and our muumuus, Oper arrived – in a muumuu. “I had to wear it today. It makes things so much easier,” she told us while slicing a piece of apple pie, throwing a dollop of whipped cream on it and then filling her wine glass.

 

Following her lead, Live Longer, Big Bounty and I put on my muumuus. “This is absolutely fantastic,” Big Bounty exclaimed. “You may never get that back,” Live Longer told me.

 

We continued to enjoy dessert and then, a few hours after we had eaten dinner, we enjoyed dinner again. It wouldn’t be Thanksgiving if you didn’t eat it twice in one night. And, there’s no point in wearing a muumuu if you’re not going to put it to the test.

 

The second test we put it to was Black Friday shopping – no point in being all dressed up with nowhere to go. So, we paired our muumuus with some incredibly comfortable, but not entirely stylish, house slippers and headed to the store.

 

At some point we got separated – you know you’re a confident woman when you’ll walk around the store by yourself in a muumuu and house slippers. At one point, Live Longer got tired and sat in a wheelchair to get some rest. “Nice dress,” one of the patrons told her. “It’s a muumuu,” she schooled them.

 

Once we found each other, we decided to take a seat on some of the furniture they were selling and peruse the ad. “When I was in the wheelchair it seemed griddles were the big item,” Live Longer told me. A sales associate approached us and asked if there was something she could help us find. “No. I think we just drank a lot and decided to come here,” Live Longer advised her. “We’re just here to people watch,” I added. People watch and be people watched. “Some girl in pajama bottoms looked me over. Can you believe that?” Live Longer said. “No. Takes a lot of gall. Muumuus are way more fashionable,” I consoled her.

 

Once we decided to get up and walk around again a customer said to us, “I thought those were robes, but they’re muumuus. My mother wears a muumuu; she’s 70.” “They’re fantastic, very comfortable and fit everybody,” Live Longer replied. The woman gave us another once over, looked around her immediate area and said, “Not everybody.”

 

Whether they fit everybody or not, they were very fitting for us last night and may become our  new go-to outfit. That said, hope you don’t mind if I muu.

Lately, my friends, coworkers and I have been discussing one-night stands v. three-day lay…over. Some may say these conversations are better saved for therapy. I’d rather spend money on flasks and wine with friends than pay a copay.

 

A one-night stand, according to Wikipedia and anyone who has ever had one, is a single sexual encounter (typically in the evening), in which neither party has any intention or expectation of a relationship to come from the experience. In many cases, anything beyond the one-night might be dreadful. Perfect segway to the three-day lay…over – not to be confused with a casual relationship (sexual relationship without romantic involvement).

 

The three day lay…over, not found on Wikipedia, occurs when one experiences three one-night stands with the same person, however, not necessarily three days in a row. Typically, there are layovers in between the lays and then, after the third lay, it is over. Third time is not the charm, it is the alarm.

 

The ‘over’ part is interesting. Somehow, both parties fail to contact the other (much like the one-night stand) and, in most cases, one is left wondering, “Was it something I said?” Nope, can’t be that, there wasn’t much talking involved in this encounter – just sexing and snoring. “Was it something they said?” Who knows, you weren’t listening.

 

It was what it was, a three-day lay…over. So, one-night stand v. three-day lay…over, I can’t give a fair opinion until I can compare both fairly. I sense a treatise in my future.

I would be a liar if I said I’d never heard a story about a man having sex with a horse. I would be an even bigger liar if I said I only knew of one such story.

 

Living in a state where farming and being a cowboy is a big deal, we’ve got lots of horses and, apparently, lots of horse’s asses – pun intended.

 

Recently, a man in the Southern part of the state was charged with having sex with horses. Yes, plural. Apparently his sister notified authorities when she found ‘several items’ that caused her to think her brother might, in fact, be having sex with horses.

 

This makes me wonder, “How would one know which items one might possess if they are into horse sex?” A coworker suggested that perhaps the sister found chocolates and flowers. “Maybe. Next to what, though? A bucket of apples and a gallon of Mane ‘n Tail?” I asked. “Probably. And, perhaps, Barry White playing on a boom box,” he replied. “Which song?” I asked. “What Am I Gonna Do With You,” he suggested.

 

We’ll most likely, and hopefully, never know – which is fine with me. That shit is bucked up – ‘Neigh’ means ‘Neigh!’