Random Thoughts
Mood:  not sure
Now Playing: 10,000 Maniacs-MTV Unplugged
1.Any man who refers to the woman he’s dating as his “current lady friend” is an ass.

2.Losing a pet to death, by whatever means, is heartbreaking.

3.Anyone who willingly appears as a guest on The Jerry Springer Show should be sterilized and prevented from breeding.

4.Sometimes you just have to refuse to let common sense cloud your judgment.

5.I wonder who would win in a fist fight between Chuck Norris and a Klingon.

Ah! I love the smell of the Olympics in the evening!
Mood:  happy
Now Playing: Abandoned Pools
I am a complete and total whore for the winter Olympics.

There’s just something about it. My favorite part of the Olympics after medal ceremonies when the American athletes sing along to the national anthem and cry? Opening ceremonies. Why you ask?

First off, I love hearing the names of all of those random countries that I could honestly not pick out on a map with any degree of certainty. I mean seriously, just how many ‘-istan’ countries can there be?! Apparently quite a lot.

I also love the whole ritual of it all. Nothing says pomp and circumstance like the opening ceremonies. Parades, banners, excitement, fireworks, energy, and last but not least flags. The lighting of the Olympic flame. It’s just plain cool in my book.

But who’s bright idea was it to use a melange of cheesy 80s tunes as the accompanying music to the parade tonight?

Did I really need to experience the athletes from Latvia entering to Y.M.C.A.? Chinese Taipei coming in to What is Love? Senegal boogying to Disco Inferno? I swore that if Kim Carnes’ ‘Betty Davis Eyes’ started to play, I would boycott the remainder of the show as some things are just not right.

On the bright side, the naked pink Mohawk dude and accompanying surreal performers were stellar. The Ferrari spinning donuts also was way cool. Made me yearn for a Power Ball win.

I think Italy did it up proud although that could just be the Pinot Grigio talking.

On another note, just where the Hell is the country of San Marino anyway? The world map was a whole lot easier in the Cold War years. I almost feel sorry for the little bastards in our under funded public school systems trying to learn geography these days.

Suburban Vigilante
Mood:  d'oh
Now Playing: The Clash
When I was in 7th grade someone began vandalizing the mailboxes in our neighborhood. All the neighbors were completely freaked out figuring it was the ‘damn troublemakers’(this was the 70s folks).

One night, my Pop had enough. The neighbor’s mailbox has been defaced and Pop was just certain ours was next. He had gotten himself all shades of worked up. So what does he do? He parks our full-size Ford Econoline van on the driveway in front of the house, sets up a foldable lawn chair and sets out to wait for the “little bastards” to come. Did I mention he was grasping a softball bat during his vigil?

Around Midnight, two teenage boys walk by our house talking. As they wander by, one of them half-ass kicks our mailbox in passing and Bam! Game on! Pop flies around the end of the van going towards the kids at a full run, softball bat gripped in both hands and raised high over his head as he screams some primal scream only suburban airline pilots can produce. Scares the holy crap out of these kids who both proceed to scream like little girls.

The taller kid takes off at a dead run into the night, leaving his freakish buddy to face the wrath of the mighty Oz. Pop had this kid by the front of the shirt and was holding him up on his toes as pop threatened him with the bat—screaming at him the whole time. At the top of his lungs. At Midnight. In the suburbs. “You sonofabitch! You thought I wouldn’t catch you?! Why did you kick my mailbox!?”

Yeah. Pretty soon, my mom wasn’t the only one running out in her jammies to scream at Pop. Needless to say, mom talked him out of calling the cops, reminding Pop that the kid could claim assault based upon Pop's convincing Ape Man of the Serengeti portrayal.

Flash forward several years. Many severals of years. As in this year. Someone is vandalizing the stop signs in my parents’ neighborhood and pops is all shades of pissed off about it.

“It costs $2,000 to replace every sign they deface. $2,000! Morons! It costs us all more as taxpayers! Do they realize that?! Do they have any idea?!” (Note: Pop, people who deface stop signs are no doubt so not worrying about their increasing share of taxpayer burden).

He goes on to say that he’s going to plan a sting and catch the “little weasels in the act".

So I say “What pop? You going to park the Tahoe out front, set up a folding chair, wait, and then after you catch them in the act, run after them screaming with your softball bat?”

Dead silence. Then he starts chuckling “I had forgotten all about that…”

Yeah sure you did Captain vigilante!

Now That's Red!
Mood:  surprised
Now Playing: Maroon 5

So....Red
Mood:  surprised
Now Playing: Edith Piaf
I have this high brow celebrity-filled outing on Saturday. Basically, a private party at whatever they call that big golf tourney now. Amazing that Joe Lewis arena and a plethora of other sporting venues have maintained their original name forever but we seem to change the names of our venues and events on a regular basis…but I digress.

In light of the festivities, I needed to freshen the hair color, etc. The problem is that my back is verklempt and sitting for hours on end (pun intended) is excruciating. How does one go about the upkeep on one’s outer appearance when one is unable to sit for a long time? One, being me, asks her stylist what could be done in say....a half an hour or before the Soma runs out. Apparently, hair color not highlights.

A half an hour later—SHAZAM! I am freshly coiffed....all shades of red. Yup. Red. I went red. As in saucy vixen red. You know, that red somewhere between Maureen O’Hara and Bozo the Clown. Not an I Love Lucy red so much as Raquel Welch red. Kind of auburn but definitely red. Red.

Can you tell I am still kind of freaking out?

I like it but it is seriously drastic which I think is really the only way one should go red. Hard and fast. Like ripping off a bandage. Red is just not a gradual color....

But I really think I like it…in fact, I think I really like it.

And the matching cuff....

Before the Red
Mood:  cheeky
BEFORE THE RED....

Broke Back
Mood:  accident prone
Now Playing: OMD
I almost made it a few weeks without a personal injury ‘incident’. I am just so not the poster child for OSHA. I managed to blow out my back. As in ‘totally gone verklempt sucks to be you cripple’. And it didn’t even happen while doing something fun like midget bowling or playing Bloody Knuckles. And how did I blow out my back? Hurking hay out of “high ho”. Yep, I am one of those white trash horse owners who lug hay about in non-pickup truck type vehicles. At least I am not as bad as my friend Robert who hauls hay in the trunk of his Jag. Now that’s overkill.

Now, I usually have no problem with tossing hay around. Each bale weighs about 75 pounds but it’s not the weight that gets me, it’s the awkwardness of the bale design. Whoever decided bales were a good unit of dry grass measure didn’t take into consideration chicks hurking them out of mid-size SUVs wearing 4-inch platform flip flops. Not the best shoe wear for manual labor I know but I was in a hurry. It didn’t hurt exactly when I was unloading, it was more uncomfortable than anything.

All I know is that I woke up Friday morning at 3am and I was in more pain than I have been in…months, which is saying a lot given my accident-prone background.

I started howling in pain. The chorus of gnarly f-bombers that left my mouth would have made most folks sob in horror. I spent the next five hours alternately sobbing and cursing God.

Made an appointment with my doctor ASAP. I actually hurt hard enough that I had to ask my 71 year old girlfriend Carol—red-headed little grandma and former 1950s scooter trash- to drive me there.I literally couldn't. How lame is that?

My legs actually gave out under me during the exam and my doc had to catch me. I was sobbing hysterically that it was a ruptured disc and I couldn’t have surgery now because I have too much too do. He hugged me and patted me as I sobbed.

Have I mentioned that my doctor is smoking hot? I had to tell one of the gals at the office who goes to him too and just lurves him. “Hey, Doctor Hottie totally hugged me.” She’s all “Nu-uh! What was it like?” So I told her “Sweet” and sighed just to be a brat. She called me on it--“Bitch!”

So after the hug, Doctor Hottie administers the ‘How screwed up are you?’ tests on my back. He tells me the good news: No ruptured disc just a massive back spasm. Whew!

He had the nurse come in and pump me full of happy juice AKA 1000000 micrograms of some wicked narcotic, prescribed some Percocet and Soma, patted me on the head, and told Carol to drag my now increasingly fuzzy self home.

Carol was a total trooper- She drove me back and forth to the doctor, picked up my prescriptions, drove my now giggly/sloppy/singing show tunes ass home all the while regaling me with stories of dancing on table tops and how she could “…spin both tassels the same direction.” Oh good God! Like I needed that image scorched on my retinas! It burns! It burns!

Now? Borrowing Sanchez’s Jacuzzi on a regular basis and praying for a full recovery and soon.

The structural engineer okayed the house. I have to pack and move in a matter of weeks…well, 6 weeks but still. ARGH!

Posted by azcoolchick0 at 3:55 PM NZT | Post Comment | Permalink

But I Digress...
Mood:  a-ok
Now Playing: Fleetwood Mac
Someone asked me why I seem to use the phrase “but I digress” a lot.

It’s because I do. All the time. It is a rarity for me not to go off on a streak of never ending, unrelated tangents. Usually when I am telling someone a story, after a while I have completely forgotten why I was telling the story in the first place. Yup.

It appears that I am incapable of telling a brief and concise story orally or with via the written word. That’s why I tend to use “but I digress” because as I am typing, my mind starts veering off track and voila! I digress.

Asked. Answered.

Stress Dream
Mood:  d'oh
Now Playing: Jason Moss
Stress Dream

So they accepted my offer on the house and I am all shades of freaked out! For reals! I spent all weekend on an emotional rollercoaster which ran the gambit from exhilarating high to Holy crap what the fuck have I done?! Seriously! I had no idea buying a house would be this stressy or complicated.

Everyone needs documentation. Paperwork is flying back and forth with the sellers--counter offers, the SPDS form, etc. The mortgage company pretty much wants a DNA profile, my first born child and a full body cavity exam sans latex gloves and lube or so it seems. The title company, much like my credit card company, just wants my money. I really didn’t know it would be this hairy.

See, I am a virgin.

Ok, stop laughing and/or choking and listen! I truly am. I am a first time homebuyer and now I am starting to wonder if having the ability to naked Jacuzzi in my own backyard really is worth all the hassle.

I barely slept all weekend. I pretty much kept myself liquored up to the gills so that I wouldn’t dwell on it a great deal (I really hate to waste perfectly good Xanax on non-flying freakouts although they are rare). Sunday evening, in spite of my boozy football and beer filled day (I so lurve those kinds of days), I didn’t fall asleep until 4am. As in 2 ? hours before I had to get up for work. Those 2 ? hours were total trauma too! I ended up having the stress dream of life!

Now, I have had major stress dreams before. Frued dude would probably have a field day with the random whacky shit that goes on in my head sometimes and this one was majorly freaky!

So in this dream, I go to pick up my cat, Madness. She just turned 16 and is getting to be kind of a grumpy little bitch. As I pick her up, her front left leg falls off. Yep. Falls off! As in just drops off her body and falls to my bedroom floor. Not like in the blood spurting “’Tis only a flesh wound” kind of way though. This was more in the cutting a raw chicken leg in half kind of way. Just an ugly, gooey red hole. It was fricking bizarre! She just kind of looked down at her leg and back up at me and says “Meow?” like ‘what the fuck just happened here?”

I panic. I have to call the vet and of course, it’s after hours. My vet doesn’t have emergency hours so I have to find one in the yellow pages. Good times!

Then, I pick up the house phone and it’s dead.

I run out to the kitchen to get my cell phone and a friend of mine has it in pieces on the counter (he likes to fiddle with electronics). “What are you doing?!” and he tells me that he is making the phone into a combination Blackberry/Walkie Talkie for me. Huh? Exactly!

So I finally get a phone and call a vet. The vet answers and I describe her injuries and the vet tells me that they don’t want to deal with it and to call someone else.

The next vet has some total moron answering the phone and she can’t tell me where they are located. No major cross streets, nothing.

All the while, I keep checking Madness’ leg to see if it’s still warm enough to reattach.

Yeah…..

I hear it only gets more stressful from here on out with a house purchase. I am so not looking forward to the naked, chainsaw-wielding clown dreams…

Celebreality Television
Mood:  silly
Now Playing: Eddie Money
I am the only person I know who truly despises ‘reality’ television. I would rather sky dive butt nekked into a Black Sabbath concert than watch reality t.v. That’s saying a lot! You can just imagine the male concert goers thinking that it was treats from Heaven...but I digress.

I hate reality t.v. because it puts itself forward as being raw and authentic and it’s not. It’s staged and the story content is fashioned and twisted by creative editing rather like a Michael Moore “documentary”.

The only thing worse than reality t.v. in my mind (other than berets, beer hiccups, crocheted toilet paper covers and poor oral hygiene) is reality t.v. with celebrities. Celebreality t.v. Let’s empty out the drug rehab centers and Motel 6s and really find the bottom feeders and sludge (basically the worst of the Where Are They Now files) and put them on television again. Who the Hell thought that was a good idea? Must be the agents representing the ‘has been’ and C and D-list actors in Hollywood who are desperate to find work…any work.

First, they toss 6 of them into a house for MTV’s Surreal Life. That was kind of funny in a freak show kind of way if I do say so. It was like watching a train wreck—you just couldn’t look away from the horror of it all. (If I EVER hear Brigitte Nielsen’s name again, it will be too soon! That broad is wacked!) Suddenly, celebrity reality shows multiplied faster than an unchecked colony of feral cats with about as much yowling and stink.

The Osbornes. Celebrity Mole. Celebrity Fit Club. Hit Me Baby One More Time. I’m a Celebrity-Get Me Out of Here. But Can They Sing.

Then this already hideous genre mutated much like that shit growing on the goat cheese in my fridge. Suddenly, it had morphed into doing sports with has been celebrities. Celebrity Boxing. Dancing with the Stars. Skating with Stars. Like we needed more!

If we have to have celebriality television you know what I’d like to see? Building a Home Made Bong with the Stars. Picking Scabs with the Stars. All Breed Dog and Cat Grooming with the Stars. And last, but not least, Thumb Wrestling with the Stars.

Now that’s celebreality t.v!

WHY?!
Mood:  incredulous
Now Playing: XRay Spex
I don’t know about you, but I am beyond freaked out that the edgy, alternative music as well as the corny one-hit-wonders of my youth is now being used to hock financial planning services among other products.

Seriously. I was all shades of wigged out when I heard 80s pop cheese meister Falco's 'Der Kommissar' (you know the song "Don't turn around, wo-a-o! Der Komissar's in town! Wo-a-o!) being used to hock Fidelity Investment. They should have at least used the later and ever more popular club version of 'Der Kommissar' by After the Fire.

Bad enough that Bananarama promoted Gillette Venus razors. Where will it end? Will I be forced to hear The Sex Pistols used to hock mattresses? The Jam pushing faux Italian at the Olive Garden? The Boomtown Rats' ?Ghost Town? as the theme song of The Phantom Guest Ranch? Just push me in front of a public bus now!

I realized today that 30-somethings are the new baby boomers. Now i know how they must have felt when Beatles tunes started popping up in every other commercial. God, do I feel old!

Go Steelers!
Mood:  happy
Now Playing: Slip Knot
Here I sit buzzed. Super buzzed. Uber buzzed. It’s been a stellar day of beer, noshes and football. Ahhhhh! Sunday! The only thing that would make it better would be if the football was hockey but I digress.

Do you have any idea how psyched I am that the Steelers are going to the Super Bowl? The only thing that would make it better would be if the Raiders were going. Although I would be beyond torn.

Why so? Have I mentioned that I am a total whore for the Raiders and the Steelers and have been since I was a kid? Seriously. When I was a kid (SO dating myself here) in the 1970s, Arizona had no NFL team and in my mind, still doesn’t. I became a fanatic for the Raiders as they were from Oakland and we had moved to AZ from No Cal. I picked up the Steelers along the way.

My grade school had a pencil machine and I spent countless dimes, probably enough for a pair of Manolo Blahniks, on NFL pencils praying I would get a Raiders or Steelers pencil. Seriously. I was that committed which is as committed as one can be in the 3rd grade.

I know it’s bizarre as the Raiders and the Steelers rivalry was beyond intense in the 70’s. Although the Steelers dominated the NFL during that decade in one of the most famous winning streaks in all of sports, the Raiders also were one of the most successful franchises in the NFL under the tutelage of then coach John Madden. The Raider’s heartbreaking losses were most notably at the hands of the Steelers.

The Steelers denied the Raiders a trip to the Super Bowl in three of four consecutive seasons in the early 1970s (the first loss was the famous "Immaculate Reception" loss) until the Raiders finally beat the Steelers in the 1976 AFC Championship game after finishing 13-1 and went on to win their first NFL championship in Super Bowl XI over the Minnesota Vikings 32-14 in Pasadena, CA, the following January. It took the Raiders forever to beat the “Steel Curtain Defense".

As I said, the Steelers' rivalry with the Raiders was extremely intense during the 1970s. After his team's loss to the Raiders, Steeler coach Chuck Noll actually described the Raider defensive backs as a "criminal element" in a post-game interview.

As a kid, I loved the players. “Mean” Joe Greene, Terry Bradshaw, the list goes on and on. My favorite player of all time and my perfect man is former Raider Howie Long (not from my childhood--from my hormonalhood). Can you say YUM!!!! He is the ultimate man--cute, great bod, well dressed, intelligent, funny, a great father and a committed husband. Can it get much better in a guy? He is best known today as an analyst for the FOX Network's NFL coverage where, as you know, he often plays the straight man to the comic antics of co-host Terry Bradshaw, a former Steeler, whom Long sacked several times over the course of their NFL encounters.

Even if I didn’t love the Steelers, I always root for the under dog. I like the rough and tumble bad boys who play with heart. More to the point, I hate the Broncos almost as much as I hate the Cowboys, AKA self important and self aggrandizing asswipes and that’s saying a lot.

I was glad that the Steelers had a decisive win today! They have played one Hell of a post season and today's win was accomplished with huge heart and huge effort and deserves to be noted as such!

I was truly hoping for a Steelers vs. Seahawks Super Bowl and my prayers were answered today! I think it will be an amazing pairing of true warriors. True heart vs. true heart. A game based upon a true desire to win—not for the paycheck and notoriety—but for the joy of winning.

A truly strange and wondrous thing in this day and age....

PS--you can tell I had giantly tied one on. Could I have used the words 'truly', 'true', and 'huge' a few more times? Jeesh!

Google Searches
Mood:  mischievious
Now Playing: The Pixies
Sometimes when I’m bored, I like to Google random weird ass shit like "I am a lush", "Nice ass bitch", or "Leprechauns make me horny” and then read the freaky bits and pieces out there on the Web that pull up for the searches. Endless amusement I tell you! Almost as fun as being wasted and having a bowl of hard candy to entertain yourself with but I digress.

I was checking out referrals to the blog trying to figure out where everyone is coming from as I still find this all rather wild. What I found surprised me. Some people have me bookmarked (I like you best!), others are coming from the Lycos Top 100 and still others from Jason Mulgrew.com (shameless plug for him). Many folks ended up here as a result of random and/or freaky Google searches. And I do mean random and/or freaky.

Sometimes the phrase or words Googled, I actually used in an entry. The majority of the time though Google takes arbitrary words and excerpts from multiple blog entries I have put up and rigs them together to fit the search even though they are not all in the same posting. Some of the searches are hilarious and some scare even me. Here are some of the actual Google searches that I copied from the site meter for your amusement, horror or both that led folks to the blog:


I am stuck in traffic and must use the bathroom?

bambi woods fucking mr. Greenfield (Meg O Rama was the #2 answer--SCAREY)

xiolin showdown porno

Schlitz bull tattoos

"little penis bay to breakers"

asiago dip

Dirty Spanking Girl (Arabic Google search)

Dead wolverine

candle wax ass crack nipple

"met a guy on eharmony" (Again, Meg O Rama was the #2 response)

"cheerleaders tied up by robbers"

Doesn’t Suck Umbrellas

Yukon john stamos fan club

"burned nipples"

Benise (He’s a nouveau Flamenco Spanish Guitarist and there were two searches for him)

Chris Evans, girly, feminine

Tramp Stamp

Mother weasel

“Sucks ass”

leather tequila bandolier

dreams, poop, public restroom

family guy meg plush

"hooters in bondage" (German Google search)

Kristy McNicols

"brazilian wax" and farted

lemonade cleanse

shanana bowzer picture

“Unholy smells”

And last but so not least, my personal favorite:

Losing British Accent After Tonsillectomy (WTF!?!)

On the bright side? I am very encouraged by the fact that I am apparently not the only whack job out there. In fact, there are many far greater than me!

A House Hunting We Will Go
Mood:  lucky
Now Playing: Boomtown Rats
Ah house hunting! I can’t tell you how excited I was to be looking for a new house! Was being the key part of that sentence. I must have been toking on the rock, having an alien abduction encounter or at the very least a rather torrid out of body experience to think that! NIGHTMARE!

On the bright side, my requirements are such that my options are limited. It must be a decent sized horse property in metropolitan Phoenix. That definitely narrows it down. There were lots of houses that fit the decent sized horse property available outside the city but after living in LA for four really long years and commuting an hour each way to and from work—SO not for me! That definitely meant I had to count out the houses in Lake Havasu—nothing like that 12 plus hour daily commute—NOT!!!

So the games began and here we are. I have now schlepped all over looking at overpriced crap whose MLS listing descriptions were way overblown and off base. I think that whoever compiles these things must have an MB degree--Masters in Bullshit-- and is wasting an excellent career opportunity as a political spin doctor in DC. Seriously, they are creatively enhanced beyond imagination and just lies, lies, lies (yeah!).

What do I mean? In my recent experience, if a house is described as “cozy” it means it is so fricking tiny that if two people were in the house and one was in the bathroom taking a dump, the other would be practically sitting on his or her lap and not by choice. “Charming” means better than the rest of the crack house shanty town dwellings in the neighborhood. “Quaint” is nothing more than a metaphor for freakishly strange. The list goes on and on!

Here is a brief rundown of the vile piles I saw:

House of a Thousand Sheds-This house had 20 sheds in the back yard. 20 sheds. All in various states of disrepair. I have no idea if these folks had a hydroponic pot farm or were hiding stolen goods but 20 sheds, even in good shape, is overkill. No thanks!

Knee Deep in Crap- I look out into the yard and it is covered in knee deep horse ‘apples’. Knee deep decomposing poop. I turned to my REALTOR and said “Oh no, this shit’s got to go” not even realizing I had made a funny. No thanks!

The 70’s Threw Up AKA Attack of the Turquoise Molded Shag Carpet-Everything in this house was original from the day it was built. A horrid melange of Harvest Gold, Olive Green, Burnt Orange, turquoise, etc. The counter tops were all white laminate with gold flecks. There was some random knob on the kitchen counter. I was all “Hmmmm, wonder what this is?” and turned it and it came off in my hand. Suddenly, this terrible high-pitched noise- ‘Shreeeeeeeeeeeek’- started emanating from somewhere in the kitchen—scared the holy Hell out of us as I scrambled to shove the knob back on and turn whatever it was off. We never figured out exactly what it was. No thanks!

Won’t You be my Landlord-this house had a mobile home in the back yard that was rented to some 76 year old woman. Oh sure. Just what I want, to buy a house and have some old broad living in my yard. Next thing you know I am doing maintenance on the singlewide and hoping that if she dies, her cats eat her so I don’t have to deal with it. No thanks!

Mauve Delight-Imagine mauve. Mauve as far as the eye can see. Mauve carpet, mauve tile, mauve paint, mauve bathroom fixtures. Mauve. Mauve. Everywhere Mauve. It was liking being inside someone’s mouth, sans tonsils, and not in the good way. No thanks!

This is just some of the disasters we encountered. On the flip side of the coin, we saw the Meg Hefner Playbroad mansion. 360 degree views of mountains and the city set up high on the mountain. Ginormous front patio with awesome views. Huge front room-all windows- with same amazing views. The house just had mojo! The kitchen was huge and had an awesome wraparound bar that seated 15 and flowed into an enclosed patio with views of the pool and mountain. In the backyard was a killer pool complete with the infamous rock grotto, bamboo groves and a custom built-in grill. I was already envisioning myself holding fabulous cocktail parties, telling Paco, my cabana boy, that we needed more mojitos and suntan oil…sigh! Too bad there was no room for the horse so unfortunately,I won't be wearing a velvet smoking jacket any time soon.

That was the biggest problem--finding a house that worked for me and a set up that also worked for the dogs and the horse. Some places, I was wondering if I could put Biggers in the laundry room as there was nowhere else to house him. Like Mr. Ed. Yeah. Not so much.

Then serendipitous luck! We turn down the wrong street and “Ahhhhhhhhhh” (think the Heavens opening up and Angels singing) there it was. The house. My house. Darling, darling, darling!

Long story short? (Yes, I actually can do that sometimes with extreme concentration). I am in putting in an offer tomorrow. Keep your fingers and other assorted appendages crossed for me.

Serial Dater
Mood:  cool
Now Playing: Depeche Mode
Recently, I have been a major serial dater. Even more so than usual. Guys seem to dropping out of the skies AKA it’s raining men—hallelujah! Seriously. I am meeting men everywhere I go. I’ve been on so many dates it’s almost my fricking hobby. I should probably add it to my resume:

Hobbies/Interests: Creating art, making jewelry, hiking, cooking, music, travel, reading, entertaining and dating

Can’t you just see it? Yeah.

As mentioned earlier, I have given up on my active pursuit of Mr. Right as it just wasn’t working out. Instead, I am reveling in the enjoyment of the numerous Mr. Right Nows life is bringing me. This does not mean that I have given up hope of finding ‘The One’ someday as I am still looking to find the Bogie to my Bacall. I believe in true love and all the mush. I am a total sucker at heart but I digress….

The one life lesson that is being reinforced by this whole journey? Don’t judge people by their outer appearances. For reals. How someone looks on the inside is no gauge whatsoever of what kind of person he is on the inside. I have been out to dinner with tall, dark and handsome only to realize over the course of an hour that he is a small minded, mean spirited, horrid jerkoff. The contrary also is true. I have been out with someone who just wasn’t really my thing upon first meeting him and in an hour of talking about the world we live in and life in general (Yes, I ripped that off from my favorite Depeche Mode song ‘Somebody’), he became a Mr. Yes.

A pretty face and a hot body will only take you so far in my book if you are a dickhead or otherwise arrogant bastard (although it usually takes you pretty far if you are a seriously hot total harpy mean bitch—guys will tolerate that shit a whole lot longer than chicks will). I think what it always takes me back to is what my gramps always used to say--Pretty is as pretty does. Too true.

Someone once told me that my outside just further enhanced my inside. I think that’s a pretty sweet compliment. It’s also what I’m looking for in my Bogie—outsides are all fine and good but I want someone with pretty insides…
way harder to find than you might think.

‘Moral’ of the story? (I know, surprising if not fully scary from someone like me) Give people a chance. Go beyond the skin deep first impressions and you might just be happily surprised at what you find.

Johnny Appleseed
Mood:  d'oh
Now Playing: Buzzcocks
Friday night I went out to Harold’s in Cave Creek with my girlfriend Inga. Yeah, that Inga. This time, we managed to keep it together and not slide into absolute drunkenness. Actually, it was Kettle One drunkenness, but I digress..

Pretty soon, these two cute guys were asking if they could lean in for drinks. One thing led to another and it’s chats and all around jocularity for the four of us.

Inga tells Sean from North Dakota that she has 3 kids. He says he has two boys and shows her their pictures. Unfortunately, he then starts offering TMI about how they were both unplanned pregnancies (shocker!) with two different women. EWWWWWW! Ick! I just stare at him in horror and then, before I can censor myself, I blurt out “Who the Hell are you? Johnny fucking Appleseed?”

Inga started laughing uncontrollably.

She was still laughing about it today as she took me around on my second day of house shopping or maybe it was just the scary ‘1970’s threw up inside’ houses we looked at.

Admirer
Mood:  mischievious
Now Playing: Deep Purple
I can be a brat sometimes. I know you find that so hard to believe. Not. I say sometimes, but there are folks who would disagree with me. I also am very easily amused which I consider a good thing as it can come in handy more often than you think. Sometimes my inner brat and my ability to be easily amused crash headlong into each other with amusing results.

How so? It resulted in one of my favorite dumb, but evil in the fun way, bar tricks.

Back in college, I was dating a guy named Fred. We were two peas in a pod and definitely instigators of all things trouble.

So one night, we were out with two of my friends, Deb and Laura, at the popular campus watering hole. Across the bar from us was some nauseating couple who were macking on each other to no end. Now, we’d been drinking your basic college fare. You know….mixed drinks, beer, shots, anything put in front of us. Yeah. Such a surprise that we were rather abbreviated.

So Fred and I came up with a brilliant idea. He called our favorite bartender over and asked him to send an anonymous shot to the female portion of the now literally dry humping on the bar PDA couple. GET A ROOM PEOPLE! You aren’t even close to hot enough for us to want you to perform a live sex show in front us! I’ve seen Tijuana donkey shows with better looking couples and one of them has hooves!

The four of us were across the bar watching the whole thing. The shot was put in front of her and she was all shades of excited. Captain Hump, on the other hand, was not. He immediately asked who it’s from and Mark simply said “an admirer”. The girlfriend went to reach for it and Captain Hump pushed it away, forbidding her to drink it. A really heated argument ensued during which the four of us were roaring with laughter across the way! She wants to drink it and he doesn’t want her to so she reached out and drank it in protest or perhaps out of thirst. He proceeded to stomp off in a full blown hissy fit. Let me tell you, it was classic!

About 20 minutes went by, during which I was delivering a Howard Cosell style blow-by-blow on the action. Finally, Captain Hump returned to his extremely upset and bitter chicky. We watched from across the bar as he apologized, she apologized and they started macking again in the making up portion of the mating ritual AKA so happy together….

Fred and I looked at each other, grinning like fricking idiots. “Oh yeah baby” I shouted, “do it!” So Fred sends another shot to Captain Hump’s girlfriend (Bwah! Ha! Ha!--that’s evil laughter) and all Hell breaks loose! It was like a cheesy B movie on rewind! The same thing happened all over again. Angry words. Violent gesturing. Pouty face on the broad. Captain Hump looking like his head was about to blow off.

Not us. We were across the bar in our front row seats falling all over each other laughing. Tears pouring down our faces as we mimicked them. It was hilarious! We couldn’t believe they didn’t know it was us as we were the only folks in a totally packed bar who were laughing hysterically to the point of falling off their bar stools.

The situation made me wonder. I looked at Fred and asked him would he care if some ‘admirer’ was sending me shots. He replied “Hell no! I know who you’re coming home with. He’d be doing me a favor getting you lubed so cheaply!” To which, we all started laughing again and reliving the snit fits of the PDAs.

Ah, devious and easily amused minds. My kind of folks. Now days, Fred is a career Marine who just finished his second tour of Iraq after stints in Afghanistan, Bosnia, etc. (which probably accounts for my popularity in Dubai)I feel safer knowing that someone with that kind of Machiavellian mind is protecting my sweet ass--Semper fi Froedlet!

‘Admirer’ has proved beyond amusing through the years and really has stood the test of time. Just ask the PDA couple Darrin and I pulled it on last night in Tempe. Bwah! Ha! Ha!

Of DC and Dog Bites
Mood:  hug me
Now Playing: Maria Callas
In fact, this trip to DC was far better than my last trip in May, but that’s not saying much. Why you ask?

Apparently two fuck nuts in a Cessna were unable to follow their flight plan and busted air space near the White House. What does that mean exactly? It means thousands of folks evacuating our Nation’s Capitol on foot in a panic. In a total fricking panic.

There I am at Cannon House building. We’ve just finished meeting with one of our U.S. Representatives when this unholy noise comes out of nowhere. WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WTF? It’s crazy! All of a sudden, everyone starts tearing out of the building in a rather weirdly organized fashion.

And when I say everyone, I mean everyone. Security guards were running around getting everyone out. As I ran out, I asked one of them what the deal was. He told me that a small airplane was headed for the White House. Eeek! Good enough for me, I start bailing. As I bail, I am surrounded by some dork mall rat high schoolers who were turning their Sony cams on themselves and doing instant video a la Blair Witch Project. They blow past me muttering to their cameras “I’m so scared. We have no idea what’s going on, no one will answer our questions.” To which, I reply “A small plane busted airspace over the White House.” So much for Meg-O-Rama info central. The little pimply cretins simply ignored me and kept saying over and over “We so scared—no one will talk to us.” Oy! So not glad these kids will be voting some day but I digress….

It was a bizarre thing to participate in to say the least. Tens of thousands of folks evacuating the Capitol in minutes flat. A veritable fleet of black sedans and Suburbans screeching up to the curb and VIPs like Senator John McCain were being shoved into them, then security would slap the trunk and the vehicle would whiz off to destinations unknown. Perhaps to Dick Cheney’s ‘undisclosed location’ which contrary to popular belief is not the men’s room in the basement of the Hart Senate building, it’s Jackson Hole, WY, where he can usually be found fishing but I digress. Some folks were running full out for their lives. Others were lightly trotting. Some were simply meandering while eating lunch from take out boxes, apparently interrupted mid-nosh….bummer.

As I attempted to run as far away as I could (because at that point it was being reported as a terrorist attack) in 90 degree heat with five million percent humidity while wearing kitten mules, so not the footwear of champions, I was actually passed up by one our Arizona congressional members who, prior to this, I was unaware can run faster than an Ethiopian in a 26k race all the while flapping his arms hard enough to either take flight or at least to approximate a drunken chicken dance at a Minnesota wedding.

Long and short of it. Traumatic experience. And I say that as the uncontested queen of trauma. Take it from someone who was downtown when the riots broke out in LA, got held up at gunpoint in Santa Monica, got caught in the Sepulveda Dam Basin flood, lost her home in the ’94 Northridge Quake and then a week later got attacked by a dog to the tune of 42 stitches in her ass. Trust me, I know trauma.

Speaking of the dog bite shaped scar on my left ass cheek, boy was that a good time! Not! As I was homeless after the earthquake, I was staying with a girlfriend of mine in Burbank. Her neurotic Sheltie, Sir Percival (enough said), was not handling the earthquake nor the subsequent aftershocks well. As I soon found out, not well at all.

As he went to mount my leg for the umpteenth time in the dance of dominance or horny small dogness, I once again told him “No Percy—not the leg.” I apparently said this one too many times or Percy desperately needed to rub one out as the next thing I knew, the dog leapt at me in full attack mode.

I put up my hands to shield my face and he caught a piece of my wrist. As all animals love me, just not usually in the physical way, I am beyond freaked! I turn to run and he nails me—right in the ass! I look down and I basically have a Sheltie hanging from my butt. It always looked funnier in the cartoons you know?

I let loose with the mother of all screams which startled the crap out of the dog just long enough for me to make my escape to the bedroom.

I call my friend Veronica and tell her that she needs to come take me to the emergency room as her dog has just chowed on my ass.

The ride to the hospital was crazy! First, I have to lower myself carefully into Veronica’s bitchin’ Camero (tongue in cheek) and then ride all the way there precariously balanced on my right ass cheek (as the left one is bleeding copiously and feels like the fricking dog is still attached to it) as she shifts gears and weaves in and out of traffic like a NASCAR driver on crack.

The next thing I know, I am standing in the middle of a large exam room pretty much nekked. They have cut what remains of my sweats off and as I am normally commando, I am standing there clad only in a t-shirt and my partially tattered birthday suit.

Enter Dr. Tran. The man who further engenders the continuance of stereotypes. He walks up without so much as a ‘how do you do’ and gets down to the task at hand. It is bad enough that I am naked from the waist down, I now have a small Asian man crouching down at eye level with my twippy as he stiches up my ass without the benefit of any pain killers or anesthetic.

Pretty soon, I am hysterical….with laughter. I’m making jokes. I tell Veronica, “Man, that dog knew a sweet piece of ass”, etc. and then howling with laughter. Dr. Tran looks up at me (from crotch level mind you) and with one eye kind of squinted says in heavily accented English “Are you drunk?” To which I responded “Uh, no” wondering WTF so then he says “Are you on drug?” and I said “I wish—you got anything you wanna’ share?” and laugh some more. He looks even more aggravated and says “Then why you laughing? It no funny!” To which I started laughing all the harder which is so not good or bright when someone is wielding a needle and thread on your ass.

I explained to him that as I am accident prone, I tend to make a lot of jokes when I am hurt to keep my mind of the pain (Friends tell me that this is much more preferable than when I used to loudly sing show tunes) and that basically he has two choices: I can either laugh hysterically or cry hysterically. Which would be preferable?

He didn’t even respond. He just glared up at me from my nether regions and went back to stitching up my ass mudflap.

To make the event even more fun? Not only did I get a Tetanus shot which hurt like fuck all, I had to wear a paper hospital gown taped around my waist on the right ass cheek trip back home so that I didn’t startle other commuters on the 405.

Ah, the indignity of it all….

Fear O Flying
Mood:  don't ask
Now Playing: Pink Floyd
So I’m back from DC. Other than the flight from Hell, AKA hurtling through space for hours on end in a metal tube filled with screaming babies and enough concentrated germs to wipe out the Avian Bird Flu, excellent trip.

How’s that? Well see, I am afraid of flying. As in deathly and psychotically irrationally fearful of flying. Just call me little miss panic attack. Ok. Nix that. Call me Lord God Queen Boofoo of the panic attack.

This bod never boards an airplane without holding hands and singing kum-ba-ya with Captain Valium and several Grey Geese first. Seriously. If I don’t ‘lube’ up before I get on, strap into my aisle seat (harder to get sucked out the window that way) and tune out to my favorite episodes of South Park, I completely flip out on planes. As in completely lose my monkey meat. And can I just tell you how much fun that is for my row mates and fellow flyers over the course of a five hour flight? Yeah. ‘Zactly

My dad, who is a former military fighter and TWA pilot, finds this situation completely hilarious. The Captain who used to teach fear of flying seminars has a child who is terrified to fly. Go figure. He tried to give me a mini ‘Pop to Daughter’ fear of flying seminar once. Once. The only comment he made before I decided this wasn’t such a good idea was “Meg, you have to remember, they aren’t here to kill you. It’s bad for business.” Uh, thanks, but no thanks. Pops, shutty the pie hole!

So I get on the plane in DC and I think I am prepped and ready to go. Xanax? Check! Grey Goose and lime on the rocks? Check times several! South Park episodes? Check! Aisle seat? Check!

Then, my seat mate comes rolling down the aisle. My uber scary seat mate. My giant Mexican ex-con seatmate with the tattooed tears on his face and “HATE” and “KILL” tattooed on his knuckles. No butterflies or smiley faces anywhere on this dude that I can tell. Like I need anything else to freak me out at this point! It was the chocolate butter cream swirl icing of overkill let me tell you!

The plane takes off. My mantra? Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Then turbulence. The mother of all turbulence. The plane is swaying and shuddering worse than an epileptic mid fit, bucking harder that I thought mechanically possible. With how hard the plane was whipping side to side, I am certain that a barrel roll and then a hard corkscrew to earth, certain death and forensically matched remains are in store for me in my near future.

Apparently, I was not pre-lubed nearly enough. I start panicking. All right, panicking is a massive understatement. I am losing my fricking mind! I have a white knuckle death grip on the arm rests as I rock harder than an autistic kid after a few Red Bulls.

I can feel myself frothing at the mouth (for reals) and yet, I can’t seem to stop thefar spraying stream of spittle coming from my mouth as I loudly mutter a steady stream of f-bombers and unintelligible shit that sounds as if I am speaking in tongues….several of them. The only portion of my rant that I can actually recount with any degree of certainty is this:

“Oh fuck! I can’t believe this fucking plane is going to fucking crash! I’m going to fucking die today! Fuck! Oh fuck! I’m going to fucking die today on this fucking plane! Oh fuck! This fucking plane is going to fucking crash and my fucking house is a fucking mess! Fuck! My fucking mother is going to see my fucking dirty house ‘cause this fucking plane is going to fucking crash! Fuck!”

Yeah. Needless to say, I reached out with my foot and snagged my purse so that I could grab another Xanax as I was obviously nowhere near my happy place. That’s the place where I am lubed to the point of feeling that if the plane crashes, hey, at least I won’t notice all that much.

I actually pop the Xanax into my mouth and dry chew it. Oh yum! Now, I literally have orange froth spewing out of my mouth.

Within a few minutes, I’m good. Or at least I am better which is still a major fricking improvement in my world! The same couldn’t be said of my seat mate, Killer the wonder vato.

I finally calm down enough to look around and when I do, all I can see are the whites of his eyes. He is sweating like a pig and has managed to shove himself as far away from me as he can physically manage while belted into the middle seat. The tendons in his forearms are literally popping with the exertion of heaving himself towards the window and away from crazy ol’ me.

And what do I do? I start laughing. Yeah. That’s the minute that all the Xanax and booze finally kicks in. Just in time for me to start howling like a fricking hyena in front of the man who probably raped his neighbor’s porch swing and I can’t stop. Shutty the pie hole is apparently not in my cards.

Although who’d of thunk that the one thing that completely freaks out and terrifies some hardcore medium security repeat offender is a psychotic white girl with rabies….

It's All About the Blog....
Mood:  chillin'
Now Playing: Sade
One of my friends is just intrigued by the whole concept of my blog. As she isn’t a digerati or experienced Internet whore, she just doesn’t quite grasp the whole concept. In her mind, my blog is as groundbreaking as that Penn State broad who had the webcam in her dorm room broadcasting her every activity to the Universe and beyond.

Yeah. I think not.

I tell her there are thousands upon hundreds of thousands of folks who have blogs, most of which suck ass and aren’t worth a read. That when you find one you like and there are frequent posts, it becomes a regular part of your day or week or whatever to check it and read the latest installment. No different than regularly checking your horoscope, the Smoking Gun, eBay and Craig’s List.

Not mollified, she wants to know if I think it’s unnatural (READ: creepy) that random strangers are reading about my life. Hmmmmmmm....considering I’m putting it out there for random consumption? Yeah. Not so much. Although I have to admit I only posted the damn thing in the first place to shut Deb the Hell up! She badgered man! And that broad is a convincing badgerer.

And here we are. Somewhere I never, ever expected to be.

So, even though Marta’s read some of it and thinks it’s funny, she still doesn’t get why people would come and read it.

Her thoughts?

•It's voyeurism

•Readers seems to think they know you AKA instabond

•Scary to have people reading about your life

I look at it like this. I only did this because Deb nagged on me and because my friends think my stories are strangely funny. I never expected to have this many folks reading and checking in. I put it out there and that’s what it is. It’s just me and my randomness.

•I don’t consider it voyeuristic. It’s not like ya’ll are peeping in my living room window as I play naked PS2. If you are, at least ring the doorbell and come in for a cold one.

•Some readers know me, some might think they do and some never want to. No worries. You’re here because I make you laugh or at least shake your head in bewilderment or loathing.

•I don’t think it’s scary that people are reading about me, my thoughts and my life. I put it out there. I think I am more surprised at how many folks are apparently really easily amused or need my blog to use for their Masters in Abnormal Psych.