Pirate Hooker

Along the road trip to Florida, I visited my daughter in Fort Polk, Louisiana, where she lives with her handsome hubs, an adventurous army guy. Before I could get on base, I had to present my ID, auto registration, and car insurance. Why car insurance is necessary to roll into army territory, I have no idea. I saw no tanks to accidentally run into. Anyway, I just said, "Sir, yes sir!" I am nothing if not cooperative in the face of uniforms.

Because I'd been carting around traveling paraphernalia, my wallet and ID happened to be sleeping deep in the bottom of my purse. As I was fishing for it, my cell phone rang loudly from somewhere in the same vicinity. It was a ringtone that, well, I just don't know how it got on there. Seriously. What rude person would play such an outrageously inappropriate joke on me? Frankly, if I knew who it was, I'd totally take them out of my will.

While I panicked in the ultra-quiet-you-could-hear-a-pin-drop army office, the very gruff-looking, tough-talking army guys (with loaded side arms) sitting on the other side of the desk -- who never *EVER* smile -- heard this repeatedly in the voice of Anchorman's Ron Burgundy (Will Ferrell):

"You are a smelly pirate hooker! You are a smelly pirate hooker!" 

Yeah, hit that PLAY button about ten more times, and you'll hear exactly what those guys heard. Like the BP oil well 5 miles down, I could not cap that sucker off! Those stoic army guys stared me down. Clearly they did not appreciate my purse mocking them. My daughter and sister's mouths gaped as wide as their eyes. I could only laugh like a dork, Ha, ha ha. Not YOU! YOU GUYS are totally NOT smelly pirate hookers! Honest! Sirs!

Still no cracking one iota of a smile from Misters Regimental. But believe it or not, they let me on base.

Cool. I mean, Sir, yes sir!

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Road Trip Recap: NOLA

Peeps, my sister and I left last Thursday morning for Florida and made two stops in Baytown and Fort Polk to take copious photos of nieces and grandnieces and daughters that we won't see for awhile. We took our time, which was a good thing since it rained almost the entire way. Wouldn't you know it, while we drove butt naked and laughed hysterically, nobody even noticed. What's up with that, Gulf Coast Road Trip Gods? You're making me look bad! Plus I caught a chest cold.

Then came our third stop Saturday night at the Sheraton in the French Quarter. Ooo-la-la! An important note about this hotel, people (especially if you are plagued by vertigo like I didn't realize I was): the windows of the rooms on the 21st floor are carpet to ceiling, so you can stand next to it and feel like you could fall right the hell out. To your splattery death. Were these windows openable, and you didn't fall to your splattery death, you could barf onto Canal Street passersby while looking down from WAAAAY on high, which is, quite frankly, where I'm meant to hang out, gazing down on mortal peons. Am I right?

NOLA dinner was at street level and we stopped in at Huck Finn's for gumbo and related Cajun eats. Then my daughter and her precocious son showed us around, and I was both impressed and grossed out in equal measure at the spectacle that is Bourbon Street. Had I visited there in my younger days as a singleton, I would have fit right in with the other drunks and worn many shiny, beaded necklaces. Now that I'm totally tame (heh, heh, quite possibly that should be lame), I just pose with big, fat, green grenades of the plastic persuasion, while a three-year-old clings to my back, and wonder how bad it would be if I poked a hole in Mr. Rubbery Girth just to watch him blow up and sputter around the piss-stained sidewalks. And just FYI, that is the real reason people get so drunk down on Bourbon Street--it's the only way to tolerate the stinkies. That said, I was completely mesmerized by it all.

The best part of Bourbon Street? I found the treasure of a lifetime. Oh yes. People, a TREASURE! You see, 25 years ago at a Sixth Street piano bar in Austin, a tawdry pianist (really, how do people say that word without laughing?) crooned about that little-known African pygmy tribe, the Fahkawees. They ran through the plains, leaping above the tall grass to see where they were, all the while shouting, "Where the fahkawee? Where the fahkawee?" I was so impressed by their plight, I held their story close to my heart all these years. And now . . . now, I'm an official Fahkawee, thanks to a little shop on Bourbon Street.

Life is good.

More later, peeps.

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ROAD TRIP!

These two words are front and center of my weary brain—weary because my whirlwind decision to embark on a new adventure has resulted in a whirlwind unloading of 95% of my possessions (you would be surprised how painful letting go of a coffee maker can be); and front and center because . . . well, I'm doing it! I'm moving from Texas to Florida BY MYSELF!

I know. I'm wearing my big girl panties, but it's still a huge deal for me.

To help christen my journey into a new life, my sister is flying out from Phoenix to take to the highways with me on a girls' road trip. Austin to Ocala, baby! The last time we hit the pavement together was Spring Break 1976 and our destination was Rocky Point, Mexico. Si, amigos. El Baja. That trip was memorable for the many things that qualified as "shit you can't make up," and I'm torn between wishing for an uneventful, leisurely trip this time or one so fantastic that I won't need to make shit up. I even bought a groovy digital camera to record anything outrageous—just for you guys. Frankly, I'll be disappointed if I can't brag about at least something weirderific. Like what if there's an old broad tootling around naked in a red hooptie? And what if she's got a buddy and she's naked too? And they're laughing hysterically and snapping photos of people's shock as they drive by. I mean, if I can talk my sister into it, imagine the looks we'd get! Totally worth the cost of the camera, I'm betting.

I know. Just how juvenile can I get? Well, depends on if I can talk my sister into it or if she leaves me on the side of the road.

So there you have it. When last I blogged, I hinted at big changes on the horizon. Leaving the city I've called home for most of the last 17 years is a leap of faith in my commitment to make my dream a reality. The net promises to appear wherever and however I land so I can concentrate on my writing. What cool stuff is going to manifest in my future? Who will I meet? How will my life be changed?

I know. It's the hap-hap-happiest of horseshit, but it's MY horseshit, and I believe in it.

Wish me Vaya con destiny, people. I'll post some of our journey next week.

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A Magic 8-Ball State of Mind

Okay, so while my blog has been unusually quiet because I'm on hiatus, BIG changes are happening behind the scenes. In fact, I've switched tacks.

You know how you dream about being some place totally different than where you are right now? You know how you say, One of these days, when all the stars align, when the kids no longer need me, or when money falls from the sky, I'm going to do/go/be _______ (fill in the blank)? I'm going to reinvent myself and my life. I will finally do it, go there, be that . . . One of these days.

Followed by big sighs, slumps in your chair, and massive doses of reality and routine in the form of work, money, bills, kids, deadlines, whatever.

And then because the universe works in crazy wondrous ways, an opportunity comes along that answers the call your subconscious has been busily broadcasting across the galaxy—the opportunity that could bring you closer to your dream. It's a glimmer of realization that hits you, and your whole body stills to take measure of this tiny, hopeful spark. You stare at it, mull it over, toss around the possible pitfalls. You shake it like a Magic 8-ball, and the triangle that stares back at you reads, As I see it, yes. You do a double-take. Signs point to yes. Is this wishful thinking or just craziness? Outlook good. If I don't recognize opportunity for what it is, I can't accept it for what it is, and then will it be gone with one more shake of the 8-ball? That I will later regret? Most likely.

How many missed opportunities have there been in your life? Concentrate and ask again.

Yeah, that's the kind of thing I'm looking at RIGHT NOW. I've sent off the kids to Atlanta (boo-hoo big time!), my house is nearly empty, and I have a place to go across town. It's the safe thing to do but gets me no closer to living my dream. Outlook not so good. But a random rant to a beloved confidant has spurred something new and exciting—that hopeful spark. Yes, I'm moving toward the light. (Not that one.) Toward sunnier days. Now the safe thing doesn't feel like the right thing. So I'm about to take a calculated (repeatedly in my Excel spreadsheets) risk. Aahh, there's that troublesome little word: risk. If it's worth having, is it worth the risk?

If the stars continue to align, in three weeks, I'll be in a whole 'nother state. Mentally, emotionally, geographically. My life. In flux. On the cusp. It is decidedly so. Wish me luck.

What exactly is on the horizon for me? Better not tell you now.

But soon. You may rely on it.
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Gi-gawk-squawks Are Wrestling Me to the Ground

Ever feel overwhelmed? Like you're treading water and all your seeming A#1 priorities—in the form of gigantic, awkward, squawking birds that peck and nip at each other—are standing on your shoulders, weighing you down and throwing you off balance? And your one saving grace is that you can touch the bottom with your tired, shriveled feet so your head is above water? Barely?

Lots of demands and changes at home and at work are inciting the gi-gawk-squawks on my shoulders to declare war. They're flipping me the proverbial bird and fighting over which one I should feed first, and I've been vacillating between them because the cacophony makes my spine twist in knots, which means I have been getting my share of migraines. And who doesn't love a good migraine? Oh, oh, oh! Count me in! Bastards . . .

All that to say, I'm packing, moving across town, traveling, work-work-working, and becoming a bona fide emptynexter over the next few weeks, so I am forced to take a very brief hiatus. I hope you don't all run off, as I'll have things posted and check in occasionally. Plus, it's only temporary, barely a blip on the radar screen of blogging, right?

Thanks for your support, and I'll see you in a few weeks.

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Wee Wisdom #9

Miss America's

Poignant Pearl of the Week

On discussing the movie she and I saw together today:

"Dragons aren't scary. You just have to entertame them."

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Symphony and BBQ

It's Friday night, and I am all dressed up, leaving Planet Earth for a whole 'nother world. Or as the culturally sophisticated call it, the symphony. Oh yes. Contrary to rumors, I am totally cultural. Oh wait, that's gutteral. Whatever. So I have an evening out, thanks to my good friend AM, who's garnered free tix. But first we stop at Ironworks for mouth-watering barbecue and a gallon of tea. That goes together, right? Symphony and BBQ? Plus, the guy behind the counter says I am BEEE-UUU-TEE-FUL. That alone is worth the price of heartburn. 'course, if he could see my unshaved legs (which he can't since I'm wearing black slacks), he might not be so drooly over me.

So we arrive and traipse into the architectural wonder that is the Long Center. I depend on AM to shuttle me through the vastly aging expanse of urbane hobnobbers, but it’s clear that she is as much in foreign territory as I am, and we spin around mumbling, What's with the sequinage? Is there a door around here we should go through? Where's the john?

Eventually, we make it to our seats in the parterre. Without the glasses I lost five years ago during Hurricane Frances, I squint to see the orchestra that occupies the entire stage. I make out only the hefty guy who rises out of the back on cue to clash cymbals. I want his job.

So the first number is the Funeral March. Really? Seems like that should be the big finish when the event is effectively six feet under, doesn't it? Anyway, 15 minutes and only ONE NUMBER LATER, I notice that AM is bobbing her head in time with the music (a Chopin-Stravinsky thing that threatens to stretch long into the night). I think, Man, she is really getting into this. I don’t want to stare at her, but I’m astonished that my whiskey-guzzling, Harley-riding, rock-n-roll buddy is bewitched by orchestral strains. So I peek out the corner of my eyes and, yup, she’s all immersing herself, even going so far as to close her eyes to absorb every strum of strings, toot of horns, and tinkle of piano keys. Or wait . . . her head drops and she catches herself and a minute later, her head drops again, and then . . . THEN? She snores! This performance is better than what I can’t see on stage! I elbow her a good one. She tips her head toward me, peering over her glasses as if to say, Help. Me.

Finally, people clap and everybody rises. I get excited until I realize it's only intermission. What a tease the symphony is! Everybody gets up and COMES BACK! I think surely AM will drag me out, but instead we eat dark canned chocolate that resembles goat turds and laugh at people and sit through the second half—which gets surprisingly energetic and loud—as if they KNOW someone somewhere is nodding off! How do they KNOW!?

Anyhoodles, I have suggestions for you, Symphony. You can jazz up your repertoire by making these easy-peasy changes:

• Two words: light show. Orchestral stuff drags on to infinity and beyond; some psychedelic stimuli would enrapture your audience so they could keep their eyes open. Worked for the '60s. What I remember of it.

• Two more words: dry ice. Toss water in the vat and voila! London fog. Think of the moody ambiance. I dare say, a death dirge could be cause for celebration.
• Two last words: KISS tongue. Maestro could totally rouse all the blue-hairs by adding some Gene Simmons action to counteract that penguin get-up.

There you have it, Symphony. You know you wanna!

Oh, when AM and I got back into her car? We cranked up some Stevie Ray. She’s my sweet little baby, She’s my pride and joy! She’s my sweet little baby, and I’m her little lover boy.

Aaaahhh, back on terra firma.
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Embarrassing Moment #12,363

I wasn't going to say anything, but it happened so long ago that I feel comfortable parting with the story. See, I was the last one to leave my office one evening, and I had stopped into the johnna before the long ride home. I was wearing a cute little sweater dress with black tights and boots. After conducting my business, and by the time I'd gotten myself put back together, including my coat, bags, and purse, something didn't feel quite right.

As a veteran thongster, I can swear on a stack of Dan Brown novels that once I'm in my thong, I don't feel it. Sometimes I have to ask myself, Hey, did you remember to put on panties? But apparently this night, because of the snug fit of my tights and the unusual tugging I'd done to get them up and in place, it felt like somebody was behind me trying to stretch my thong up over my head. Ever done that? Walk up behind somebody, see the elastic band of their undies, and just yank on them till the person squirms? Frankly, there's nothing more gratifying. However, I was on my own here.

I was in a hurry to get home to watch Cougar Town, so I hurried out of the johnna doing a shimmy and shaking thing, trying to reposition the thong via osmosis. I get to our little lobby and hit DOWN to call the elevator. It's so quiet at night on our floor, and kind of creepy when all you can hear are the noises of the building's inner workings—the ticks, the grumblings, the air handlers, etc. And I'm standing there, thinking osmosis is a lame concept and I can't stand one more second of this discomfort cuz the back of my thong could be lodged crackside for eternity. With briefs, you can just tug on the leg band and the annoying clump of fabric between your cheeks is a thing of the past. Not so with a thong—much more complex operation, I assure you. So I drop everything I'm carrying and lift up the back of my dress, grope blindly for the waistband of my tights, and then shove my hand down there—wa-a-a-ay down there. More shimmying and shaking is required, plus a little "spread 'em" action to aid in a successful wedgectomy.

It is at this moment that the elevator dings, signaling the arrival of my ride down. I have time for one last squirm to extricate the recalcitrant thong, when two guys in jeans and tennies appear in the hallway to my right, carrying a ladder and toolboxes. They stop, ten feet from me, stunned and speechless. In one fluid movement, I release the thong, withdraw my hand, and grab my stuff on the floor. I throw myself into the elevator, smack the close-the-damn-door button, and pray the workmen are not going DOWN. After interminable seconds, the doors finally seal me inside—alone—while the muffled sounds of men giggling echo in my brain.

Thus, a proud moment imprints itself into Fragrant Liar's history.

The upside is, I don't think they recognized me. They weren't actually looking at my face.
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A Senior Moment

Sunday on the way to the airport, my parents and I stopped at Denny’s for breakfast. The back of the menu was the “Senior Menu,” featuring smaller portions specifically for all those tight-wad 55+ peeps regulating their diets. (By the way, aren’t seniors considered to be 65 and over? Why are they pushing me?)

Since a 3-egg omelette from the regular “youthful people” menu seemed too much for me, I thought I’d sneak in an order for the 2-egg omelette off the Senior Menu. I was in the vacation mindset of "Hey, just try and stop me. I want what I want." Ya know?

So I threw it down. And our waitress kept writing and said, “Okay. And for your sides?”

*Blaring, rip-roaring record scratch!*

Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Smack the foul buzzer! WTF happened to “May I see your ID please?” What about “I’m sorry, youngun, but that menu is for seniors only!?” No “Are you kidding me? You can’t POSSIBLY be a senior!?”

Again I say, WTF? Talk about your Grand Slam! Why, I oughtta . . .

Next thing, she’ll be remarking all innocent-like, “You two could pass for sisters!” While my mother is absolutely beautiful, she’s SEVENTY-FIVE! And I am . . . YOUNGER!

But no, this waitress wench, with nary a faint glimmer of customer service skills, was more concerned about side dishes. Why, in the sheer insanity of the moment, I forgot what toast was!

With her beady eyes boring into me, I felt like taking my teeth out and spitting them at her! Naturally, I don’t actually have dentures, but my Dad would have let me borrow his. Probably.
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Yap Yippity Doo-Da

Greetings from sunny Florida. I hopped on a plane last Tuesday to surprise my mother for her 75th birthday. She was surprised alright. She cried when she saw me, and it was a sweet and touching reunion. Which lasted all of five minutes. After that, it was Fergie, Fergie, Fergie.

For the record, my name is not Fergie. Fergie is a silver and brown, tube-shaped, silky-haired DOG—my parents' 18-month-old Yappie. Let me tell you, it's a sad comment on family relations when you, the number one child in EVERY way imaginable, are treated like spam in deference to THE DOG.

My mother rejoices in saying, "Oh look!" as her precious yapping machine hops around my feet. "She wants you to pay attention to her!" She and Dad are aglow.

The bark-o-meter peaks at a level even wolves consider shrill, with reverb off the walls. Of course, this is the benefit of aging. Your hearing goes, which spares your eardrums from your dog's yap-yippity-doo-da. However, since I am but their human offspring, my intact eardrums verge on bursting.

Dad sheds a wistful tear as he coos, "Aaww, look at that. She's talking to you!"

It's as if the dog is Helen Keller eking out her first word. "Waaaa!"

I get down to Fergie's eye level to make sure we're communicating. "Two can play at that game," I say. "Have you SEEN me roll over and shake? You have much to learn, Yaphopper." Our ears perk up, our heads cock sideways, and our noses twitch while our individual wills clash in a Close Encounter of the Turd Kind.

Later . . . "Oh, look, she's on the dining room table!" Mom beams, enchanted by the divinity in motion that is THE DOG. On the table. Where we eat!

When Fergie leaves a reeking tootsie roll on the carpet, my mother is only vaguely annoyed. "Fergie!" she snaps. With her hands on her hips, she adds, "Oh, we-e-e-e-ll." After which, her pooping prodigy gets swooped up into a hug. A HUG!

Could it get any worse?

Oh yes! It could! She squeals and coos and fawns all over the dog. Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss. She was never that enamored with her flesh-and-blood grandchildren! Then my mother, who in an earlier life was known from Arizona to Texas as "The General," baby-talks gleefully: "Isn't her just the cutest thing?"

Listen, when we were kids, any pet who dared to crap in the house was booted out, destined to spend life outside with horned toads, snakes, and occasionally my dad. That kind of disrespect for domestic property amounted to an international incident that Mama Salla did NOT tolerate.

Now? (sigh) I guess a good poop only is as revered as its architect. A Fergie poop is akin to Frank Lloyd Wright's—a modern movement that invites the outdoors in.

Thing is, the Silver Turd gets it that her sudden position at the zenith of the inheritance ladder is assured with every revoltingly cute thing she does. So she continues to manipulate my parents' affections. Obviously, she is evil incarnate.

This Easter, I'll be filling up a basket with gaudy-colored eggs to hide. You know how there's always an egg or two you never find? Frankly, I wonder if Fergie would fit in a basket . . .
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