Fraggin' It

It's been a hectic and somewhat stressful week, y'all. So all I have time for are Fragrant Fragments. To wit:

I am in the fertile vajayjay of Northern Texas this week, a little hotspot otherwise known as Grapevine, nestled between two thick thighs we call Dallas and Fort Worth. I'm working a conference here -- on call 24/7, I'm told by our outgoing diva, but you can bet I'll be taking time for myself here and there, including watching a little True Blood on HBO in my room. Hello, Vampire Bill, she says in that smoky, sultry way she has when alone to contemplate the merits of blood sucking sexual acts. Oh yes, there are merits. There must be. Sookie likes it.

Mr. Fine took me to see Star Trek on Thursday. I had been wanting to see it but thought its time had come and gone in theaters. Apparently everybody else thought so too, as we were the ONLY two peeps in the place. I was not disappointed. In the flick either. Heh, heh. Just kidding. But, really. Have you SEEN Captain James Tiberius Kirk in all his fiery, testosterone-filled youth? HAWT, people. HAWT.

The big surprise? Eric Bana as the evil-doing Nero. I can only ever see Senor Banadinovich as Hector in Troy. Hubba hubba. I don't like him as the over-tatted bad guy. In Star Trek, he of course is outsmarted in a very Kirkvirile-yet-Spockiavellian way. I must have this DVD when it comes out.

Okay, out the door I go to that big vajayjay to the north, which is really wine country stuck between cowpoke and shopping meccas -- none of which I'll get to enjoy, I'm sure.

Well, frag it.

128 Sticks of Butter

Okay, my peeps, one of my dearest friends and her husband are on a DIET. Man, that's my least favorite four-letter word ever. Well, not EVER; there is one worse word and not even I can manage to get it out of my sailor's mouth – which is really saying something (but not quite). All right, that one time was an accident, but four beers can do that to me. Plus I'm totally not responsible for my actions when my salsa partner is kidnapped mid-chacha. Cumbia this, chica!

Where was I?

Oh yeah, Michelle and Mike are chronicling their weight loss progress for all the world to see on a blog called 128 Sticks of Butter. The best thing about this blog? The writing. Sure, it's entertaining and you want to cheer them into melting off the poundage, but Michelle is an accomplished writer with a great sense of humor. And hey, she gets MY quirky humor – a questionable attribute at best, but redeeming nonetheless in my eyes.

See, Michelle and I have been good friends for about ten years now, and she has seen me through good times and bad. Bad as in royal pain, what were you thinking, you have lost it! Like when my tiara fell off and it wasn't so good to be queen anymore when I beat feet for a new village. Meh, it was only temporary cuz I got a new tiara which is quite shiny and bejeweled (and dare I say mystical if one has imbibed beyond the legal limit), and while not always used for altruistic purposes, I'm sure having more fun with it. The tiara, people -- catch up! Point is, Michelle was there for me. And I'm pretty sure she always will be.

So go check her out, and tell her Fragrant Liar sent ya. And if you could mention that I'd like some of her Etsy stuff for my birthday, that could be cool. Cuz she rocks the crafty world too.
.

Unplugged and Poontangery

Sometimes I'm so engaged in all the spaces and places my thoughts occupy AT ONE TIME (kinda like Sybil, but without the horn rims) that the feeling of overwhelm has an HOV Lane toward my discombobulated cerebral cortex. My usual response is to disengage, to unplug myself from the most system-shocking outlets. That's what I did this last week so I could relax, reflect, and repump the well.

I am an expert in the art of unplugging. Yesterday, I stretched out lazily on the couch in my PJs and watched movies—ALL DAY—while everybody else went to the circus. I hung out with a calico cat stretched across me and a few dozen friends under the cinematic umbrellas of Cinderella Man, Benjamin Button, and Harry Potter (times 2). Oh yeah, we're like THIS!

All that to say, sorry for my absence. But a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. No stilettos involved, sad to say. But Saturday I did manage to hit an old haunt with a new friend, nurse a Corona with lime, cringe at some bad karaoke, and knock in some tricky shots during a rusty few hours of Eight-ball. It was kind of nice to plug back into that scene for a change.

While I was away from you, Disa came by and sifted through my posts. I just wanted to be sure I acknowledged her for the sweet sentiments she left me. You might appreciate this one:

disa said...

成人漫畫,成人文學,成人遊戲,成人電影,成人論壇,成人,做愛,aio,情色小說,ut聊天室,ut聊天室,豆豆聊天室,聊天室,尋夢園聊天室,080視訊聊天室,免費視訊聊天,哈啦聊天室,視訊聊天,080聊天室,080苗栗人聊天室,6k聊天室,視訊聊天室,成人聊天室,中部人聊天室,免費視訊,視訊交友,視訊美女,視訊做愛,正妹牆,美女交友,玩美女人,美女,美女寫真,美女遊戲,hi5,hilive,

Of course, that's just paraphrasing.

In her comments, Disa leaves me linky invitations to check out her porn stash. And gosh, I'm totally flattered cuz I'm one heckuva porn hound, as everyone knows. But as I mentioned earlier, I'm also easily unplugged these days. Sybil, remember? Oh, and Disa, don't let me forget to say thanks for your kindness on my most personal post about my sister who died last year -- oh, and my Father's Day tribute to the most important man in my life. Your cryptic sentiments showed just the right sympathy in tone and nuance, delivered in the special way that only you can. I love how you're there for me. But, Disa, I hope you understand when I say, no matter how many times you visit me, I will be just too unpumped to partake in the poontangery. But I sure appreciate you thinking of me.

Hope everybody is well out there. I'll be around to see you!
.

Sorry, Mr. Prime Minister

People, I have tried to curb my enthusiasm, but it’s proving impossible. My beloved Bro-in-law advises me to let my date do most of the talking because, he says, guys like to have your rapt attention and know you’re interested in them.

Hey, I’m with the guy, right? Isn’t that proof enough? But okay, I figure Bro may be onto something since he does have all the requisite male parts – I assume. So there I go trying to shut up and listen up with Mr. Fine and meanwhile my brain is quietly quivering to a cacophonous crescendo. It is saying, “Hey, me too! Oh, oh, oh, I have a story about that, and it’s got all kinds of dark and twisty turns that you just will not believe, and should I grace you with it (any split millisecond now) you will like me mucho mas or naturally be so incomprehensibly impressed you must call TV and radio stations -- or at least write a glowing review in the Statesman.” And pretty soon my brain is bulging with all this earth-shattering stuff, and the pressure builds to the breaking point and something’s gotta give, and post haste the gates burst open and out it all cascades, just like Niagara, and there he goes like a little raft, over the edge and down into the swirling conversational vortex over which I have co-opped ultimate power and from which he may never be extricated but for that one gasp of air that begs more than says, “I have to go.”


This is when I most feel like Natalie (Martine McCutcheon) in Love Actually when she’s just met her boss, the new prime minister (Hugh Grant), and after shaking his hand:

PM: Hello, Natalie.
Natalie: Hello, David. I mean, sir. Shit, I can't believe I've just said that. And now I've gone and said "shit". Twice. I'm so sorry, sir.
PM: It’s all right. You could've said "fuck" and we'd have been in real trouble.
Natalie: Thank you, sir. I had a premonition I was gonna fuck up on my first day. Oh, piss it!
Chief of Staff Annie: Right ... let's fix the country, shall we?
PM walks away, then turns back to see Natalie suffering regret.
Staffer Pat to Natalie: It's all right.
Natalie: Did you see what I did?
Pat: Yes, I did.
Natalie: I just went "blurh" (gesturing that a bunch of horrid crap just came tumbling out of her mouth).

That was me. Minus the horrid part, I think. (sigh) See David and Natalie here.

So it looks like I am doomed, and short of an intervention, anyone who wants to hang with me will have to be okay with a wacky chatterbox. Oh, and Bro also quoted me some scripture about how the most unruly part of the body is the tongue. I just had to laugh. I don’t even LIKE scripture.
Just to clarify, peeps, somehow Mr. Fine is not deterred by my blathering. In fact, he says he likes it. Ha! That is what he says NOW...
.

Wee Wisdom #4

Miss America's Poignant Pearl of the Week:

"Everyone likes me.
Except for anyone who doesn't."

48 Hours of Advice: Updated

Who knew the anticipation of meeting someone could make a person so wonky inside? Yes, I said wonky. I have all this . . . stuff just sitting inside my chest, all these incredibly fun and fabulous and frightening thoughts inside my head. Maybe it's because of all the advice I've been given in the last 48 hours:

"Look stunning."

This from a guy. What does this mean? There's no red carpet, no acceptance speech. Remember, simple girl on the outside, maybe some complexities on the inside. I do admit to a fascination with sexy pirates and vamps. But I digress. I need specifics, people. What articles of clothing would equal stunning? Hair and makeup? How do I do stunning? Is this a requirement?

"Be innocent and shy, and in total control."

BWAAAAA-HAHAHAHA. And I thought this guy knew me. Innocent, like Scarlet, sugar. Shy, what is that? In total control, I don't even have that with the remote. Then he mentioned I shouldn't talk so much. Okay, he does know me. I promise to be demure.

"Wear something sleazy so he'll be speechless."

This from a guy too. Sleazy would leave him speechless, all right. Not quite what I'm going for. Can't be too conservative either. So somewhere in the vast expanse of rockin' first date attire there has to be something for me to wear, right? I'm just not sure it's in my closet.

"Wear something black. It will make your skin glow!"

Shheeeyyaaahh! No likey too much sun these days. Miscreant youth spent in way too much sun.

Then there was this conversation with my daughter Scoots, bringing 4-inch turquoise stilettos out of her Smithsonian-style shoe museum . . .

Scoots: You gotta wear these!

Me, trying them on at her dogged insistence: Holy crap, I can't even stand in these. I'll look like a Barbie doll, and I'll walk like one too.

Scoots: No, no. I have a secret. Take flipflops and leave them in the car. Wear the stilettos into the restaurant – ten minutes on your feet coming and ten going. If he wants to go somewhere else, you say, "These shoes are killing me. I think I have something more comfortable in the car." Then you go to the car. "Oh, looky there! Flipflops!"

Me, with blank look: Seriously?

Scoots, taking a drag on her beer: Oh yeah.

Then from my daughter's 20-something buddies:

"Go for the wax job. Guys love it."

First I have to stop laughing. People, this is a first date!

And finally:

"Play up the girls."

Now that I can do. Dinner at 7.

===================================
Update: It was Chardonnay and meteors of the heart-pounding kind. And let's say that when I got home, jumped into bed, and tried to finish off a Stephanie Plum novel, I had to reread the same three pages a dozen times because thoughts of him kept intruding. I likey that boy.

Chardonnay and Meteors

I got slightly buzzed last night. Lightweight that I am, it took only one full glass of my neighbor’s chardonnay to get me that way. I always was a cheap date. Oh, but I’d had a long day, and it was so worth it. I just couldn't look one more minute at a computer screen, so I didn’t accomplish the writing I was supposed to. My writing partner -- she of the whip-cracking, slave-driving, that’s-no-excuse ilk -- was none too pleased. She made me compose a limerick on the fly, via text, as penance. It may have been naughty because she is perverse that way. I swear I can’t remember it.

Around ten p.m. or so, Miss America and I went out on the back deck, hoping to get showered with Perseid meteors. But the city lights washed out the night sky and left only pinpoints of hazy constellations. At least I think so. The Great Bear looked more like a gerbil.

As you know, there are few things I enjoy more than hanging with Miss America. This is why:

Miss America: If we were up in da sky, we could see the Milky Chocolate.

Me: Chocolate and chardonnay? Mmmmmm.

=================================
Update on Mr. Fine. We have decided to meet. But first, I’ve sent him to the place where my alter ego resides. To the irreverent persona who drives this blog. If I'm lucky, our online chemistry won't crater. And hey, if I can’t be on my best behavior here, I think y’all should be. Say hello to Mr. Fine.

My Fine Favorite

Boys. You knew I'd get around to that subject again, didn't you? Not little boys, BIG boys—with cars and jobs and attractive male equipment and the good sense to use them proficiently, or exactly as instructed.

One of the sites I'm on is Plenty of Fish (POF), but it really isn't any better than Match.com or Yahoo Personals, so as I'm looking at POF on Friday, just as I'm thinking, "this sucks, I'm done," I see his picture. Let me just say, "That boy is FINE!" I peruse his profile. Age appropriate, check! (I drank another gallon of Cougar-be-Gone, and I swear I'm in remission!) Height and weight proportionate, check! Spells and expresses himself with intelligence and grammatical efficiency, check! Looks FINE, check and double check!

So I "favorite" Mr. Fine. His profile link is magically transported to my Favorites folder where I can easily find him when—and IF—I return to POF. I have to actually get work done at work, people. I know, sucks. Serious dating perusal must wait.

Saturday, I go to the site and notice I have a few emails, which is not unusual. What is unusual is that I get an intriguing note from Mr. Fine. He has noticed I favorited him and wonders why didn't I take the next step and contact him. He says other stuff which you don't get to hear, but suffice to say, he captured my attention again. Since very few guys do—can I help it if I have standards?—I naturally respond in a witty and engaging manner—which of course he will fall for.

And he responds back. And I like what he says so I respond again. In fact, I start smiling when I get an email from him. I look forward to getting something, and if there's nothing, I have to slap myself and say go do something else. We message back and forth for a couple days, and I decide we have it: online chemistry. We shine on the compatibility scale. It's exciting. He gives really good email. In fact, I think I need a cigarette.

But you know what that means, right? The natural next step is: the telephone. (Otin, I hardly know the guy!) But I'm all nervous about it. I imagine regurgitating something totally whack or throwing out an F-bomb before I can gently break it to him that I cuss like a Ranger. My history proves that you can't suck that shit back in.

So why do you think it is that an experienced dater and flirt like me is suddenly all squiggly inside about a possible phone conversation? True, I'm a little out of practice, but I wonder, has so much talking via email stunted my extemporaneous social skillz? Have I lost the ability to think on my feet—er, on my arse with a cell in my hand? What if I burp?

Or is it that because I like this one, I have more to lose?

Maybe someone can pretend to be me on the phone so it's not actually me who says something stupid. Volunteers?

==================================
Dating tip of the week: Guys, a picture of you kneeling over a dead grizzly with his bloody, pitiful head between your hands is not sexy, 'kay? It's more along the lines of "Holy shit, that's disgusting!" Seriously. That is not a picture that will get you laid by anything other than a big, mad, daddy grizzly. May your ass rest in peace.
.

Wee Wisdom #3

Miss America's Poignant Pearl of the Week:

On starting Kindergarten:
"I don't really wanna go to school, Nana.

Cuz there's reading and numbers and a lot of be quiet going on."

Five Things

I've never done a meme before -- I prefer blathering on with original content -- but when Rebel Mother challenged me, I decided to give it a shot. Bucking the rules, as usual, I'm just doing five of the ten questions, 'kay? So here are things you probably didn't know about me:

1. Apart from your house and your car, what is the most expensive item you've ever bought?
Foregoing jewelry too, it's a tossup between some pro sports events. Eeny, meeny, miney, mo. Okay, tickets to see Sugar Ray Leonard fight Tommy Hearns at Caesar's in Vegas. 1989. Let's just say, we paid over a grand each for the tix. So I was a little bummed when 12 rounds ended in a draw, and though I wanted Sugar Ray to win, I think Tommy bested him. Plus, my voice went hoarse from screaming so much. "Sugar Ray! Sugar Ray!" and "You suck!"

2. What is your most treasured memory?
I have a bunch, among them the births of my own four babes (born separately or I'd have my own show too: Four Score and Jesus God No More!). Also high on my list: participating in the births of four nanababies. That your daughters trust Mom to be there (over their guys) makes you feel kind of important. Till they "remember" they still know more than you.

3. What is the best gift you received as a child?
A $5 bill. 1965, I'm 10. Dad had gone to Seattle for work and left my mom and his six kids in Phoenix until he could send for us. We had to make every penny last. One day my mom sent me to Safeway with the only money she had, $5 (which bought a whole lot more then) for bread and milk, and somewhere in the candy aisle, I lost it. Then I had to go home and tell her. I was so upset to see tears in my mom's eyes (and how PISSED she was!) that I exiled myself to the front porch. I felt like I'd stabbed her in the heart and deserved solitary confinement. At sundown, a family friend of my dad's found me there sobbing. He pulled a five out of his wallet and said, "Go tell your mom you found it." That guy saved my life. I have been guilt-free ever since. Okay, that guilt-free part was a lie, but I like the idea.

4. What was your highlight or low light of 2008?
Being the worst year ever, there were many low lights, but topping the list: my baby sister died in a car accident, and I will never get to tell her, face to face, all the things I wanted her to know. We will never again get together to play Pick One and laugh our asses off. She will never again piss me off for always, always being HOURS late, or toking up, or never returning phone calls. Yeah, sometimes even the bad stuff you'd forgive if only there was a way to turn back the clock. The highlight? I got two new sons-in-law. One daughter eloped to the islands and one went down to the JP's office in Austin. I guess they're both keepers.

5. If you were a comic book/strip or cartoon character who would you be?
Jessica Rabbit. I love that she's absurdly sexy and faithful to the core, but mostly I'm attracted to guys who bounce around haplessly and like to live dangerously. Jessica's famous one-liner: "I'm not bad, I'm just drawn that way." Yeah, me too.

Now go hop across the pond and say hi to Rebel Mother, and tell her the Fragrant Liar sent you.
.

Four Boners and a Wedding

I'm giving away my beloved niece to her handsome fiancé on their wedding day. Thankfully, the ceremony and photo session are brief affairs; and we head to what is affectionately called a "redneck reception" due to the location (a barn), the personal facilities (port-a-potties), the novelty memorabilia for guests (koozies in that camo pattern), and the yummy blue groom's cake (adorned with beer cans). It's really a cute outdoor setup and fun from the moment we arrive. I'm thrilled at the lack of pretense.

Meanwhile, my whole demeanor is a pretense. In the 100-degree heat of a Houston afternoon, I exchange pleasantries with T-Doo's friends and the groom's family, and I smile. But neither the bridal party nor the guests can see that I have four boners, two in front and two in back, sewn into the lining of my dress. Cutting into my lower back and cinching my abdomen, they are determined to make me scream and buck like a sweaty, pissed off bronc at the rodeo—which could work at a redneck reception, but which would also make me look silly in photos.

The tiltwall structure of my covert corset keeps me upright. I cannot bend over. I cannot sit down. I wonder absently why I'm holding my breath. Oh wait. I'm not holding my breath; I can't breathe because my lungs can't expand, which goes against the laws of physics! Remember Elizabeth in Pirates of the Caribbean, when she stands up on the cliff and her corset is squeezing her to fainting? That is me. I have passed the point of coping, and before I pass out, I MUST GET THIS THING OFF ME!

I steal my daughter's keys and march in white highheels through a pasture where all the cars are parked. Not even Captain Johnny-Jack Sparrow can stop me. By the time I get to the Honda and drop into the back seat where ultra dark windows will protect my impending nakedness from onlookers, I am in an all-out panic. Ah, but I am safe now. I can get out of this thing and breathe!

Except that I can't reach the hooks or the zipper in the back of the dress, and even if I could, the dress is so tight, the zipper won't budge. Nooooooooooooo!

I text Scoots: Help! I'm trapped. I can't get out!

Scoots: You need help getting out of your dress?

Me: Come now! I'm stuck in it!

Me: Seriously! I can't fucking breathe!

Me: HURRY!!

Me: Are you coming?????????

Since she hasn't replied, I think #2 daughter is blowing me off, laughing wickedly with her evil sister at their mother's ridiculosity. I kick open the side door and roll out of the car, gasping for fresh air. In the distance, I see Scoots. Thank God, she hasn't forgotten that I gave her birth! Thank God she HAS forgotten all those times I embarrassed her in front of her friends. I fall to my knees in gratitude -- and dizziness. Despite people milling through the parking pasture, I stand in full view and turn my back to my daughter. "Do it now!"

We attract attention, but I don't care. Scoots tugs on the fabric, drags the zipper down, and finally sets me and the girls free! I smile like a big dork, slump into the back seat again, and just lay there, breathing, watching my belly swell, letting it all hang out.

A few minutes later, I emerge back at the reception in flip-flops, shorts, a nice top, and pearls. This is how I spend the rest of the reception, dancing the night away. And I don't care. Cuz I can breathe.

I'm Baaaack!

Just got back into town, and here's a brief wedding photo album.

This is me and my preggers daughter, TG.

Doodle, moi, niece T-Doo the Bride, and my daughters Scoots and TG.

The happy couple at the wedding reception. Aren't they gorgeous?

More later. I'm beat. And my guilty pleasure is on the tube -- Holly of course!