_ Sunday at the Lake with Donna sucked. I awoke at 6am to take the dogs over to the shore for their morning maneuvers, and heard a pitiful and pained moaning. At first, I thought an injured otter had climbed onto our boat to die, until I realized it was me. Then, I heard a similar whining and groaning coming from Frank. Somehow during the night, we had both become ill. And, not the kind caused by booze, but the horrible kind caused by germs.
“Do you feel as bad as I do?” he asked.
“Of course, not. I feel worse. Way worse,” I whimper. “My throat is on fire. Every muscle aches. My chest is full of slime. My head feels like gnomes are on the inside trying to kick my eyes from their sockets. I’m weak. I’m clammy. My lower back is in knots. I feel like a dish rag dunked in old motor oil.”
“Yeah, me too,” Frank claims.
“No way you feel as bad as I do,” I counter, “You know what I wish?”
“That you were little.”
When I feel sick or sad or lonely or bored, I have the same wish…to be little. Not young. Not skinny. I want to be able to shrink at will to about a foot tall, somewhere around the size of an organ grinder’s monkey. If I were this small I could climb up on Frank’s hairy chest and curl up—I imagine this would be the safest, most comfortable place on the planet. Instead of walking the dogs, I could ride them. I would sit on the mantle at parties and hold court. A shot of bourbon would last me a whole day. I could spoon with the cats and be engulfed in their purrs. I could wear the cool clothes meant for those creepy BeGoths dolls.
“If I were little, you could hang me upside down so my back would stretch out.”
“Or, I could swing you around like this.” He mimics the motion people use to wring a chicken’s neck.
I realize at that moment that some cruel creatures would try to take advantage of my small stature. But, along with my shrinking superpower, I will also be venomous. Then, if anyone approaches with malice or intentions of taking my whiskey shot, I will emit an air-born toxin that will paralyze them by giving them a killer cold that will make them feel as bad as I do now.
__(09/18/2009) Finding myself left without a designated driver for this Friday night, I looked for an alternative. So, I set out to find a giant tricycle, preferably wooden, to carry me through the downtown bar circuit and home.
While Googling for such a conveyance, I happened across a site for Dog Scooters. I love to take my dog, Doc Grizzly most everywhere I go. But most places won't let you take a dog inside unless it's a service dog...stick with me here. What if I start a movement to have Doc recognized as a Designated Drunk Dog? He wouldn't be drunk, of course, I would. But, he would be trained to get me home safely from whatever bar stool I was parked on at closing time. I figure it's got to be easier than maneuvering a blind person through the city, which dogs do quite effectively...and that gives me a great ad campaign...instead of just "Service Dogs for the Blind," we'll be "Service Dogs for the Blind Drunk."
At this point, I am loving this idea. I'm already imagining a variation on the requisite Service Dog orange vest for Doc. I'll stitch him up a superhero cape and bedazzle it with a big DDD for Designated Drunk Dog. I don't normally believe in dressing up animals with two exceptions: 1) Cats on Thanksgiving--they make the best pilgrims. 2) Goats on any occasion, as per picture. Further explanation to follow.
So, it's all going perfectly according to plan until I look at the scooter. The contraption is just a regular stupid scooter with a curved bar on the side that you hook the dog under. The dogs in the photographs look humiliated as hell, and the owners look horrified. No, I will not scooter, even if I have to call a cab, wait three hours, and pay eighty bucks to get home. BUT--one of their links leads me to Dog Carts.
It's adorable...it's classy...it comes in red...I'll be the toasted toast of the town. It's settled. I'm getting a cart, hooking Doc up, and jaunting around Lexington in a carriage. And since there is only one way to dress when doing so, which is in full Victorian garb with high lace collars, corsets, and bustles, I will immediately set about having such made.
But wait...upon closer inspection I find the Dog cart is actually a Dog/Goat Cart. I LOVE GOATS...and always have. Proof is in the picture. That is Popcorn, the patriotic glamour goat who I walked around on a leash and let sleep in my bed throughout elementary school. This portrait was taken when he won "Best-Dressed Pet" at the Montgomery County Fair. My mother sent a copy to President Gerald Ford...who wrote me back on White House stationary that he actually signed.
Anyway, I now know that the answer to all my prayers is a Goat Cart. It will get my drunk ass home. It will solve my need for publicity--cause you know the local press would be all over a bitch who rides around town in a Goat Cart. I'll make the goat a little ring master costume and I'll dress like a Vegas showgirl, even in the middle of the week in the middle of the day. This freak show is going all carnival crazy glamorous. Of course, I have a few bugs to work out, but expect to see me soon being pulled toward Mia's by Popcorn the Second.
(04/ 27 /2012) I am sad to report that I am no closer to having a designated driver for this Friday night. Doc is still not a registered DDD. Frank will not let me have a goat. However, I am working on an alternative in the form of a zip line that will run between my house and the corner of Short & Limestone.
On this Tie-One-On-Tuesday, I will likely start drinking in early afternoon. This, because mid-afternoon, I must go through what is apparently a painful procedure performed on my lady bits. You see, I have done gone and gotten myself a low grade squamous intraepithelial lesion. Though it sounds like a group of miniature Indian maidens have taken up residence on my cervix, it’s actually abnormal cells that are dwelling there. From what I can deduce from all my bing-ing and googling and such, it is a sort of Pre-Pre-Cancer condition that can either go away on its own or progress into the disease.
To see exactly what is going on up there, I will undergo a colposcapy where they illuminate the cells to see just how f*ed up they are. So, now I’m imagining the mini-maidens under a black light all smiling at each other and saying “Look, my teeth are glowing in the dark.”
My exam will be performed by my new gynecologist who is appropriately named Dr. Lady. Get it? Dr. Lady and she’s a lady doctor. I like her very much, despite the fact that she does not have a poster of a chimpanzee wearing a cowboy costume hanging on the ceiling above the exam table like my old GYN did. I imagined the primate as my Pap Smear Protector. That monkey, grinning down with guns drawn ready to shoot anyone who caused me discomfort me, made me feel safe and much less self-conscious about being ass out, stuck in stirrups.
Today, if the cells look particularly odd, a biopsy is in order. This is apparently where the pain comes in. I asked a co-worker who’d experienced it, “Does it hurt?” She didn’t even try to be supportive and subtle. She declared, “I nearly jumped off the table and then passed out.” Needless to say, I am not looking forward.
So, why am I blogging about something potentially serious instead of my usual trivial topics? It goes back to this Greek girl I knew who refused to say her fears aloud because then the devil would hear them and make them come true. I feel the opposite. I prefer to announce my fears, like Oscar nominees, so the devil knows who is boss. I own my fear. I own my fate. It’s my bitch. And if the devil has an issue with that, he can take it up with the pistol-packing chimp.
After a fried food frenzy followed by a snacktravaganza on Saturday night, I spent most of yesterday going from a salt-induced semiconscious state to a full on sugar coma.
It started with a plate of Dickles (fried dill pickles for those of you who have been deprived of this magnificent manna), an oyster Po’ Boy sandwich, and truffle fries. This was enough to whet my appetite and bring out something akin to vampire blood lust. Except, instead of a human neck, I wanted to sink my fangs into a bag of Doritos.
I’ve been chasing that orange dragon on and off since I was in third grade. We never had chips at my house, or anything good for that matter. The closest thing I ever got to a homemade dessert was a bad version of a Brown Cow, which consisted of two scoops of vanilla ice milk floating in TAB cola. So, when during a slumber party, a playmate ripped open that shiny, red wrapping and revealed those magical cadmium-colored triangles, I lost my mind. I ate the entire bag, and then threw up the rest of the night. I’d had a similar incident once with a sleeve of Reece’s Cup and entire carton of grape Nehi that I found hidden under my older sister’s bed. It looked like the chic from The Exorcist had eaten Barney.
So after the Dickle-fest, Frank should have known better than to suggest we go to the Dollar Tree to “get a little nom-nom.” First of all, he is way to big and burly to say “nom-nom.” Second, he knows I cannot be trusted with junk food. We emerged fifteen minutes and fifteen dollars later with all varieties of generic cheese puffys, marshmallow fluffys, gummy geegaws, and pastel cream-filled wafers.
We climbed in the bed, busted open every bag, and gorged like we’d never seen a cinnamon Swirly Twirl dipped in Cheddar Whiz before. I awoke yesterday, fingers still stained and sticky, full of remorse and MSG. I went to the bathroom mirror, and vowed to myself that it was the last time. The vicious cycle had to stop. I would no longer take pride in the fact that people often said, “You eat more than any girl…actually, more than anybody I’ve ever known.” I would acknowledge that as a middle-aged woman I should be eating more like a sparrow and less like a member of Sigma Alpha Epsilon. I would subsist on Sushi, quinoa, raw broccoli, and periodic sips of Oolong tea.
I held out all day with just black coffee for breakfast, a tiny bowl of some spinach slime for lunch, a few Special K crackers in the afternoon, and then…again…I lost my mind! I had leftover chicken wings (I’m supposed to be a vegetarian), potato wedges, and a tofu corndog, all while I was cooking a pot of Portabella Pasta. I snarfed down two bowls of it, half a dozen knock-off pirouette cookies, several handfuls of White Cheddar popcorn, and a midnight snack of blueberry pancakes. Of course, it took an entire bottle of red wine to wash it all down.
Realization: I will never be the kind of girl who nibbles. I’m a feasting kind of female. Living large-getting large, taking life in big bites, and swallowing it whole. It’s just another step on the road to self-acceptance.
Oh…and in answer to the obvious question…of course, I was!
So, I’d like to celebrate Tie-One-On-Tuesday, but I can’t because a poltergeist keeps stealing my bourbon.
It all started about six months ago with a can of cooking spray. I sat in on the counter, turned around to get a spatula, turned back and it was gone. Just like that, it had disappeared into thin air. I went out, bought another, and put it in the cabinet. When I searched for it the next day, I discovered the replacement can had disappeared. This happened three more times within two weeks. So, it became obvious that I had a ghost who either needed lubricant for some otherworldly perversion or who’d found a way get some kind of whippet-like high from Pam.
Since, it has also taken my car keys, a pair of silver hoop earrings, sequined string bikini bottoms, three tubes of red lipstick, my Drivers License, a Madonna CD, and one of my python pumps. This leads me to the conclusion that in his former life my poltergeist was a one-legged drag queen.
A sadistic one-legged drag queen that I have decided to call ChaCha Flaminga. He also uses his incorporeal powers to make my clothes change sizes while they hang in my closet. Dresses that fit perfectly six months ago now look as if they’ve been shrink-wrapped to my body. And, he has the spooky skill to make words on a page smaller at will. I constantly pick up books that I could read just fine a year ago, only to find the print is tiny and needs to be held at arm’s length.
But, back to the bourbon. Each afternoon when I settle in for cocktail hour, my decanter is far emptier than I remember it being the night before. ChaCha Flaminga is burgling my booze.
The last thing ChaCha thieved were the note cards that I spent hours on last weekend. Each was filled with dozens of brilliant blog topics. So, you can blame him for this crappy entry.
_It’s Sunday at the Lake with Donna. I was going to say close your eyes and allow me to transport you here with my words, but if you close your eyes you can’t read this, so it kind of defeats the point.
I am sitting on the deck of our houseboat wearing bejeweled sunglasses, plaid, flannel pajama bottoms, and a silk caftan. I’m barefoot and will remain that way since I somehow misplaced my shoes last night. M was turning 32, a fact we didn’t know until we arrived, so were unprepared. But the residents of Royalty’s Fishing Camp are a resourceful bunch. For a present, our neighbor contributed Vicadin and Loratab. I found perfume samples in miniature baggies. We put one pill in with each vial of Midnight in Morocco, FrouFrou, and Romantica. Happy Birthday!
Frank is sunning on the slip with our dogs, basking in the pride of getting our new marine toilet installed. It sounds like a freight train every time you flush, but it’s a small price to pay not have to walk all the way through spider alley to the bathroom on the dock. He looks like a giant turtle that’s lost it’s shell. Maybe it’s with my shoes.
George Thorogood is blaring from the speakers embedded in the ceiling...Bad to the Bone...ba-ba-ba-ba-bad. Thanks to the past owner being a perpetual bachelor party boy, there are no less than ten speakers throughout our three-room floating home. I take off my pants. A sudden breeze blows up my way-too-short-to-be-worn-in-public tunic. I thong flash a passing boater. He just waves proving my bare ass has become commonplace around here.
R pulls up and shows us his daily catch. Five big Bass. I smile and act impressed. I’m torn about fishing. Though I’m technically a pescetarian, I imagine that the fish on his string have left behind friends and family. It makes me sad to think about, so I don’t. I can eat the hell out of oysters, mussels, and clams without a bit of guilt. Mollusks don’t have friends.
The fairy sisters who are part of the Lake Lesbian contingency are going home early. Their respective girlfriends are returning from Baton Rouge this afternoon.
One yells over to M, who has the boat next door to us, “My honey’s getting home tonight.”
“Is your stuff throbbing?” he yells back, and continues stirring the cream gravy he’s making in an electric skillet on the deck.
“It’s too early for that kind of talk,” I declare, and add a shot of bourbon to my coffee.
Lake Law #46- 9:45 am is too early for vulgarity, but not whiskey.
_For Flashback Friday, and in honor of the opening of the Lexington Farmer’s Market.
(08/20/2009) There is the real me and the fantasy me. The fantasy me wakes up and does yoga every morning, then drinks fresh-ground coffee brewed in a French press pot, writes literary quality words every day from 10-4, an then has one glass of wine. On Saturday, she rides a pink beachcomber bike to the farmer's market to pick up tomatoes and cucumbers with which to make gazpacho. To bridge the gap between real me and fantasy me, I try to envision myself living the life I want. I make it through the yoga, coffee, writing, and wine, but when I try to vividly picture myself cycling downtown, I panic.
At first, I thought it was because I'm afraid of riding a bike. That's not it. I'm actually deathly afraid of farmer's markets. I know it's unreasonable, but I'm horrified that some little old couple in overalls is going to beat me with a painted gourd, and then kidnap me back to their farm to harvest honey. They make me sleep in a barn loft and occasionally sneak in during the night so the wife can do unspeakable things to me with homemade lye soap while the husband plays the dulcimer. I suffer from Hippieoranicaphobia, a fear of farmer's markets and those who vend there.
OTHER PHOBIAS I HAVE:
Alektorophobia- Fear of chickens.
Cyclophobia- Fear of bicycles.
Hypengyophobia or Hypegiaphobia- Fear of responsibility.
Tocophobia- Fear of pregnancy or childbirth.
PHOBIAS I WISH I HAD:
Methyphobia- Fear of alcohol.
Obesophobia- Fear of gaining weight.
Paraphobia- Fear of sexual perversion.
Hamartophobia- Fear of sinning.
(04/13/2012) I now have a bike named Zelda. But I still suffer from cyclophobia, and do not enjoy riding her. Each and every time I climb aboard, I can think of nothing but falling and skinning the nose off my face on the angry asphalt. So she sits, basket empty, waiting for me to take her out and fill it up with verdant vegetables. One day, I will. And though I have yet to fulfill the full fantasy, near the end of last year, I did go to the farmer’s market, and buy a bushel of half-runner beans and a bouquet of blooms for Frank’s Aunt Boo. She died soon after. Not that one has anything to do with the other. But, it is a reminder that life is too short for irrational fears.
It’s Tie-One-On Tuesday, so that is exactly what we are going to discuss…my drinking. Recently, I was at a doctor’s appointment, and the question was posed, “How much alcohol do you drink in one week?” Hmmm...glass of wine, or two with lunch…beer with pizza, and when it’s after 11am and over 70 degrees…mimosas or Bloody Mary’s with brunch on the weekends…nightly bourbon…occasional rum drinks at the lake…I soon realized it was going to take a scientific notation calculator to figure it all out. So, I decided not to stop with what I drank in one week. I opted to deduce the number of drinks I’ve had in my lifetime. Holy Bacchus' Balls! The total was 52,338. And, this takes into consideration that I didn’t start until I was 19, was on the wagon for 6 months in my mid-twenties and again for a brief month in my mid-thirties. Aside from those two times, I have imbibed everyday. And, 80% of what I consume is indeed bourbon, so I've definitely earned the title of The Bourbonista. However, I’m not certain that is anything to be proud of.
It has often been a less than glamorous existence. There was, of course, the time I slipped in my own vomit and cracked the toilet seat with my head. And, when I pissed on our porch while dressed as Peter Pan. And, when I fell off the stage into a woodpile during a dress rehearsal for “A Lion in Winter.” And, when I made the Sound Guy cry after a Sisters Provocateur performance. And, when I face-grabbed the girl at The Bar. And…you get the picture.
I don’t drive drunk, bike drunk, babysit drunk, or go to work drunk. However, I’ve said wedding vows drunk, performed poetry drunk, gone to church drunk, done morning radio shows drunk, attended writing class drunk, signed books drunk, and roller skated drunk.
I am certain my liver would prefer if I took a sabbatical from the sauce. And, I know that being a Bourbonista is far more about a bohemian attitude than actual consumption. But, honestly, do I intend to quit boozing it up? Probably not anytime soon. I am taking precautions and a daily dose of magical Milk Thistle, which reduces poison’s effects on the body. I look deeply into my own eyes each day to make certain the whites have not begun to yellow with jaundice, and that I still recognize myself. And, I avoid doing shots out of anger for fear of a future face-grabbing incident. My drinking is not a death wish, it's just a poor lifestyle choice.
_Usually, this would be my "Sunday on the Lake with Donna" blog, but because of the Easter holiday, we stayed home to dine with Frank’s family. Then, just like every other holiday since I married that dude, it all went awry and ended up sucking.
Here’s a little background. I got married on October 16th to the wild and wacky love of my life. We were honeymooning during Halloween. Mind you, I’ve costumed up every All Hallow’s Eve since birth, so I took my fringed flapper dress and he took his Zoot Suit. I came down with a fever so high that I hallucinated I was in purgatory with a pirate, a surfer from the seventies, and Annette Funicello. I couldn’t leave the bed. Halloween sucked.
I believe that overweight, middle-aged men should avoid throwing themselves off of ramps on tiny bicycles. But being the kickass wife that I am, I let the Frankster go to BMX camp the weekend after we returned. Come Turkey Day, I served him stuffing with gravy and Loratabs. He’d dislocated everything from the right knee down. We’d spent our one month anniversary in the hospital. And, we were spending my favorite holiday with him laid up moaning in pain and me lamenting no leftovers. Thanksgiving sucked.
Every Christmas Eve, I watch “A Christmas Carol”—the version with Captain Picard as Scrooge. I time it out so the ghosts will arrive at midnight. It is a tradition I adore. Last year, just as I hit play, we received a call informing us that someone had broken down the door on our rental property, robbed the tenant (who we later discovered was an octogenarian drug-dealer), trashed the place, and left it standing wide open. No “God bless us, every one” for me. Christmas sucked.
For Valentine’s Day, he bought me high-topped, sparkly, purple Chuck Taylor tennis shoes with hot pink laces. I had to remind him that I was 44, not 4. And, I had a UTI, so no sex. Valentine’s Day sucked.
I bought a fabulous frock, beautiful bonnet, and all the ingredients for Donna’s Delicious Deviled eggs. I anticipated an afternoon feast filled with laughter and love. And sharing a chocolate bunny in bed. Maybe even some “Rite of Spring” fertility celebration sex to make up for V-Day. Then, yesterday, Frank was diagnosed with strep throat. Today, we ate cereal. Easter sucked.
I know I’m missing the true meaning of each of these days, and I should just be grateful for all the blessings I have, but I just can’t help but obsess about the Fourth of July.
_It’s Flashback Friday, when I go to the archives to reminisce about where I was then, and reveal where I am now.
(01/05/2010) …I don't have a clue what the kids are doing anymore...especially with their hair down there.
So I’ve been polling people, both male and female, about what the preferred and popular pubic styles are these days. The results have been fascinating. Many of the women have opted to go full bush, only trimming a bit from time to time, and never letting a razor anywhere near it. They said it is not only convenient, but makes them feel more womanly. I asked a fifty-something man how he felt about the bikini rainforest and he said that it gave him a sense of safety and nostalgia because it reminded him of seventies porn when gals had real breasts and the nudie flicks didn't try to have plots. Other men, when confronted with the concept, have made a face like they'd been asked to try a brussel sprout.
The other side of this coital coin is to go completely bare through either the painful act of waxing or the labor-intensive task of shaving. I've been bald and quite enjoyed it. Just one less thing to worry about. And really why do I need hair there? It's not like I'm exposing my crotch to the elements...and least not this winter. Still, I feared that no hair at all might have the same effect that the Sphynx cat has—adorable to some, comical to others, and utterly disgusting to a few. One man said that it made him feel like a pedophile. But, another man who preferred this hairstyle, or lack thereof, explained by saying, "I prefer a clean workspace."
The third option is scaping which means manipulating the hair into a shape and style you...and a lucky he...or she...find appealing. Some people spend both considerable time and money creating a work of art. I don't have time to put a gallery in my panties. I just want something both fashionable and functional. Apparently, the most popular options are the Chaplin, the Arrow, the Cardshark, the Princess, and the Isosceles. I was always good at geometry—perhaps I could attempt an octagon or even a trapezoid. However, in the past when I've even attempted to maintain the simplest designs, I always ended up shaving it lopsided and having the love arrow point somewhere off to the right, not toward the desired portal to passion.
To wax or not to wax...that is the real question.
(03/06/2012) I married the man who said, "I prefer a clean workspace." We made a deal. If he keeps showing up for the job, I’ll keep things uncluttered, so he can concentrate.
the bourbonistA, Promoting Debauchery and stamping out political-correctness one blog at a time.