Porn Star Dancing

Yep. I love that song. I can't tell you how much I love that song! Apparently, so does one of my fellow apartment dwellers. I was taking my morning pretend-I-am-exercising-to-get-into-shape walks, and I could hear this song. It was playing loudly just around the corner. I eagerly stepped up my pace to see who was jamming to one of my favorite tunes. Keep in mind it was 6:30 in the morning. I rounded the corner and there she was.

Now I admit, I have packed on a few pounds in the past year or two. Ok, yeah, I packed on 40 pounds in the past year or two. (Hello, that's why I am pretending to exercise!) And I also know that there are people who have massive weight problems. It takes all kinds to make the world go 'round, right? This girl was a brunette, long beautiful hair, with sloe eyes, and a pouty, full mouth. It was full of, best I could tell, some sort of fast food breakfast buiscuit. She was roughly 5 feet tall, and 4 feet around. Her make-up had been applied with the best mortar trowel money could buy. And she was dancing like nobody was watching. I mean that girl was flat out moving.

I had never seen anyone make love to a sausage biscuit before, but I swear she was. And she was managing to make it part of her dance. She was, hands down, one of the most artful, passionate dancers I have ever seen. I stood there in slack-jawed amazement, with a heaping dose of envy thrown in for good measure. I love to dance, but I suck at it. This girl rocked. She finished her bisuit about halfway through the song, and moved on to using a truck as another prop in her dance. There was nobody outside that I could see, other than us. I kept thinking to myself that whatever this girl actually did for a living, she had missed her calling. She could make a fortunbe teaching strippers how to dance. She was seriously that good. And quite obviously, she was that confident. I could never break out and dance in public like that. Well, not sober anyway. There was this one time, at the bar...but anyway.

The song ended, and it was like she suddenly became aware of her surroundings. She saw me standing there, hero-worship glowing in my eyes. She flipped her hair behind her ear, in yet another artful move I could never pull off, looked me dead in the eye, and called me a pervert. She told me off for a good five minutes about sneaking around, watching her dance, (I did mention this was in the parking lot, right?)and laughing at the fat girl trying to dance. Well, so much for self-confidence. She ended her tirade by telling me if I didn't get the fuck away from her, she was going to call the cops. I walked away, still slack-jawed with amazement, but for an entirely different reason. I couldn't imagine having that kind of talent, and being ashamed by it. Or maybe she is just plain old nuts. Either way, she left a lasting impression.

And I admit it. In the privacy of my bedroom, with the door closed, and nobody watching, I try and try to dance the way she did. Minus the biscuit. And the truck. I never can manage to do it the way she did though. I haven't seen her around here since. Since she obviously has issues, I wouldn't approach her, even if I did. Prison orange is not in my color wheel. But I wanted to dedicate this to her, wherever she is. So, for the crazy fat girl, with the horrendous make-up, and the awesome dance moves, my favorite song. From me to you.

Bless your heart!

As any woman in the south knows, saying "bless your heart" is not a sweet southern sentiment. It can be used to cover a plethora of topics, and its use is always a polite way to say something really scathing. Check out some of the many possible uses of this quaint southern-fried way of saying FUCK OFF!

Scenario #1. You are dumb enough to go to work and tell your co-workers that you have some sort of cooter funk. A co-worker responds to your tale of woe with "Bless your heart!" This co-worker is not feeling sympathy for you in any shape, form, or fashion. What she is really saying is...
"Holy hell in a bucket. It's not bad enough that I have to get up at the fucking ass crack of dawn, come to this paralyzingly tedious job, pretend to be perky all day, and bring home a paycheck that makes welfare look appealing. Oh hell no. I also have to listen to this mattress-backed dimwit discuss cooter cheese which she probably picked up in some skanky dive bar with some even skankier dive man. Serves her slut ass right. I hope like hell she uses the fucking bathroom down the hall. Dear God in heaven, please make her shut the fuck up before I try and staple her lips shut!"

Scenario #2. You cheat on your wife with a woman, dump her, go back to the wife who leaves you for the pool boy. You have nothing left except a crust of bread and 2 mismatched socks. Your favorite Auntie listens to you cry about it and responds "Well, bless your heart!" What she is really saying is...
There is no way this fucking idiot can be related to me. What the fuck was my sister thinking? I TOLD that bitch she should have swallowed! And just why on the hell does he think he has room to complain anyway? I bet he'd have a heart attack if he knew I tipped off his wife about his girlfriend, sent the pool boy to his house, and paid the first 6 months on the condo lease for them to run away and move into. What a fucking idiot. I guess now I better to get to the ex-girlfriend before he does too. This motherfucker does not need to procreate!"

Scenario #3.You lay out of work 3 out of 5 days a week, and then complain that you are so broke you can't afford to buy food or pay bills. Your boss say "Bless your heart!" The words you don't hear...
"Well just what the fuck did you expect, you slacker? Gazing at the big star in the east ain't gonna bail your sorry ass out of this, and neither am I. You had the time and energy to lay out, getting drunk, partying and whatever else in the hell useless people like you do. Meanwhile, we were all here, working our asses off to cover our jobs AND yours. Sucks a big dick that you are broke, but you need to quit your fucking bitching. I've never actually killed anyone with a staple remover or a hole puncher, but I am by God about to try!"

And that is just the tip of a big ass iceberg of southern colloquialisms designed to sound charming and quaint while actually saying fuck off and die. You think that's bad, one of these days I will break down just exactly what "Oh my goodness" means!

Bless your hearts!!

Nice and Sweet

Oh my God, it hurts! I have so many topics in my head that it is getting backed up, and I am getting those horrible gotta-poop-and-can't-do-it cramps. In my head. Do you have any idea how bad that sucks??? God only knows how many blogs this will result in. But I have got to do a major mind dump or go nucking futs.

Let's start with Facebook posts. I used to be a confirmed Facebook addict. Lately I have been too busy, and/or too tired to spend much time on there. When I do, I have to wade through 300 posts about the most minute details of someone's day. Dude, really?? Get a fucking Twitter account. That's why it's there. I really don't want to see the Facebook "check-ins" or the dirty little details of someone's life. If I wanted to know all that, I would call and say "Hey, whatcha doin? Precisely, I mean." I don't want to know EVERYTHING about you. I don't even want to know everything about me, for Christ sake. And just what in the hell is up with "X is at Yplace with Z"? I don't CARE! I know who you hang with, play with, are dating, married to, or fucking.I know this because you are a friend. So why do I need to know everytime you fart together? Jay-sus. Enough already. Who the hell are you trying to impress? Or convince? Let me be perfectly clear here. I. DO. NOT. CARE. I used to care a lot about my friends and what they were up to, but too many people have just abused it to the point that I am sick of it. I don't mind multiple posts, if you have something to say other than he less than riveting check in details. Except for one tiny little thing...

If you are in the same house with someone, QUIT posting back and forth on Facebook. There is nothing more disgusting than knowing two people are sitting in the same house and being forced to see their conversation pop up on my news feed. It's really kind of pathetic, actually. The fact that you think people find it cute, or adorable, or entertaining. STOP! It's not. In fact, it's even more annoying than having to scroll through 200 posts worth of who did what on Farmville. I have a life. Such as it is. And it consists of more than this. There is a whole world out there, and it has absolutely NOTHING to do with YOU! Try enjoying it for once. Quit trying to impress people with your wit, which is nonexistant, and realize that you are not as fascinating as you think you are.

And lastly, for this post anyway... People who insist on labeling pictures WiTh FuCkEd Up LeTtErS LiKe ThIs. How fucking OLD are you anyway? If you are a girl in the 4th grade, with braces, knock knees, ugly shoes, and clothes your mommy picked out, this might be cute. In a grown ass person it is just pitiful. And you wonder why people are constantly looking at you in a short-bus-window-licking kind of way. If you insist on behaving like a child, then expect to be treated as such.

Oh dear. I was trying so hard to be nice and sweet. I guess that didn't work out so much for me.

Freakishly Large Breasts

So, there I was, goofing off on the internet yesterday, surfing really dumb funny pictures on a variety of sites. I admit it. I was looking for mindless entertainment. My mind wanders easily, so it doesn't take much to distoh my god, would you look at that!! Anyway. I stumbled on a picture that just screamed the name of a friend. I shit you not. I saw his name in huge neon letters when I saw this picture. I have no idea why, really. Yes, he is an affirmed titty idiot, but all men are, so why I thought of him is anybody's guess.

I digress. I saw the picture, so I did what any good friend would do. I copied it and posted it to his facebook page. It seems that some boobs are just too big, even for all the titty idiots out there. But of course, being a man, he just had to say he wanted to see her naked. Herein lies the dilemma. As a friend, I was determined to find him the picture he requested. As a mom, I knew I would die a thousand deaths if my daughter caught me looking for this picture. As a Facebook addict, I knew I would get a big old facebook boot up my ass if I posted it, once I found it. Well hell.

Yep, this morning I was surfing porn sites, looking for nekkid titanic titties. I figured if I found a picture to suit him, I could work out the details later. I am dilligent as hell, so of course, I found a picture. Not the orginal girl, but a close substitute. I even worked out all the logistics. I copied it to my hard drive, sent him a private message, attached the picture, and of course I added a note. He already thinks I am a certified helmet-wearing-window-licking-crayon-eating headcase anyway. No need to make it any worse, right? Now I just have to remember to remove the picture from the hard drive before my daughter gets on here.

The point to this little tale is this. If you ever feel bad about being short on boobage, go look at some of these pictures. I want you to know I feel positively sexy after that little adventure. There are boobless women, there are small boobs, medium boobs, big boobs, droopy boobs, skinny ones, fat ones, flat ones, even concave ones. (I swear to God. Just google freakishly large breast images) But there is nothing as creepy as a womans breasts that weigh more than I do. I may be small breasted, and I amy be rockin the muffin top look at the moment, but at least I CAN rock. And roll, and bathe independantly, and tie my own shoes. I can sleep on my stomach. If you are very good at what you do I can sleep on YOUR stomach. She can't.

This meeting of the itty bitty titty committee is now in session...

Vodka and Lortab....

Along with certain phantom pains I have been suffering lately, I am also suffering some very real, physical pains as well. Starting Saturday night at 9:15, I virtually worked for 24 hours straight, thank you very much DG. The end result of this is that my ankles are freaking killing me!! Don't ask me why it's my ankles that hurt. I have no idea. But hurt they do, and they have swollen up to boot. And no, for all the smartasses out there, I am not retaining fluid.

I took myself off to the state store for a little self medicating of the phantom pains. Vodka can work wonders, if properly administered, after all. However, it does absolutely nothing for my poor, throbbing ankles. Enter Lortab. And oh what an entrance it was. Obviously, I was not thinking clearly before I settled on this plan of action. There are two things you should probably know about me. The first thing is that I had already started drinking the vodka when I decided to take the Lortab. The second thing is that Lortab has a unique affect on me. Yep, it makes me horny.

So here I sit, just waiting for the effects of my not-well-thought-out plan. Thus far, my ankles are still throbbing, and so are my phantom pains. But I expect that in the next thirty minutes or so I will be feeling no pain at all. Actually I expect I won't be feeling much of anything at all. Thank God I don't have to be at DG until 1:30 tomorrow. Thank God again that my daughter can and will take my phone away from me if I lose my mind. Any male friend I have needs to be very afraid right now. I am afraid for them at this point.

If I can still function later, I will let you know how I feel. I don't think I will be seeing any green faries, since absinthe is not on my menu. But I recall overmedicating once before. I had what everyone thought was a sinus infection from hell. (Before Dr. Callahan diagnosed that ugly little tumor we named Lurch.) I was taking antibiotics,pain meds, Nyquil and Benedryl. I was working 10 to 14 hours a day, and couldn't sleep because of the sinus problems. After about a week of this, I was driving home from Kim's, when I could have sworn I saw dolphins swimming beside my car, and Gumby was running in front of my car. Then I thought I ran over a pack of runners in a marathon. At 10 o'clock at night. It scared the everlivin piss outta me. I have been very careful about overmedicating since then. Until now.

Tonight could get very interesting...

Wanted: Missing Appendage

I sleep better now, when work allows me to sleep. But I have been restless, and it took until today to figure out why. I lost my left arm. Well, that's how it feels anyway. My life had developed a pattern, and now that pattern is not there anymore.

I actually have gone the past two days without my phone. I just kinda of left it in my car. And guess what I missed. In 2 days. One phone call. For someone that used to have a running conversation for over a year that lasted from waking until bedtime, this tells me a lot. No wonder I feel like I am missing my left arm. I miss my left arm, and I wish I had it back.

I used to talk to my left arm about everything. When I was having a bad day, my left arm could make me laugh. My left arm used to know when I needed cheering up, and when I needed to vent, and when it was best to just hang out there quietly on my side. I used to be there for my left arm too. If my left arm had a bad day, I would stop what I was doing and listen. We laughed together a lot, dreamed together, and shared a lot of the same passions and interests. But then my left arm got this tiny little scratch.

That little scratch wound up getting infected. It was a minor infection at first, nothing a little Neosporin couldn't have handled. But my left arm didn't want anything for it. I don't know if lefty thought it would just heal up on its own, or didn't care. The infection grew worse and worse. Finally I was forced to administer a massive antibiotic dose to my left arm, and it looked like things were slowly improving. My left arm and I were nowhere near what we used to be together, but I had confidence that with time, things would work out well. Of course, I was wrong.

My left arm and I suffered a relapse. It was awful, untreatable, and I wound up losing my left arm to gangrene. It was a very painful loss for me. It still is. I think they call them phantom pains, where you lose a limb, but still think you can feel it. I still feel my left arm, every day. And because I feel it, I keep looking for it, and am always shocked a little bit when it's not there. Maybe my left arm decided that it was better off without me. Maybe my left arm actually IS better off without me. I don't know. Because my left arm is unquestionably and irrevocably gone. But it doesn't stop my right arm from reaching for the phone, just to check and see....

I've been told that maybe I can get my left arm back, and while it will never be the same, maybe it will be better. Sort of like a bionic left arm. But I don't want that. I want my plain old left arm, that knows me better than I know myself, laughs with me, looks forward to hanging out with me, dreams of thunderstorms, deserted islands, and ways to torture my boss (which my left arm was absolutely grand at)and lets me know in a million little ways that hanging out there on my side is the place it wants to be. I don't want a new and improved left arm. No bionics for me.

My left arm really is gone. And I miss it.

The paper aisle and the pumice effect

OK I have tried to NOT write about the shoppers at DG, but it's just built up to the point that I have to do it. Our store has been emptied of anything that might be considered a necessity. I mean, they even took the dust! So when our trucks came in today, we had miles of empty shelf space to fill. Anyone that has busted stock at DG knows that you put out paper as soon as it comes in. Toilet paper, paper towels, facial tissue, paper napkins, cups, bowls...this makes up the paper aisle. So there I was, working in the paper aisle, when I noticed that the older the customer, the more they window shop. I swear to you, every woman over the age of 40 that walked down that aisle had to stop at each individual 4 foot section and look at each and every type of paper there. They didn't actually buy any of it, mind you. They just looked.

OK I can understand things like paper plates, and maybe even facial tissue, as you flip through your mental rolodex and decide if you need it, want it, and can get it cheaper somewhere else. Where I got caught off guard was the toilet paper. Most people are brand-loyal when it comes to the old butt floss. I am a Charmin kind of a girl, myself. Soft but sturdy. No danger of it falling apart, causing a rash, or getting scratched from the occasional wood chip embedded in the cheaper papers, ya know? John Wayne I ain't. Today I watched person after person walk through and study each and every kind of toilet paper we had with fierce intent, only to stroll away without making a selection. What the hell? It made me wonder just exactly what they were looking for. Inspiration, for Christ sake? That's what they make laxatives for, and they are one the right hand center aisle, 12 feet down, 2nd shelf from the bottom, just above the Preparation H. Usually what inspires me to buy toilet paper is the knowledge that not a single day goes by that I don't need it, and I get a little worried when I get down to the last 4 rolls, because it's one of those items you just don't want to run out of.

The other thing about toilet paper shoppers that just boggles my mind is how many of them pick up a pack of toilet paper, only to discard it somewhere else in the store. Do you think you won't need it at some point?? Especially considering where you might find the discarded paper. Stuck on the shelf next to the dried prunes. Yep, you are going to regret that decision. Same for the pack left shoved behind the 3 pound bag of dried pinto beans. I think some people are just too dumb to get out their own door without a map and a guide. This leads me to the pumice effect.

Working in a retail store like DG will make you think things you never wanted to. I once found a double pack of douche stuck in the sugar. Would you like to tell me the thought process on that one? You're initial thought was that you needed that douche, and I would go with that thought. I can only imagine the woman that decided she needed sugar for her tea, and HEY! Maybe I can just brew up my own cooter cleanser, and sugar will give it that nice pumice effect. Sort of like lava soap, only with a better flavor. This was followed by a mental image of the trip to the gynecologist's office to get treated for fruit fly infestation. Or the conversation with her husband, "Look, honey, you want something this sweet, you just gonna have to put up with a few gnats!" Trust me ladies, go with the initial impulse. Buy the douche. Really.

Then there was the little old lady that walked up to my register a few months ago with three things in her little yellow shopping basket. She had a large jar of Vaseline, a tube of Preparation H, and one of those clip strip sample packs of His n hers KY jelly. My mind just screamed "LET ME PAINT YOU A PICTURE!" Her husband finally creeps up behind her, leaning heavily on his walker, breathing hard around the nasal cannula forcing oxygen into his lungs. I lost the ability to think for days after. I just don't want to go there.

Buy American, y'all!!

It's impossible to pick up the clean end of a turd.

One of my Georgia Peaches thought this might make a good blog topic. I have to agree. It seems so appropriate considering the past few days. I saw myself through the eyes of my friends. Does that make sense? Let me explain. There has been a lot of drama flying around lately, and I keep getting blamed for it. I tried to avoid it, I tried to not get involved in it, but there I was. I was getting blasted for everything I said, everything I didn't say, everything I might have said, and everything it never even occurred to me to say. By today I had reached the limit of my very limited tolerance and decided that before I went to bed tonight, I was going to find, and kill, the drama llama. With extreme prejudice if necessary. Turns out it was necessary.

I talked to two people who had developed issues with me lately, just to get the story on WHY. I wanted to know what was going on. I wanted all the facts. Not snarky emails, or self serving text messages. Just plain and simple tell me what the hell went on. Sadly, one person showed that he felt I deserved this by his hateful attitude to answering that simple request. He had the nerve to act put upon for me asking. He is so important and so busy and nothing could possibly be more important than what he is doing. But I still got my answers. All of them. The second person was at least civil, if not bordering on kind. But the belief that I was the bad guy still lingered with her as well. And it all led to the third party.

We spoke today, the third party and I, and after she finished accusing me of things which, once again, I did not do, had no knowledge of, and no part in, I decided it was high time to defend myself. Which I did, with the aforementioned extreme prejudice. The shoppers of Dollar General will never be the same, and I bet I get written up, if not fired, over it. But damn, enough is enough already. I got her point of view on why I was such a wicked person, told her what my part in her dilemma REALLY was, and continued to ferret out the truth. Stay with me, because I have to get REALLY convoluted and get on my soapbox here for a minute.

If you think that drinking yourself into a slobbering stupor hurts no one but you, and you don't feel any pain, then think again. Two friends were talking about all the tension lately, and speculating amongst themselves. A private conversation such as friends have all the time. Only one friend hurt the other when, in a drunken oblivion, he talked about the private conversation in a public way. Then, blamed me for the conversation to protect the other. And, I would be willing to bet my last dollar, promptly forgot all about it in the pursuit of even more alcohol. Talk about opening a can of worms.

Apologies were made today. Sadly, somehow, they will never understand it was the wrong apology. What hurts is that everyone was so ready to believe that I was guilty, they didn't stop to think I may be the one geting hurt. It never once occurred to anyone that I didn't do all they accused me of. The apology came after the fact, an "I'm sorry I accused you" apology, but not an "I'm sorry that I can't help having such a low opinion of you that I never stopped to think you might be innocent" apology. So yes, I have seen myself through my friends eyes. And it wasn't pretty.

Worse yet are the ones who will never even attempt an apology, believing themselves nnocent of any wrongdoing. They sat back and watched others villify me, and said nothing to defend me. When I tried to get to the bottom of it all, they got mad that I was bothering them with more drama. It didn't matter that I was trying to STOP the drama, or defend myself in any way. I was told today that sometimes silence is golden. That is true enough. And sometimes, just sometimes, it screams louder than the loudest noise. It says "You aren't important. You aren't worth the time it would take me to help you. I'm far too busy to be your friend. And I just don't want to be bothered."

How does this tie in to the title of this post, you ask? Simple. If you sling shit about someone, you may as well face the fact that you are going to get some of it on your hands. Nobody can find the clean end of the turd. Once the shit starts flying, everybody is going to get a little bit on them. Regardless of how mad, important, innocent, passive, or vindictive someone is, they are going to get a little of it on them. And this kind of shit doesn't wash off. It creates a permanent stain that stays with you forever.

I found the end of the drama today, and found peace with myself. I love, even now, the people that hurt me lately. But I love myself just a little bit more. And so I remove myself from the equation. I have a magic girl-bubble around me. I can disappear in plain sight. I will miss my friends, but knowing how they see me, I hope it will pass. Somebody else gets to try and find that clean end. I know it just doesn't exist.

Can you feel the pain?

I sat down today, for the first time in days, to read the paper. The front page alone had me in tears. I read story after story of people that had lost everything. I read the list of fatalities confirmed thus far, many noting this this person or that had died at home with their spouse, or their children. I read stories of courage, generosity, and valor in the face of diversity. One of the volunteers is actually someone living in a shelter because he lost everything he owns when his home was leveled to the dirt. But every day he has been unloading trucks, hauling supplies, and taking care of others. Selflessness like this amazes me, and gives me a little more faith in my fellow man.

I hurt so much for all the suffering I see around me. I wish I could fix it but I don't know how. Even for one person, I don't know how. What can you say that will take that kind of pain away? I cannot even begin to imagine what they are having to handle, and I cannot comprehend how they are handling it. All I can do is feel the pain of helplessnes. I feel it to the very bottom of my soul. And I wonder, can you feel the pain too?