Archive for July, 2008|Monthly archive page

The Walk of Shame : Another Confession

I’ve never been that girl. Caught up in the emotional side effects of feeling wanted and basking in envied attention, I had a short-lived judgment lapse in deciding how and where I would spend the rest of my already late night. The worst part is I haven’t learned anything from it, nor do I regret it.

Firstly, two bits of abstractly related anecdotal items to absorb:

I once had a friend that shared a nearly seamless existence with her dogs, which included (but was clearly not limited to) sharing lickable foods such as ice cream cones, as well as any beverage contained by an open drinking glass. A little too close for a healthy existence I think.

I’ve often scoffed at the overly emotional attachment behavior of women (I’m sometimes sexist, but mostly honest) who refer to their dogs/pets as their “babies” or “children”. The woman (beast mother) I picture has a butt flattened and elongated by neatly pressed slacks pleated at a high waist, topped with a frumpy blouse (a blouse, not a shirt) rendering little explanation as to how/why she ever made a conscious decision involving the wearing of said blouse. She always hides her ankles underneath matching socks that are rarely white, even while she’s storing the evening’s casserole in an emptied out plastic butter tub from when the smarter George Bush was president. Although she’s undeniably sweet and speaks with breath smelling of faint spearmint, I question her mental credibility and fail to relate to the consideration of any domesticated animal being held as beloved offspring.

I’m that girl.

Friday morning, after having realized what I had done, I quickly threw on my jeans and t-shirt and darted out of the door and into my car. “The last time I sat in this seat, I was a somewhat dignified woman. A better version of myself,” I thought as I fumbled with my keys. I checked to ensure that my pants were of denim nature, and fitting safely below my belly button. As I ramped onto the highway, my knee tightly gripped the bottom of my steering wheel while I stashed away the wrapper to a mini-fruit roll up in my crap-cup*. This offered confirmation that my breath most certainly did not emit a spearmint scent.

This, because it offered pieces of relief, wasn’t even the worst part of the morning. The pain lived in the moments in which I replayed the night before. I slept uncomfortably on the floor, flanked by cell phone, alarm clock and cup of stale water. Shifting and feeling less of a person with each moment that passed, I longed to be in my own bed, in my own room.


A weiner dog. This is somewhat a laughable thought. A castrated weiner dog is an idea that begs for slight confusion. I have a hard time keeping both sides of my face in an indifferent expression while exploring the comical possibilities of such a concept. Contrary to comical relief, it is a reality. Our family indoor dog, a miniature dacshun, was spayed just the day before. She was in a world of sleepy pain, and her lower belly boasted the bruising and stitching of a hasty removal of the uterus. Her first night as a frigid infertile-Mertle, she jumped off of the bed to go pee, and through painful cries was reminded of her operation.

I’m beating around the massive cluster of shrubbery, so I’ll just say it. I slept on the floor with my newly de-femmed weiner dog. She doesn’t have any preference as to where she sleeps, as long as it is next to a human. So in order to keep her from ripping open her belly stitches, I made a make-shift bed on the living room floor and woke up with a stiff back and shame a plenty. Not to mention the fact that she’s been outrageously clingy and needy ever since that night.

Just because I slept with my weiner dog on the floor, doesn’t mean that I wear blouses. I keep butter in butter tubs, not casserole. Wheww…. I feel better.

Don’t judge.

(*crap-cup: a cup I keep inside of car, typically housed in a traditional cup holder, used for anything not worthy of sitting out in my car, but also important enough [for one reason or another] to avoid throwing away. much like at home, a “junk drawer”.)


Haiku # 87462

Time on the table

Ping Pong is my salary

and why no new post.

Submitted for the approval of the midnight society, I call this story, “The Tale of the Shameless Mouth.”

I’m merely a prototype of my better self.

Sounds like a great life motto to pursue improvement and growth. I wrote this once, and I now realize it is simply a justification for what I do/say now. With that said, consider it a disclaimer to the many things that you might find offensive. I’m just a potty mouth prototype of my future, better, self.

Let’s be honest about a few things. I am making an odd effort to refrain from censoring myself–or at least the content of some of my posts. However, I post mainly for selfish reasons and that is how it will continue.


Throughout my life, I had a problem with stealing things. Phase 1 began in first grade when I discovered the act of thievery as a habit. Luckily, there was a girl my age, Tara,  who was scrappy and would bring her grandmother’s entire purse to school with her. It started out as a bartering system. She trafficked in the expired mascaras and melted lipsticks, and I’d offer her options from a small collection of trinkets, plastic jewelry, etc.

I traded a Fred Flinstone figurine for a couple items of adult makeup and almost immediately regretted losing Fred. She refused to trade back, deeming me an “indian giver”. I repeatedly argued that I was by birth 1/4 indian and therefore knew better than anyone about indian giving, and couldn’t be accused. I decided to seek revenge and sort through the purse myself for Fred. I absconded with other things as well, knowing that the disciplinary system at school had zero jurisdiction over stealing items that were already stolen.

My home disciplinary system however, claimed jurisdiction wherever there was room for a spanking. Being a first grader, my walk home after school came shortly after lunch time versus the 3 p.m. dismissal time of my older sisters. At 6 years old, I constructed a story to defend my newly acquired possessions–one that was too smart for my own age– and it ultimately ended up earning me belts on the butt cheeks.

“Where did you get all of this make up in your backpack?”

My stepmother was never a force to be questioned. I remembered the many bake sales she took part in, and tried to relate my excuse to her own understanding. “Oh, the used makeup sale after school,”  I replied. She questioned me very briefly about it, but she demanded that I remain in the dining room chair with her until my sisters came home. This allowed me to develop my next line of verbal defenses. My sisters walked through the door, and embarrassingly my stepmom asked, “Was there a ‘Used Make-Up Sale after school today?” My sisters quickly and smartly assured her with less than a breath, “No…” Almost as if they knew I made up something completely ridiculous.

The eyes of estrogen from all possible sources in the house screamed down on me waiting for the confession. “Well duh, they know that the older kids aren’t going to buy used make-up. They only sold it after the little kids got out, because we’re the only ones dumb enough to want such a thing.”

Brilliant at age 6, but no cigar. After being blamed at school for nearly every show-n-tell piece M.I.A., I called it quits on the stealing for a while.

I haven’t stolen a thing since 9th grade, when my year-long experimental kleptomania came to a mortifying halt outside of the Limited Too store in Collin Creek Mall. Even after an 8 year stealing hiatus, I finally saw the wrong and began paying for things that I wanted.  I was never meant to be a thief anyway–and I realized this when I was busted for stealing prayer beads.

No offense…but you suck.

There are situations in life that are unavoidable, un-rewindable, and downright uncomfortable. These instances of being caught on the spot were such moments. However, I have a short list of ones no-so-brought-on by wrong doing.

1.) The color preference question, asked by black guy with the intention of gauging his chances, or just as a joke to make you feel uncomfortable. “So, you like black guys?”  Firstly, this is unfair to ask. Mainly because if a girl were to answer honestly with a yes, it would insinuate that she was open season. Secondly, if she didn’t, it’s a horrible thing to respond to. So my rebuttle is this, “Do you pee in the shower?” It demands a similar level of discomfort. Either way, it’s uncomfortable. In almost every instance, you know the truth, so there’s little sense in lying about it.

2.) “With all heads bowed, and every eye closed… If you’re here today and you know you need to recommit your life to the Lord, or maybe you’ve never prayed that prayer of salvation, raise your hand. Nobody’s looking, just me, you and the Lord. Come forward and talk to one of our ushers down front and fill out the life decision card…” Newsflash: Everybody looks sometimes. I had already gone through this process before and found myself answering ‘yes’ to the pastor’s questionnaire nearly every Sunday. So, instead of walking down to the altar, I just peeked. I’m sorry. But congratulations on getting baptized again.

3.) Preliminary medical questions asked by both nurse AND Doctor. “Do you drink or smoke?”, “Are you sexually active?”, “When was your last menstrual period?”, bah! No matter what your genuine answers are, you will always feel like they just don’t believe you. And when a male doctor asks these things, it’s additionally tense. These questions are asked as part of a normal physical, or anytime curiosity strikes. Just ask me once, and if I tell you I’m 23 and don’t do any of the above, judge me either for the lying or the actions–not both.

More on potty-mouthing and funny poems soon.

On the John: My Psychological Meltdown ***SPOILER ALERT***(Yes, girls do pee.)

If the light is on when I push open the door, I panic. Peeking around past the paper towels, hope foolishly builds before a pair of neatly painted toenails atop foam flip flops tears it down. And so begins the mental dialogue narrating this twisted thorn of an uncomfortable three minutes:

“Crap! I’ll come back when she’s done.”

“No, because she already knows someone opened the door and she’ll be watching from her desk and know that it was me when I walk to the bathroom in a few minutes.”

“yeah, the best bet at anonymity is to get in a stall before she leaves hers, and wait until she’s done and leaving…Please be done. please please…sounds like she’s on the last stretch of her peeing.”

“Yup. definitely fading out I can tell. she’s definitely done. just wait another second and she’ll be outta here. lets just hope she doesn’t wash her hands.”

“yeah perfect timing. i locked the stall and was already sitting down when she finished. why hasn’t she gotten up yet? great. she’s probably filing her fingernails. if she doesn’t get up, i’ll be sitting here even longer.”

“get up girl! go! she’s sitting there just listening to the silence. she’s staring right through these stall walls at me and waiting for me to start peeing. NOBODY can just pee on command! not under these conditions. something isn’t fair. maybe she’s pooping even though she knows i’m in here. ”

“what if its even worse than that? i haven’t even started peeing yet and i’ve been sitting here at LEAST 45 seconds. she DEFINITELY thinks i’m pooping. gross. i swear ill prove it that i’m just pottying..”

“yup. she’s dooing. i can hear it, and i feel weird. she’ll be here for a while. I’ll come back later.”


I returned minutes later… same light on, different feet.


I have stage fright. BAD.



(Just because I’m a lady doesn’t mean I don’t pee. And it surely doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t talk about it. I don’t poo, though. Of course not, I’m a lady.)

poetry and lotion: i have a business job.

I work here?

Stuck at the front door to meet my sleepy new boss,

twas the start of this lesson called, “NEVER TRUST FAUSS.”


I was led to Tim, who yawned from the second row,

he nodded as if to say, “you’ll have to excuse my drool, i’m a little slow.”


At a desk with no computer, I sat down in the Pursuant dark.

My boss returned to his emails, I wanted to return to my car.


Week one, hump day.

Making new friends over smoothies as the little Pursuant pup,

i drank my 3rd day’s lunch out of a 4 dollar jamba cup.


Bob was the funny raffle guy selling ten chances for a dollar,
not too fond of “sure things”, in bearded transition from vagabond to white collar.


Nerf gat in the second drawer, some pepto in the top
tiny cheeze-its in the bottom that i sometimes give to bob.


I work here.

Newborn triumph, found in a Friday’s bagel with cream cheese,

Was crowned by my own new faub, on my now smiling set of keys.


Though my desktop decorum remains unimpressive
and my coffee consumption approaches excessive


I’ve been on the Razor and learned how to task,

And I’ve seen little soups be raped by red mustache.


My most recent victory was gained in coed athletic song,

Operatically paddling heat to Caleb, I delivered him both ping and pong.


Kerri’s the only girl I’ve known, to ever be funnier than I.

Even the best of my knee-slapping lines are met with an apathetic sigh.


Today she called me Shaila, our adorably sweet intern,

I hid my tears with laughter, towards her revealing Freudian burn.


“The Father of a Generation” claimed that someone stole his food,

Clearly searching for a legit excuse for his consistently bad mood.


Mitchell has a backpack, Ross’s son carries poo,

Coffee, Bloons and thirty fake meetings—this is what I do.