Engelbert Humperdink: Pt. 2 of Draco to Tiny Race Cars

Engelbert Humperdinck:

Part Two of Draco to Tiny Race Cars
“A question that sometimes drives me hazy: am I or are the others crazy?” ~Albert Einstein
 
For the second installment of this tragic saga of horrible dates of which I am truly only skimming the surface of things, I have abided in hopes of finding that one true love. As shocking as it may seem to you I am a hapless, hopeless, closet romantic. In that quest, I have been willing to overlook some habits, teeth, significant height differences, and horrendous breath in order to give a poor gentleman a chance. That is not to say he won’t become the subject of my writings one day but at least to be fair I do change their names. Mostly to protect the “innocent” and selfishly to protect myself from asshole creepers; they are out there.
 
I am having some difficulty pinpointing one particular date for this chapter of the tale. Today my mind seems to wander to the good ones. The one I still long for, the one I never could figure out what happened, the best friend I had to let go, and the one that got away. They are the ones that I use as standard bearers for all the men I have dated. That is not to say that I have rejected gentlemen who did not meet all their unique qualities; more often I tend to ignore reason and attempt to save the pitiable “strays” I find or that follow me home; thus my tales of hilarity and sometimes heartbreak.
 
Twice I have had my name come back to bite me in the ass. 




First in high school from a guy I occasionally caught a ride to school with. I suppose I knew he had a little crush on me; I ignored it because I knew he had someone he called a girlfriend though he was a scoundrel and I was never sure he knew what the term girlfriend meant. Being a true Southern girl, I love big trucks. I am a sucker for all the stereotypical “Southern Male” traits. This guy had a nice truck, but every time he picked me up the Waylon Jennings song “Amanda” played ALL the way to school. He had some super extended long version of the song I have never found to be in existence. It is not a bad song but after hearing it for 20 minutes you really start to want to rip the tape deck or CD (I cannot remember which he had) out of the dash.

I do love this song…. but on repeat?

Several years later, I met up with a guy for a first date. He had one of the nicest cars of any guy I have ever gone on a date with. This time… the Boston song “Amanda” was blaring. When I say blaring I do not mean just really loud; I mean really fucking LOUD. Ear-splitting, eardrum bleeding, brain hemorrhage loud; to the point I could feel the vibrations through the car as it drove up. It is a great song but at 120 decibels, or whatever it was, it was not even music anymore.
 
Take note kiddies that loud music you “bump” WILL cause hearing loss.

Again… a good song… but not at deafening levels.

In this guy’s case brain damage; once he had managed to work out that I was not getting in the car he turned it down and rolled down the window. I am thinking to myself Sweet Jesus does he only date girls that have names he can match with a freaking song? Either way, he leans across the seat and asks if I want in. I look at him dead in the eye and tell him I was hoping he was going to turn the music down and come open the door for me. He laughed. Throughout the date, the song would reappear in the playlist. Each time he would mouth the words to me at any stop or pause or chance he got. I do not think I have to explain that impressing me with your knowledge of the lyrics to Boston songs is not really a panty dropper.

Is this really what romance has become; cheesy songs and the forgetting of basic gentleman behaviors? Has chivalry really died? Did the feminist movement really kill it? What happened to guys that bring you flowers on the first date or just anytime for no reason? Where is the guy that opens your door, not because he doesn’t think you can but because it is the nice thing to do? I want a guy that will not wear dirty boots/sneakers and ripped-up jeans the first time I introduce him to my parents. It is my parents, not fucking Tommy Lee. What happened to guys that know better than to curse in front of small children (no, not the pot calling the kettle black, I do know when to mind my language) and do not swerve to hit the cuddly animal crossing the road and then scream out the points they just scored as I hold back my vomit?
 
Are there still men out there who know that real women eat food and do not look like Gisele Bundchen? Sorry to inform you suckers, but Giseles happen to Tom Bradys and Leo DiCaprios, not you. Angelina Jolie gets Brad Pitt… average guys do not typically score that type of woman. The reason, you may ask; is because only other celebrities know that part of the business is hiding the bulimia.
 
That being said I am not looking for a superstar-looking man. I do firmly believe though that all women deserve to be treated like they are superstars. Ladies, sorry that does not mean you get to act like a diva. You should treat your respective man like he is your superstar. Unless either of you commit a “Deal Breaker” why wouldn’t you treat each other that way? My grandparents and parents do/did and they have never been divorced. There is no shame in thinking the girl you are out with is the most beautiful goddess you have ever freaking seen. Stop acting like fuckwits.

 
Enough of that tangent of a soap box…


In high school when I was still pretty new to the dating scene (obviously) I turned down a guy because he had long hair; I was attempting to let him down easy, you know give him something totally bitchy and picky so he would leave me alone thinking I was superficial. By the way that does not work, even now as an adult. This guy we will call him Hogan because he loved to lift weights and he needs a name because he is actually likely to come up again in another blog, another day. Hogan shows up at school the next day with a shaved head. Now what? Clearly, as an adult, I can see the flipping weirdo flag there. As a hormonal, idiot, teenager… yes I said idiot because something happens when hormones start pumping, guys can do nothing but stare at your boobs and girls become bitchy and total vapid morons at least when it comes to the opposite sex. Anyway, as a hormonal idiot, bitchy, vapid moron teenager I thought this Samson-esque offering was romantic and kind of sweet. Hogan did have nice deep brown eyes… and he was a good kisser once I let him kiss me. He did turn out to have a violent temper and be a heavy smoker. My parents hated him and my friends thought he was an asshole. All I could see was he was a bad boy and I was gonna fix him; save him from the tragic life ahead of him… see… Vapid. Freaking. Moron. 
 
Bad first dates are something of a collector’s item of mine. Like teddy bears and snowmen… I have a remarkable collection of horrible first-date tales. I met a guy at a club once and needed a date for a formal event. I asked him if he would be interested in accompanying me. As anyone can tell you judgment about first dates in clubs should be made once the house lights come up and you have had several large glasses of water. I was absolutely convinced that this witty, dance machine was the one for this event. So we exchanged numbers and I went on my merry way. Planning ensued and I gave him the address to my building and he picked me up.
 
In the biggest car, I have ever seen! I do not know what it was, but I can tell you it was baby shit brown and made the parent’s old sweat hog look like a Mini Cooper. He insisted on valet as it was a “vintage” car and fully stock inside. Usually when I hear that it means that the guy tracked down original parts to replace pieces in the car; not this one… it still had a condom stuck to the floor in the back that I am fairly certain was the one that broke when he was conceived. The splits in the vinyl seats were truly period pieces and the eight-track player… well that WAS special. It had one eight-track cassette stuck in it, Engelbert Humperdinck. No lie.

This song too…. S E X Y

So I arrived at the formal event in uh, err, an interesting hoop ride style. Unfortunately, I did not notice in the burnt-out light of the car that his suit did not match and he wore white athletic socks. He assured me though that his mother told him it would be fine when she loaned him the car. He was 25. I nodded and said they were really nice socks and of course, blue tuxedo jackets go with black tuxedo pants. The Airwalk sneakers he was wearing were actually black, mostly. Fashion and hoop ride aside, I was willing to deal with it. Guys usually take their jackets off and who was going to really notice except everyone I was friends with? It was when he smiled, that was the real crux of the issue.

Something in his smile made you flinch. Maybe it was the serious lack of orthodontic work, the cheddar shade of white on his teeth, or just the creepy Joker-style smile he had. (Jack Nicholson Joker, not Heath Ledger Joker… might have been able to work with Heath Ledger's…) Riding home listening to the soothing vocals of Humperdinck I realized I was probably in the car of a serial killer. He asked if I wanted to be escorted to my door and I could feel his Jeffery Dahmer smile boring into the side of my face. I think that is literally the fastest I have exited a car and ran around my building so that he couldn’t see the entrance or door I might be going to. Manson-style smiles equal deal breakers.

Draco to Tiny Race Cars: Pt. 1

     Draco to Tiny Race Cars Part One
'But I don't want to go among mad people,' said Alice. 'Oh, you can't help that,' said the cat. 'We're all mad here.’ ~ Lewis Carroll
Due to the sadness of my last week or so… I have decided to try and fight that back with a humor post. Laughter is supposed to be the best medicine right? So when your heart is broken you should laugh… hard but here goes.
 
I suppose some of the funniest events in my life have been my dates. If they even qualify because most of the time it ends in me running for my car or a can of pepper spray… 

The first really odd date I can recall was a guy who I met through a mutual friend. Someone somewhere thought that I would be compatible with this guy… We agreed to meet in front of a local store; I was not comfortable having him pick me up at home. He told me he had a black car with limo tint and “ground effects”. I had no clue what that was… but luck was on my side! His was the only black car in that back parking lot that day.
 
We will call this man, uh… Draco. Draco cracked his window and I could see he was wearing dark round Lennon-type sunglasses. He was really pale and had bleached his hair recently as his scalp was still irritated from the shoddy job he had done of it. He calmly said he could not come out of his car for very long and perhaps we should go in his car. Not being one to relinquish complete control to a stranger I said I would just allow him to follow me to the destination; a really exciting meal at was then the “new” restaurant in town wait for it… OUTBACK STEAKHOUSE! Sweet Jesus, it was going to be a hot time in the city that night! Wallaby Darneds for everyone!
 
We get there and he parked his car in the shade on the farthest side of the building. I typically park as close to the door as I can but this guy obviously does not. Fine, whatever. I park a couple spots down. I watch him carefully as he gets out of his car; I am pretending to reapply some lip gloss or something. My father taught me to observe my situations so I am eyeballing this guy pretty carefully; he did already set off some weirdo flags by only cracking the window and wanting me to ride with him. Draco literally darted up to the side of the building staying in the shadows and skirted around the side the whole time in the shadows. I am a sun sensitive, pigmently challenged individual myself so I get the idea of avoiding sun exposure but this was ridiculous. So I was cracking up and attempting to stifle this amusement as I walked inside. He was waiting… in the shadows. I told the waitress we needed a table for two; Draco added that we would require the blinds to be shut around us or a table in the darkest corner. At this point, he has yet to remove the stupid ass hat he has put on OR his really stupid ass sunglasses. I notice now also he is wearing white makeup and had powdered his lips to give them no color. Suddenly I am thinking you freaking shaved for this. 
 
The hostess gave me a sympathetic look as if to say “You sure you want to sit with this guy?” He did meet some of my superficial requirements of my early 20s or late teens… whenever this happened. Of course, I am only 24-ish so this was really not THAT long ago. I digress. He was at least 6 feet tall and had a confident stride, a swimmer’s build, his mannerisms were jerky and seemed overly controlled but I wrote that off to nerves. Draco’s choice of clothing, black with more black, was a bit depressing but typically you can help guys in this area by giving them clothes or going shopping with them. Besides, maybe he is color blind and who am I to judge? 
 
So we sit down in the darkest hole Australia has to offer.
 
The girl took our drink orders and he just wants water; I needed a drink and I prayed she would not card me. She didn’t I think she knew I needed something stronger than Coke to deal with this asshole. Strawberry Margarita, with the extra shot, salted rim. Thanks. He starts looking at the menu I know what I want so I just pretend to look and watch him. I cannot figure out where I have seen “him” before. He seemed so familiar. Once he has decided on something and puts his menu down the bread and drinks have arrived. I, in my best southern drawl, ask if he plans on removing his sunglasses, it is such a dark corner surely the light is not bothering him here. He seems to look around; I am thinking yeah asshole we are literally alone back here no one is going to see your lazy eye or whatever you are trying to hide. 
 
He whispers “I will take them off for you because you may as well know.”
 
I am thinking such a great friend of mine that fixes me up with a gothic freak. Little did I know or was prepared… He removed his sunglasses and his contact lenses gave his eyes a weird white tint. I managed to maintain a polite smile and told him he had interesting eyes. Draco claimed that he wore contacts to protect his sensitive eyes; the sunglasses were an added precaution. He placed his hands on the table and I noticed he had a better manicure and longer fingernails than any man I had ever seen. Of note as well was that his hands were also exceptionally white and powdered like his face. He slid off his coat and I notice some sort of animal skin pouch around his neck. Hunting in the south is not all that uncommon but this guy did not strike me as the really outdoorsy type. Curiouser and curiouser. 



 I was about to ask, but the waitress arrived for food orders. I gave her my order and he looked at this poor girl who had apparently lost the straw draw back in the kitchen for this table. .. And said to her none of your food is really something I can tolerate but if you will indulge my tastes I will try. At this point, I am glaring at him. He orders steak, VERY RARE steak. He said he wanted it to moo when he stuck it with a fork. She tried to explain that state laws… blah, blah, blah. Still, he kept on explaining that if he needed to speak with a manager he would. Poor girl just rolled her eyes and asked him what side he wanted. He requested veggies raw. She looked at me with a look that seemed to be waiting to see if I would mouth that I had been kidnapped.  As she left I ventured to ask about the animal pouch. He held it out for me to see; but told me I could not ever touch it. Okay, why is that?
 
“It holds my talisman,” Draco replies.
 
“I beg your pardon, what?” I say as sweetly as possible. 
 
“A talisman, for protection from those that would seek my demise.”
 
Well alright, points for knowing the word demise and using it in a sentence, even a fragment sentence. So obviously I HAD to ask.
 
“And who is seeking your demise? And should you be sitting with your back to the door?”
 
Draco answers “Oh I will know if they come for me. I am a vampire.” 
 


I did not have Crohn’s disease at this time, yet I still nearly crapped in my pants. The pressure from trying to choke down any laughter made me feel I needed to poo. This man clearly believed his story and I did not want to question him. Twilight was not even a sparkle in that Mormon lady’s mind yet… so it was not really cool to believe, or pretend, you are/were a vampire. I surmised I was sitting across the table from a luna-fucking-whack job.  

I feigned as much interest as possible; though not before taking the sidecar shot of tequila STRAIGHT without mixing it in the drink first.
Then it hit me, mid gulp, I had seen this before. He had watched “Interview with a Vampire” enough to have perfected Lestat’s mannerisms and in fact some of his speech patterns. Draco still gave his own inflection to it, with a vaguely forced Eastern Europe accent. (Even though he had told me he was raised in the South.)  Food arrived, thank God. Although I was thrown off my food by his bleeding steak; I think if he thought I would have stomached it he would have drank the juices off his plate. Of course, I cannot be sure; that would have been most impolite and well Lestat was a gentleman.
 
It really was unfortunate; Draco was intelligent and well-read. He enjoyed theater, ballet, and all the classical arts that I am fond of. We were able to discuss Chopin and Debussy, politics, art, and famous literature. I had never met a man until that point that had read Jane Austen… by choice. Nor had I ever known a Southern man to have seen an opera or admit to it. 
 
The fly in the sweet tea was that whole vampire thing. I asked him how he came to that conclusion; he smiled baring his teeth. He had some caps over his canine teeth that made them sharp and like a vampire. He looked ridiculous. The rest of his ensemble was what he called his adaption to life in the modern world. His grander garments of time gone by were at home; you know because he came from a different era. Draco began to tell me his elaborate story of how he was “turned” and of his master. That was around the time I excused myself for the restroom. I found my waitress and gave her thirty dollars more than enough to cover my bill and give her an overly large tip. I asked her to let him know that his undercooked steak had made me ill and that I had to leave.
 
He called for a while after that… I think it is needless to say I never returned his calls. Nor that of the friend who thought we would be good together. That cow must have thought it was funny or that my pale skin and his pale skin would make great pale-skinned babies. No, according to the things that Draco told me I would have to convert to his lifestyle and babies are not part of the equation. Well damn it all to hell, that is a deal breaker…

Lessons Learned

Lessons Learned:

             Falsehoods and Facebook
“The truth is always one thing, but in a way, it's the other thing, the gossip, that counts. It shows where people's hearts lie.” – Paul Scott

 
This week has been one of hurt and pain for me. I find myself shamed and a bit wiser. There is nothing I have to be particularly ashamed of exactly; though I feel shame for others and shame because I was foolish enough to trust people. This is truly one of my faults. Trusting without question; I like to believe the good in people without any hesitation or concern. Generally, all people are good, right? 
 
Wrong. People may be generally good not necessarily bad; yet when allowed to gossip and spread lies without finding the source or asking the person involved what the truth may be shows what is in their heart. Spite and malice; a big sucking hole of blackness; and enough pain in their own lives that to feel a bit better they binge on the pain of others. That is their truth and who they really are. Many people would rather smile to your face and speak ill of you when you are not looking. It is fun, malicious, and juvenile, and though we all profess to hate it and think it is shitty; we all do it, most of the time we do not even realize we have done it.
 
What is worse is now in the age of social media we can gossip even faster and more efficiently than ever before. It is now easy to gossip and spread half-truths, even flat-out lies about people you do not even know or only sort of know. That makes it easier and less guilty feeling. You do not really know the person you are hurting. You never have to give a second thought to the humiliation you have pressed upon a person if you do not truly know this other person. Why question the gossiper saying the rumors? Surely the person has it on good authority; they wouldn’t just say any old damn thing... whatever just to be mean, would they? They would surely say the same things to the victim's face; not whisper or create some forum to bash the victim.
 
No one ever finds themselves choosing they dislike a person for whatever reason and then relish causing the victim pain and embarrassment. Pointing out another’s flaws and saying things that spread like wildfire on Facebook because everyone kind of “knows” the person.  

Isn’t networking great!?   Abso-fucking-lutely go ahead and spread bitterness and hostility around no one will ever, EVER finally wonder what you say about them when they are not looking.


This week I found out some truth of my own. My ex-boyfriend, whom I have known since high school… you know ten-ish years ago… is a liar and a cheater with at least two girls. That’s not gossip but sadly a confirmed fact and because he finds shame in himself he helps spread scandal to draw attention away from his own issues and hopefully his feelings of shame at what he did. Even someone who has been the closest to me as possible enjoys saying things that they perceive as truth but have never actually asked or listened to. Things like this eventually become tired and pathetic, but they go on. 

Worse still I find that people I called my friends, trusted, and believed were good and kind people are saying things and repeating words that have no weight or reality. Passing judgment without a moment’s reluctance; not one thought to the fact that words can harm and demean a person more than any other form of violence. Yes, I said VIOLENCE. It is violence; think about it. I would rather be punched in the face or beaten with a knotted rope and a bag of oranges than have people judge, hate, and blather about things they don’t know.
 
Lesson learned, trust no one. I suppose gossip is a form of flattery. The more people talk about you the more “famous” you become; you must be somebody pretty fucking important for people who do not even know you from Adam to talk about you. I hope they feel better about themselves; feel good. 
 
I did not get to feel good this week. Instead, I got to spend much of the week re-examining my own flaws, as pointed out by so many others. Not one of these people came to me and asked what was up or even here’s what is being said is it true? What is your truth? What would you like people to know about you? What would you hide? What is really no one else’s business? How would you feel if someone took your truths and twisted them, switched them for their own gain and the thrill of a juicy lie?
 
Facebook, is a wonderful invention, but a dark side exists there. Bullies exist well into adulthood. High school, even junior high is alive and well and lives on Facebook. I would delete my profile and move on with my life except for the few real friends I have that are far away or that I rarely get to see. I can say that things will be different now. I may put myself out there but I will be more guarded than ever before. My truth now is that even the people you think you know… you don’t.
 
No more will I allow someone else to bring me down. Especially if all they are armed with are words. While the damage done by words is expansive and lasts far longer than it should; my beating myself up over it only makes those liars' words more powerful. So one day when I prove them all wrong I get to choose to walk away. And all those people will ever have is their closed minds and their gossip. Karma is a bitch, people. She will find you sooner or later and I find she LOVES people who are mean and hateful liars.

The Celebrity Syndrome: Crack is Whack

The Celebrity Syndrome: Crack is Whack
This post may win me no friends but sadly that is not the point of this blog. It is about putting my snarky ass opinion out there, uncensored.
So with the funeral of Whitney Houston this weekend I got to thinking about what I call Celebrity Syndrome. Whitney was a very talented artist, a human being, and by all accounts a nice person. Her problem was she became a celebrity. The planets aligned and stars collided or whatever happened and suddenly she was in the fame spotlight. For better or worse that spotlight changes people; we see this happen time and time again.
 
People, in America and to some degree the rest of the world, are fickle and cruel. We are no better than a gang of vultures or the Romans in the Coliseums. We love to watch a person fall and sometimes bleed. We love to watch them rise from the ashes like a phoenix, but most of all we love to see them die.
 
Stay with me here. I am as bad as the next person. The day before Michael Jackson died I only owned his music on maybe a dusty old vinyl record somewhere. He was a damn pervert, a child molester and I was not going to support his lifestyle. NO! Not me. The day after, I owned every song I had ever loved by him on iTunes and discovered some I did not even know about! In my eyes, all his sins had been forgotten, and maybe were not even true. We should just leave him in peace; it does not matter anymore, and I guess it doesn’t.
 
The question remains, why do we not cut the same level of slack for regular people? Let us say a man in your neighborhood is accused of molesting a bunch of kids, never convicted but you are positive he did it, everyone says he did. This man becomes a social pariah and is a virtual shut-in and the subject of whispered accusations and scrutiny. Suddenly he dies. Does anyone abruptly start talking about the great parties he used to have or that wonderful recipe of barbeque sauce or chili he made, and then start cooking it again? Is his funeral attended by everyone from the neighborhood; people fighting for the opportunity to eulogize and honor him? Nope. Sorry, that ain’t happening; not in a million fucking years. He was a nobody and therefore he does not have the celebrity syndrome.
 
Whitney Houston is widely known to have, had crack problems. A tragic addiction for any person, but we forget that she made that choice and we forgive it and then televise her funeral. There was an initial time in her life when she made that choice. She chose to take a drag on that crack pipe. (do you drag or suck on a crack pipe? Hell if I know) It was her choice; unless Bobby Brown held her down and forced her to do it… but I really doubt that is how it happened. He may have been doing it and she, in a moment of weakness, said
“Eh, I’ll try it… what’s the worst that could happen?”

Well, Whitney, darling, the worst did happen you looked like a crack-headed lemming, in some really bad dresses, for a long time and your voice was never the same again. That gift, God-given, talent was destroyed by the microwaved cocaine you sucked down your windpipe. She did give us the gem “Crack is Whack”. Then she died. Tragic and unexpected the night before the Grammy’s; no one is talking about her struggle with life and the law, only the sadness of losing such a woman.
 
Do not misunderstand me; I grew up on a healthy dose of pre-crack Whitney… I saw the Bodyguard. I had the soundtrack, who didn’t? Older and wiser “I Will Always Love You” (which of course I now own on iTunes) has a whole new meaning. Would we mourn the loss of the cracked-out hooker downtown selling her “talents” with the same vigor? No. Not a snowball’s chance in hell.
 
Amy Winehouse became famous looking like a hopped-up heroin addict. She did the hard bit of work looking normal and then the smallest modicum of fame in the United Kingdom changed her. Did anyone stop her? Did anyone say we are not going to pay you anymore; no one in the industry is going to pay you anymore until you get off that shit? Nope. Instead, they shipped her over here, to the land of milk and honey, where we could celebrate her brokenness. Where the drugs were readily available and the line between right and wrong in Los Angeles is always blurred for “them”. She died not from the illegal drugs but from her liver finally giving up after she drank too much clear liquor. Clearly, this was a woman crying for help and instead of helping her we relished her demise, like fights at a hockey game or crashes in a NASCAR race. All of that forgotten now, she sings with the angels. 
 
Until we start holding our celebrities to the same standards as average people we cannot expect anything better from them. Until our heroes become the people that actually deserve it, like that firefighter who went into the raging fire to save a mother cat and her litter of kittens. Does anyone not related to one of the 9-11 firefighters even know one of their names? Did you go out and buy firefighter gear and start wearing it around after that? No, you didn’t. You bought a Yankees jersey with some steroid-using athlete’s name on the back because they had that special 9-11 jersey. Some of that profit went to the Police and Firefighters fund… I guess. It is fine by me, Alex Rodriguez is freaking hot. I am only pointing out that we are all guilty. These are only the most recent occurrences but it happens time and time again.
Should we expect more out of our celebrities? Or should we allow them the Celebrity Syndrome? Would we like them less? Or is it possible we might like them more?
Nah… that’s not gonna happen.

Curse Words and Sweat Hogs

 
Curse Words and Sweat Hogs
It is three in the morning. My mind is a blur of swirling thoughts that never seem to plague me in the daytime. I would guess the mind waits for you to relax and give it a moment to stop concentrating on holding you up and moving you around… or in my case which spoon to use or watching my language in front of my family. Let me get this right out there… I curse like a sailor.
 
I feel like there is a time and place for everything. Obviously, I do not curse in church or at my pastor, or in front of small children. I have only cursed like that in front of my mother (never in front of my daddy) a few times and I think the first real-time was while in the hospital and on morphine. Do you get a pass for that? You should. Things you say while high on a doctor-administered narcotic directly in your vein should be pardoned.

God surely does not write it down and keep it on your “sin roster”; mine surely is long and probably going to require some explaining… I am thinking the list of my cursing would count little toward that. At least I hope.


I have heard both my parents drop the f-bomb a few times; in more increasing numbers as I have gotten older. (perhaps they think it is okay now that I am old enough?) It still freaks me out every time I hear it. Like the few times, I have overheard my grandparents curse. Some things should never happen… parents and f-bombs… unless you are the Osbornes … should not ever happen. Call me prudish but it sort of tarnishes that whole superhuman nature of parents and grandparents.

Another thing a person should never be subjected to is hearing how great your grandparent’s sex life is. Yeah, that happened to me once. The idea of pouring bleach in my ears and perhaps my eyes or giving myself a home lobotomy had never occurred to me before I sat on their couch as my grandmother expounded on the healthy virility of my 80-year-old grandfather… and how she thinks it has helped him keep his hair. There it is folks a healthy sex life helps you keep your damn hair. I have solved male pattern bald…. Well, I suppose my grandmother has solved it. Whatever.  An entirely different day in therapy for that. 
 
I might never have learned to curse if it had not been for my loving mother. While she spent money on “finishing classes” hated the haughty nature it gave me; she did not want a frigid prude of a child. On a family vacation in the middle of a Texas summer when our A/C had gone out in our land yacht of a family Buick Regal, dripping in sweat as my father refilled the gas tank and grabbed some drinks and those crappy cracker packs from the convenience store. My mother, who I had just admonished for saying “shit”, locked the doors to the car and turned to look at me sitting behind her. If I did not say the word shit we were not leaving.

“WE ARE NOT LEAVING UNTIL YOU SAY THE WORD SHIT!”

 

My mother and I are similar in temperament. Neither of us wanted to give to the other. So there we sat sweating and glaring at each other like wet hens. My father is trying to get back in the car and is now trying to figure out what the Sam Hill is going on… That triggers a small-ish fit outside the car. As I notice people staring at us sweating in the road boat of a car, I called the sweat hog from that day forward, finally yelled at the top of my lungs…

“SHIT”!

 

Thus my days of cursing were released upon the world on a steamy, suffocating, blistering, Southeast Texas afternoon. No breeze to carry the ugly word from the car only the smell of gasoline and my father getting in the car in a huff wondering exactly what had just transpired between his eight-year-old and his wife. Who now had turned around and had a smug and satisfied look on her face. The baby brother was probably sleeping… or something.

That moment in, my mother and I’s relationship, was one of those defining moments; one that showed how the balance of power would be and there would be many of these stand-offs to come.  Thankfully most of these did not occur in a sweltering car, sitting at a Mobil Gasoline Service Station. 

Yep, we put the fun in Dysfunctional. I think the key to that word is FUNCTIONAL. We are not perfect, but we all love each other. Ugly words and all…. Well except for that day in the hospital on the morphine as I cussed everyone and the pain with every ugly word I could come up with. I think I finally earned the brownie badge for language and perhaps for once my mother questioned the wisdom of losing her cool that day.
 
I do not know. She would never admit it. Southern lady to the core; and I love her for that. 

I cannot wait to have kids.

Snarky

Snarky
Snarky is defined, by the Urban Dictionary, as the following: “A witty mannerism, personality, or behavior that is a combination of sarcasm and cynicism; usually accepted as a complimentary term. Snark is sometimes mistaken for a snotty or arrogant attitude.”
  
Insomnia
Insomnia is defined by the Urban Dictionary, as the following: “The state of sleep loss. No matter how much you desire dreamland, it refuses you entry. You stand at the gates, whining, crying, but stuck in the world of buzzing activity. Otherwise known as the hell on earth.”
Both of these terms seem to define who I am and likely one leads to the other. It would be too easy though, I suppose to blame my snark on my insomnia; truthfully I have been snarky for far longer than insomnia has plagued me. I felt however that I should let you in on both of the two major defining terms of my present situation. For it would terribly rude of me not to warn you that I am a sleep deprived, cynical, and sarcastic… however a perfectly loveable person; the fact remains that my brand of humor is often misunderstood and taken for unladylike.
 
You cannot place blame on my mother; she has tried to teach me the finer ways of life. Things like sitting up straight, not scratching itches, which fork to use, proper language and its usage, and I do fine when I am required to “clean up”. I am not a complete loss. I do know how to behave when being observed. 
 
Though in my private time I am scratching, slouching, using spoons, and cursing up a storm. The first time I ever got in trouble at school… okay well the second time, the first time is a different issue involving gender discovery and kindergarten. The second time I got in trouble in school was for cursing at another student. I shall point out that the other student called me a name and I let him have the best of my vocabulary at the time. I am not even sure I fully understood the meaning of the words I used just that they were bad. The vice principal called me into his office after over hearing me drop the f bomb and admonished me for my lack of grace and girlish innocence. The other student a boy, who my father swears to this day, just had a crush on me, never served a lunch detention for rhyming my last name with something… 
 
I get a bit testy when you do that.
 
The point is I am not your average southern belle. My father calls it spitfire and feistiness. My mother is just glad I stopped getting into spitting contests with the boys, nasty habit. She was never very comfortable with my ability to get along better with boys over girls. Likely if questioned she would say this contributed to my lack of social graces and permanently put me in the “friend-zone” and not the “girl I should marry and take off my mother’s hands zone”. It is not as if I did not have my girlie things and do not have any now. I have a small obsession with makeup and skincare products that would be much larger if I had the budget. I danced ballet for nearly 20 years of my life and dreamed of going professional as a child. (Side note: not a huge fan of the color pink; blue, blue is my favorite color any shade.) I enjoy a good bouquet of peonies or gardenias from a gentleman caller anytime. My collection of perfume could rival most department store fragrance counters. I like shoes but have horrible feet and have never learned to walk in heels so my main fashion obsession is the Coach bag. Any Coach bag; well truth be told any high end designer handbag I just cannot afford anything outside of the Coach outlet.
So there it is… my first Confession post… not so much confessional just more familiarizing yourself with me and things you may or may not know about me. I have a list of things to “confess” and explain my opinions on ad-naseum.
 
Please feel free to leave comments and suggestions for my takes on ANYTHING. I will literally tell you like I see it. And hopefully make you laugh in the process.
 
xoxo ~ A