Worry's for Another Day

Ever have one of those days when every song you hear fits what's going on in your head?

Yeah, me too.

It was a little disconcerting when the theme from Fraggle Rock seemed to be speaking right to me, but sometimes it just bes that way.

In the Comments section, tell me your favorite Jim Henson character. I'm a big fan of Emmet Otter--ya know, from the Jug-Band Christmas.

Green Clovers, Purple Running Shoes and a Hidden Key, though I Didn't Find Any Red Balloons

As I pulled up to the gym parking lot tonight, Megan Jane and I finished up some over-the-phone Interweb investigatory work such as only two determined women using Google and feminine wiles can.

A bit distracted, like I was much of the day, I left my keys in the car. DICKstracted perhaps. A sex hangover. Too much peppermint tea. Whatevs I realized it when I went to swipe my membership taggy thing (what's that called--Brinki Dink? I know you what that's called). It was not there, but I've gotten to be somewhat of a regular, so I got the nod.

"What's up, Crunches? How ya doin'?" one of the trainers asked. I've earned the nickname fairly--I do them all of the time and with every sit up or ab twist, I exhale a, "Goddamnit." I hate them, and it will be nice to get evidence of them working.

But, I digress. As I said, I'm a little distracted.

I began my workout--it was an "arms" day, and I pondered my situation. I had two options. I could call AAA, who also knows me by name now. "What's up, Stupid Girl Who is Always Locking Your Flipping Keys in the Car and Running Out of Gas? How ya doin'?" Erm, no.

Or I could run home and get my spare set--get some cardio in, too, yo. So, I ran home--we're not far, maybe 1.5 miles round trip. As I breezed past the McDonald's near our house, I thought, "This whole situation would be so much better with a Shamrock shake."

No. No, it wouldn't.

But, with $2 in my pocket, I seriously had to talk myself out of it. "No, it would not, 123V. It's 20 degrees outside, you don't have any gloves and milk is NOT the drink of choice for runners, what with making your mouth all frothy and such. Not to mention all of those calories you just worked off."

In the end, good prevailed. Mostly because McDonald's isn't serving Shamrock shakes yet--February, kids. I checked; I'm only human, ya'll.

So, speaking of humans, today is a Happy, Happy Birthday for my amazing, lovelies Allison and Hannah Banana. Yay for being alive--it's good stuff.

And speaking of not being alive, thanks to all of you sweetkins for your kind words and thoughts today, especially my D.C. Sisters. I'm doing a'ight.

On a completely unrelated note, but possibly just as important as dear friends and Moms, I made oven fried catfish tonight for dinner (and greens and my dilled potato salad, 'cause I keep it real). Do you know what I used for the breading? Crushed up Goldfish crackers. Ya'll, the gods of irony were, like, high-fiving me the whole time.

In the Comments section, give Allison and Hannah Banana some good birthday wishes. Then tell me how you feel about McDonald's.

Best Laid Plans

My pretties, I am feeling sooooooo much better--partly because of your sweet words and partly due to the amazing (A-May-Zing!) sex I had last night and, um, this morning--with a funny, intelligent, considerate, generously-endowed, making-my-knees weak-just-thinking-about-it scrumptious man.

The road to hell may be paved with good intentions, but the path to happiness involves a lot of rolls in the hay on the side of the road. Sometimes, what we expect to happen and what actually does are two very different, wonderful, multi-orgasmic things.

So, in the Comments section, tell me: how was your weekend?

May I Have a Hug, Please?

Hey Gang!

So, it's another Dead Mom Post. Ya'll, I am so sorry. I thought I could handle this, but the one-year anniversary of her death is on Monday, and know what? I'm a mess. Whoo. Complete mess. Crying. Spacing out. Wanting to pack it all in and move to the Galapagos Islands.

Sorry, kids. I wish I could be entertaining and light-hearted and zippy dippy right now, but I just want to curl up in a ball and cry. I miss my Mom.

Thank you so much for your sweet comments, and yes, Jason, I particularly would like some hard and fast sex RIGHT THIS VERY MOMENT. That doesn't seem to be likely, though, so I might take a day or two off from the blogging, okay? Mostly because the tears flopping on the keyboard could electrocute me, and my hair is frizzy enough.

On a happy note, Hey Pretty has had a lapse in judgment and decided to MIRL! Wheee! I'm going to try and turn it into a Thing. Ya know--lots of bloggers and my lovely, lovely friends, such as Barbara Jones. You should come. I hope you do--we'll miss you otherwise. Just give me a ring on the 123Valerie at gmail.com line if you want the details and you promise not to be a weirdo.

So, that's next week, and we are happy about that.

I just want to sleep. My sisters and I have been in constant contact.

"I'm sad today," I said to Susie.

"Me too. I'm going to go make a snow angel on Mom's grave," she replied.

I, um, haven't been to my Mom's grave yet. Since she died in January, they had to wait to bury her. When they did, I just plain old, flat out, did not want to go. I feel really poorly about that. I send her virtual flowers all of the time, but even when I've visited Ohio, I haven't wanted to go. However, the thought of my lovely sister making a lone snow angel on our dead Mom's grave broke my heart.

"I wish I could be there with you. You'd make a beautiful snow angel," I snuffled, shifting some snot around my head.

I miss my family, my pretties. I am lonely, but at the same time, I need to be completely solitary--it's my Acquarius rising. Still, I wish all of you were sitting in my living room watching Back To the Future with me and eating popcorn, in addition to leaving your very sweet and thoughtful comments from across the miles. I am so blessed to have so very many wonderful, loving people in my life. So. Very. Many. I wake up every day thankful for each and every one of you. Please know that.

But, I am sad. This is a fairly new emotion for me, and I am trying it on for size. Like a bikini that shows more of my boobs than I am used to, it's not necessarily a bad thing, but I just have to get used to it. Sad is not bad. Pretending I am not sad is bad.

Oh, pooh, 123V. So many people have horrible lives. I do not. I have a great life with amazing people in it. I am blessed, and I am lucky. But, I am sad.

Not to worry, kids. Alice and I have taken a hiatus, due to her holiday schedule, but we have a session next week. That is a good thing, I do believe. You are good things, too. Please don't die on me any time soon, okay?

In the Comments section, tell me how you've been lately. For Pete's sake, would you please change the subject?

Gray Matter

I found a gray hair this morning, kids.

It's always surprising to get a glimpse of my natural hair color, which I haven't seen in at least a decade, but I was very startled to find it's apparently gray now. I wonder when my pubic hair will turn. I spend a lot of time thinking about pubic hair--mine, yours, Bono's. Everybody's got it, and what one does with it is very telling of their true nature.

It's just such an unruly part of the body--very unpredictable, that pubic hair. Some people let it go free, some meticulously trim it and some remove it completely.

(Side note: dudes, shaving it all does not, in fact, make your love trunk look bigger. It makes it look like it is cold and needs a scarf and hat. But, do your thing. I'm not here to judge. If you want me to judge your wiener, though, just ask. I give free estimates.)

I abhor saying the word "pubic," though. Pew bick. I hate the way my lips purse from the word. Gross. Same with "pussy." Saying that word makes my tummy squish up a little bit, though I do like the dirty talk. I've found "cunt" to be a very agreeable alternative.

I should clarify (well, actually I SHOULD NOT clarify, but I'm going to anyway), that I only like the dirty talk with the boys, not the girls. I think this is because I view women as beautiful creatures who deserve respect and reverence while we're gettin' busy. It's much more raw with the dudes--I like to tell them exactly what I like, where, when, and how. Lest you worry I'm too dominate, I also very much appreciate being told what they like, where, when and how. I'm a dirty talker and a dirty listener. Give and take, kids. Give and take.

How did I get here?

Anyhoo, I'm fascinated with this process--the whole getting older thing. I just bought wrinkle cream. I think I'm okay with it all. When I get old, like 70, I have very definite plans to drink bourbon all day long, wear thigh-high waders for no reason and give the neighborhood kids presents.

In the Comments section, feel free to talk dirty to me or tell me what you'd like to do when you're old.

Keep On Trucking

Ya'll, don't you hate it when a pick-em-up truck almost smashes into your front porch?

Oh, that's never happened to you? Well, you can ask my lovelies, T and Skye, all about it.

Seems some young kids were tooling about the blooming metropolis of Fort Collins, Colorado, and whoosh bang! The next thing you know, a station wagon and Range Rover are hurtin' for certain.

T, as always, has a great outlook that, ya know, if the station wagon is the only thing that got beat up, then things are gravy, but still, ya'll, if you're in need of any hand-blown glass products for your "tobacco smoking," sexual or artistic endeavors, now is a great time to patronize the good kids at Glass Antixx.



That would be nuts, no--to walk out and find a truck full of dazed teenagers on your front lawn? Just goes to show you that you never know what's going to happen. Goodly and badly (I don't think those are real words, but shurt urp. I like "goodly.") I think the best we can do is be nice to folks and keep our financial affairs in order.

Anyone else feeling a bit out of sorts? Not in a badly way, mind you, just sort of floppy and flippy and dopey and such?

Hey, hey, hey! It's #1Laura's birthday tomorrow! Wheeeeeee! She's such a perfect Acquarius. She's pretty perfect, in general, actually.

Feeling all over the place, yo, but also feeling that bigger things are coming--I'm getting ready for a tidal wave of good, kids. I want to float in the sea of happy. Sounds like I've been toking up, doesn't it? Well, I haven't, though I did make some kick ass beans and rice and did about a gazillion crunches. Oof. I hate those.

Well, T and Skye's experience made me examine how I might react if a truck nearly tore down my house. I think, first, I would poop my pants. Then I would get on to the business of living fully: pursuing my music, finishing the novels I have in development, cutting my hair again, completing my sister Susie's quilt for crying out loud, stop wasting time, write my Uncle Andrew and tell him how much I love him--you know, the usual stuff.

So, my hope is that both YOU and I can get on to the business of living fully without someone smashing into our homes.

I don't feel this post is "done," but it's time to end. Does that make any sense? I'm not accurately communicating the way I feel tonight, but I think for the sake of brevity, I'd better just stop. Actually, I'd better just go: go get my ass in gear and take care of some of the things on that list.

In the Comments section, tell me about something unexpected that's happened in your life recently. Then go check out T and Skye's beautiful and functional art. Feel free to e-mail them for custom pieces, too. If I learn that you've made a wonderful Glass Antixx purchase, I will personally come over to your house and make you my famous spinach artichoke dip. Probably naked, if that's cool with you.

Matty and I MIRL'd, and All I Got Was This Stupid Post

There was an upset among the Interwebs tonight. Did you feel it?

Matty and I met in real life (MIRL)-- in person, for reals, no joking around. Okay, there was actually a lot of joking around. And an exorbitant amount of nervous laughter on my part, but all in all, I think it was a successful blogger meet 'n greet.

I arranged for us to meet at a bar that's across the street from both him and Megan Jane, 'cause they're neighbors yo, but it didn't open until an hour after we planned to meet.

I was kinda worried about my ineptitude in picking a bar that didn't serve day drinkers, but I lost all fear when Matty's response was, "That's fine. I'm totally hammered. Is that okay?"

Of course, kid. Of course. I told him I would expect nothing less. So, I plopped down and waited for him to meet me as the snow swirled about, and I immersed myself in Sherwood Anderson's Winesburg, Ohio because I recently read that Anderson was a drunk, and that makes him infinitely more interesting to me now.

Matty shuffled up in his pea coat, and I knew that scruffly beard anywhere. I think I giggled and threw my arms around him. He swayed a bit and reiterated, "I am so hammered."

Good for you, Matty. Good. For. You. Sundays were made for drinking wine. I was totally proud of him for venturing out in the first place--it's weird and awkward and scary to meet new people. Especially people from the Internets.

So, we ambled off to an Irish bar that understood cocktail hour comes earlier for some folks, and would you believe the first topic we talked about was Mist1, who is supposed to come up our way this month. The thought makes me want to pee myself. In a good way, of course.

After that, we both just kept saying, "This is weird. How weird is this? This is very weird. This whole thing? It's weird. Weird, huh? I can't believe we're meeting. It's weird."

We chatted--mostly just re-checked facts we knew about each other from the archives. "So, you play guitar, right? I'm going to become a guitar hero," Matty said.

"Yeah. Your sister plays guitar, doesn't she? How old is she? 12? "

"She's 13. She plays piano and guitar," he said.

"Cool," I offered. "That's very cool."

We were both just sort of floating through the weirdness, feeling each other out, when Megan Jane arrived, thankfully. Megan Jane and I operate very well as a pair, so poor Matty had to endure our explanation of the Hellen Keller, talk of poontangs, more mentions of the word "cock" than are probably legal and some chatter about bubble baths.

My whole pitch with Matty has been, "Come out and play with my friends and me. I'm awesome! They're awesome! Come be awesome with us!" so I'm just so psyched he did, and I know this is the start of a beautiful friendship, my pretties. Something inherent within me says that Matty is supposed to come into our fold.

I hope this sparks a whole movement of people meeting up in real life. I know there are several talented bloggers in our hood, not to mention the ones I already adore in real life, that I would love nothing more than to sit down and enjoy waffles and chit chat with.

I hope we don't settle for artificial intimacy across the Interweb, kids. On your death bed, I doubt you'll utter the phrase, "If only I'd left one more comment on Mist1's blog, I could have died happy." Isn't it better to tell Mist how awesome she (and her shoes) are to her face?

I challenge each of you to seek out a blogger in a 10-mile radius of you and get together for coffee or Jagermiester shots in the next month. I know it's scary, but it's also very rewarding, and even if you don't like the person, you'll get a caffeine buzz or even drunk! Wheeeee!

Ain't Nuttin' But a G String, Baby

So, I just finished up my usual Friday night bout of working, lest you think I am a La-hoo-zer who has nothing better to do on a Friday eve than blog about having nothing better to do on a Friday eve.

(If you are one of those folks, my apologies. We should hang out sometime and get you out of the house.)

In any case, Friday nights are kind of like Thursday nights for me, so I wrap up work knowing that I have to get up Saturday morning and do some more work, which means I take it kind of easy and tackle projects.

This week, it's re-stringing my guitar. On Tuesday, I was banging out some hot tunes (who's up for a little Manfred Mann cover action, anyone? ... Anyone? No? Okay then). I stopped to tune the G string cause it was a little bit flat, yo, and POW!!! It snapped, flew back and whapped me on my tummy, leaving a right nice welt.

I will not tell you why I was not wearing a shirt and playing '60s cover tunes. It's none of your business. Suffice to say I have a host of cooking-related scars on my torso and one mark near my belly button that may or may not have come from tearing down ceramic tile in the buff.

Point is, my pretties, I had to go to the very scary music store and buy guitar strings. It is very scary because I never know what I'm talking about, and I DON'T LIKE to look dumb. And the dude behind the counter was throwing out all sorts of pressure-cooker questions like "What kind of strings do you want?" and "Hello? Can you hear me?"

Nearly seven years into playing, and I still don't know what kind of strings to get. "Erm, I don't play very well, so do you have the kind of strings that make me sound better than I am?" I squeaked.

No. They did not. So, I kind of pointed and said, "That's a pretty package. I'll take that one."

I paid the man for a set of 11-gauge steel strings and slunked out of the store like the imposter that I am. I'm a guitar hack, kids, but I should know this basic stuff, if for no other reason than I used to live above a guitar store.

When I was 21-ish, I started taking lessons from this dude named Phil, and he mentioned he had an apartment above the store that was vacant. I was living with Double A at the time, who was switching pilot bases, so it worked out well. It was a sweet, very homey place and all day I'd get to hear the kids try to work through Three Blind Mice, so I got to feeling pretty good about myself for mastering Tom Dooley.

Phil smoked a lot of pot, too, so every morning, I'd wake up to the sound of him opening the store and the smell of some dank ganja.

At some point, though, the city found out that Phil had a residential boarder in a commercial property, and I had to go, or Phil would have to put in an elevator or something ridiculous to get up to code. It's still probably my most favorite apartment.

Incidentally, I stopped taking lessons from Phil after I left, even though I just moved right down the road. It felt weird.

After I left, though, I realized that Phil took care of all of my guitar needs--re-stringing, tuning, picks, selecting the right strap, choosing a pick up for me. I didn't have to do anything, but like a spoiled kid, it came back to bite me in the ass, and now I have to mentally prepare for days when I shop for strings.

Ya'll pray for me when my tuner gives out and I have to get a new one. I'll probably need to be sedated.

In the Comments section, tell me about one of your irrational fears. I will serenade the winner with a cover that is very easy to play.

****
UDATE

Just read over at the Broke Kid's blog, that Denny Doherty of the Mamas and the Papas died. That's sad, no? So many good songs. Keep his family in your prayers, if you do that sort of thing.

High Five!

Weeeee haaaaaaa, kids! Do you see all of your glorious names over there on the side? Isn't that a beautiful sight? I didn't like weilding all that power anyway--made me uncomfortable outside of the bedroom.

So, it makes no sense html code-wise, but I got all of you in (I even replaced anyone who had been cut), just with a different font, and this means I can add new blogs for infinity.

A few changes, though--I'll just have to link to the Who in the Hell Is She Talking About list when I mention someone, as it's now housed in the archives. No big hoo ha.

The non-bloggy links are at the top with the prime fonts and such because they're folks who need our patronage to survive, but all of you beautiful bloggers are equal, and as Matty astutely pointed out, it's not alphabetical, but rather chronological, so suck it.

Speaking of sucking, I've had mountains of requests (okay, okay--two) to explain why I would write nasty things about Janee (accent above the final e) "loving the cock" on bar bathroom walls.

It's, um, cause she does. One in particluar, a dude by the name of Winston. Ever the muse, Janee has not a lap dog (well, okay, she has one of those, too), but a lap chicken. Can't ya'll see why I lurve this woman? I mean, c'mon.

She has about 50 chickens en toto, which she got to keep her busy after the shrimp harvest, but she brought Winston to the little party at Very Gay Mark's house, and we all got to hold him and love him and cuddle him. He was very docile, and he pooped on a towel, which is more than I can say for Very Gay Mark.

So, in Canton, Ohio, there is my all-time favorite bar in the world, Joe's located on 6th Street. Kids, I love this bar so much that I made sure I found an apartment within stumbling distance (15th Street) when I lived there.

It's dark and smokey and drama filled with a good juke box (tho, truthfully, it could use an update), and I've written countless songs about the place because I just love it. Bonita, Kirstin, Janee, Very Gay Mark and I spent countless hours and dollars there.

One of the other things I like about it is the grafitti on the bathroom walls. One evening, after much bourbon, Bonita and I decided that we wanted to see OUR names on the walls, so we took a Sharpie and our sharp wit and wrote such gems as, "Val is a hot lay," and "Bonnie rocks my socks off." I think, anyway--as I said, there was much bourbon involved.

The walls kept getting painted over, so each time we'd try to outdo ourselves. "Bonnie loves the man meat," and "Val has a nice rack" come to mind, but I think my favorites have to have come from this weekend with, of course, Janee's homage to cock and of Very Gay Mark we wrote: "Mark has a beautifully-decorated house and an 8-and-a-half inch dick."

That just says it all, I think.

In the Comments section, tell me how lovely it is to see all the bloggers hanging together in a big vertical hug on the sidebar.

Well, Fuck

So, I was feeling all "go me" cause I got everyone up on the side, then Blogger pushed you down, called you all filthy whores and said you'd never amount to anything.

I hate Blogger. I'm too tired to fix it tonight, but you're all on there in some form or fashion, though I had to kick off a few folks we haven't heard from recently.

I'll get this squared away, my pretties.

And no, you're not filthy whores. Well, except maybe ... No, never mind. None of you are filthy whores.

Off the Road and My Rocker

Want to know how to freak my parents the hell out?

Tell them you pulled over at rest stop some where in West Virginia around 3 a.m. to take a little nap. ("I don't remember where it was, Dad. I was so tired, but the truckers looked really friendly.")

The trip over from Maryland to Kentucky was twice as long as it should have been, thanks to the general assiness of Friday evening traffic and the fact that I had to make a pit stop and actually buy some Christmas gifts (I know, I know. Still. Yes.) for the little bumper butts in my life.

While Andie Sue, Levi and Sam got some awesome gifts from Aunt Beans ("Whoa, cool--washer fluid! Thanks Aunt Beans!"), this also meant that I got in at 5:30 A. Flipping M.

Oh, I was tired. I was soooo tired, but, ya know, it's family, and I already had to devote a significant portion of my weekend working, blah, blah, whiney, bitch, moan, blah. So, I bucked up, and played Freeze Tag and Power Rangers and watched more Sponge Bob Square Pants than any human should have to. There was also a lot of Aunt Beans dancing, because apparently the kids know a fool when they see one and are honing their pointing and laughing skills for junior high.

Okay, enough talk about the kids and the poop. "Get to the point where you got drunk and stupid, 123V."

Another drive to points northward, and I landed on Very Gay Mark's doorstep in Canton, Ohio. I've known Very Gay Mark for a long time. He didn't like me at first--said I was too nice and fakity fake. Now, he's one of the many men in my life that I greet with a, "Hey, Girl! How you derin?"

We bonded when I brought in a pint of whiskey to the restaurant where we worked and took turns taking nips from it. It was a bad place there, kids. Don't judge. Okay--judge, but be nice about it.

Anyway, Very Gay Mark invited all of our favorite people over for sloppy joes and beers and quality 123Valerie time.

Oh, it was lovely: Bonita, Chris G., Janee, Kirstin, our friends David and Patric, Wendy and, of course, Very Gay Mark. Janee brought a friend, Beth, and Very Gay Mark offered up a new friend, Very Gay Gary. It was just what I needed, my pretties.

So, I am beat for tonight, but stay tuned to find out why we wrote "Janee loves the cock" on the bathroom wall of my favorite dive bar, okay? (Love you, J. Mean it.)

In the Comments section, tell me the best thing you've ever seen written on a bathroom wall.

And, We're Back

In the haze of a severe hangover and a bit twitchy from driving all damn day, I am fondly replaying this weekend's memories with family and friends. Among all of the highlights and highballs, which you'll get soon whether you want them or not, I can't shake my disappointment that I didn't flash my boobs at all.

In the Comments section, tell me a regret from your weekend. Bonus points for anyone who actually performed a service act today in celebration of Dr. King (blow jobs DO count) OR anyone who flashed their boobs.

Note: Brinki Dink had such a good idea to combine the "Who in the Hell is She Talking About?" section with the descriptions (which are still giving me fits and are woefully far behind--I'll have this mess straightened up by tomorrow evening, I swear on my hair, because I lurve and respect all of you as individuals and artists and all of that crap.)

Super 8 Gets a 10 in My Book

I'm bogarting some wi-fi from a Super 8 Motel in Portsmouth, Ohio, to tell you I lurve you, and I lurve my family. (My Nan called it "wee fee." She also says "cha hua hua" for the little Mejican dogs. Anyhoo.)

My Dad was wearing orange shoes. I love that man. I guess when you're 60 and it's your birthday, you can do what ever the hell you want.

My Aunt Wendy pinched my butt no less than 52 times--we're definitely a butt-pinching family. I love Aunt Wendy. She will punch my butt until I'm 72.

My step-cousin tried to hit on me. That's kind of weird. I'll take it as a sign that the gym is working.

Um, what else? Oh, man, my nephews and niece--they could make me lift the moratorium on my ovaries. "Be evil, Aunt Beans, so I can kill you with my sword of poop," Sam said. "Aunt Beans, you can't be evil AND laugh. Geeez!")

More to come, but I'm on my way to the blooming metropolis of Canton, Ohio, to hang with some of my favorite homeslices. Keep it real, kids, and remember: I'll keep the light on for you.

In the Comments section, tell me about your favorite family member. Then call them up and tell them why you love them so much.

On the Road

Hi Gang.

I'm traveling to the Great State of Kentucky this weekend (Ashland, Hy Biscuits. Let me know if you're in the hood).

We're all gathering at my Nan's to celebrate my Dad's 60th birthday, and quite simply, I'm really happy to be seeing my all of my family. This means two things, tho: I won't be around much this weekend, and I need to put together my road trip kit, which includes Barbecue Corn Nuts, Air Supply's Greatest Hits and a tape recorder because I seem to come up with all of my songs on the road.

I have an archive of about 18,000 hours that sound just like this:


Actual excerpt, my pretties. Oof.

Behold the genius. Can you handle it?

After the Family Fun time, I'm zipping up to Ohio to hang with some of my favorite peeps including Bonita, Kirstin, Janee (with an accent on the final e) and Very Gay Mark. We're going to celebrate the great Dr. Martin Luther King's birthday by sharing the laughter and love, sha na na na.

I'm certain there will be all sorts of tales and photos of my boobs, but you'll have to wait. Until then, here's part of the correspondence I sent to Door because I am impatient and have no concept of "just wait and see." Apparently, he thinks I'm funny and very nice.

Me: You know what's classy? Showing up for work in yesterday's clothes with chopsticks in your hair. Thanks for making out with me last night. We should do that again soon.

Door: hahahahaahahahahaaaaaaaaa. Very nice.

Me: How’d the weigh-in go? [with his recruiter guy]

Door: It went well. I'm losing weight, so I'm on track. [notice he said well instead of the oft misused good. Beautiful!]

Me: Well, I think you look perfect, so I suppose it’s a good thing I’m not in charge of the military. In fact, if I were, I wouldn't even want you to wear the uniform--just run around naked all day.

Door: hahahahaahahahahahahah. Very nice.

I left it at that--there is a very thin line between cute and playful and slutty and kind of weird. I tend to actually stand ON the line most of the time, but over the years, I've found that my particular brand of sexually-charged, quirky flirting actually works for some people. Let's hope Door is one of them.

In the Comments section, tell me what you like to bring along on road trips and also if you want to come over and eat some of my Nan's Black Forest cake--it's my Dad's favorite.

*********
P.S. I lurve you, but the template is still being screwy, so many of you who deserve descriptions based your thoughtful, well-thought out comments (Aw fuck it. Who am I kidding? Any comments at all) haven't gone up yet. I'll to tangle with it again this weekend, okay?

Okay, What in the Hell is Going On?

Um, someone who's never yelled a word in her life just lit into me like I was a Christmas tree. As is my custom when someone yells at me, I'm going to go sit in the corner and cry.

I would like a do over for the past 24 hours or so, 'kay?

In the Comments section, tell if you're noticing that the world seems to be going bonky lately, too.

Me Gulping Drinks = Mea Culpa

I woke up with an odd mix of lovey butterflies and sickening dread in my tummy this morning. The butterflies came from a very handsome Door, who smelled like laundry soap, lying next to me, and the dread came from the utter boarishness I exuded toward Kristin from Candy Sandwich last night.

It's a long story—get a cup of tea and rest awhile. Could you grab me a McGriddle while you're up? I'm feeling a little under the pink today wearing yesterday's clothes and whatnot.

So, last night was the big Happy Hour with Door et al. I was very happy that Kimberlicious and Busta Keeton came out, too, with their friend Avi, and we got a lovely surprise when Kristin showed up. Drinks were had, conversation flowed and a toothbrush was given.

I knew Door would be arriving late, so Kristin and I stayed and had some more drinks after Kimberlicious and Busta vamoosed. Then we had some more drinks, and finally Door came and my heart sang.

His curly hair and big barrel chest and sweet Southern drawl—he's just all sorts of yumminess, my pretties. And Megan Jane might be interested to know he was wearing boat shoes, and it didn't phase me in the least. Must be a South Carolina thing for young men to wear boat shoes, but whatever. Ya'll have to remember that I've been after Door since the summer, and the time in between has been peppered with luscious, but very casual, encounters with him, so boat shoes or no, I intended for something steamy to happen that night.

Kristin and I met his group of friends, changed the scenery and ended up at The Front Page. A short time later, I had kicked my shoes off and was forcing strangers to twirl me on the dance floor. I'm pretty sure I was a schwee bit drunkity drunk, but we weren't hurting nobody. Door and I were flirting it up, Kristin was working her mojo with the dudes, everybody was singing along to the Journey covers, and I almost accidentally stole someone's credit card.

(His name was Victor, though Kristin sagely nicknamed him Canines—I just saw the V and the Bank of America logo, and thought it was mine. Honest mistake, but somehow I don't think he believed me.)

The point in the evening came when it was either hit the last Metro home or say, "Fuck it. I will sleep on someone's couch. Somewhere."

Kristin was gracious enough to offer up hers, and that seemed like an AWESOME idea because we had a plan: hail a cab, DON'T tell them we need to go to the Southeast side until after we're in the cab because it's discrimination if they refuse you a ride based on your destination, and pass out drunk by 2 in the a.m. Voila!

Then, as we stood outside the bar saying our goodbyes, somewhere in my delusional mind I grabbed on to the idea of, "Hey, maybe I could stay with Door tonight. Virtue is soooooo overrated."

Um, but, I'm not really sure that Door was on board with that plan. See, there's a twist here: Door is enlisting in the military. The fucking Navy.

Huh? Wha? He has a graduate degree in something or other, but he really feels this is his calling. So, he's just at the start of the process and will be around for another 3 or 4 months-ish, but he had an early meeting with a recruiter and did not want to smell like stale beer or 123Valerie.

But, I think after enough needling and a promise to accompany him on his 5-mile walk home in a last-ditch effort to lose a few pounds and make his weight requirement, he conceded. I'm a determined woman when I am horny, which means I am usually very determined. (I threw in the towel half a mile in, kids. "Taxi! Taxi!")

So, where does this leave Kristin you may ask?

You're asking that because you're a better person than I am. While I was all tra la la "Getting into Door's pants tonight. High Five!" I left Kristin out in the cold. Literally. She sat in the cab with the door open waiting for me to wise up, get my damn ass in the car, go home with her and not make a damn fool of myself, damn it 123Valerie.

I can't recall what Kristin said to me when I slurred my final declaration of, "No, thas okay, honey. I'll jus go home with Door, here," but I know that it was filled with the disappointment of 1,000 kittens frowning.

It's no good to disappoint someone—leaves both parties feeling icky.

I should explain something for those of you who haven't caught on yet—I'm a pretty self-centered person. I can admit that, and so behavior like this is fairly typical. If I have a goal, such as bedding a hottie, I usually do whatever I can to achieve that goal. Does that make it right? No.

But, ironically, Kristin and I spent a lot of time talking earlier in the evening about how she always sticks to her obligations and does what she says she's going to do, no matter what. Not so with 123V. I'm more of a hit and miss kind of gal. Very mercurial, I guess you could say. No one does say that, but they could.

However, it goes without saying that Kristin has full permission to toss me aside for a guy any time. Actually, that's true of anyone—I'm always in favor of a good hookup for all of my peeps. It's hard because, had the cute shoe been on the other foot, I can honestly say that I wouldn't have minded if Kristin had done what I did, that is "get her swerve on" with a quality guy she'd spent months eyeballing.

But, I have to remember that not everyone thinks like me, and I think we can all say a prayer of thanks for that, no?

So, lest you all think I'm a creepy sort of avoider person who conducts her entire life via the blog (though, that's starting to sound like a good idea), I left an apology with Kristin's answering machine, and I will allow her as much time and space to be upset with me as she needs. She held a mirror up to me last night, and the reflection showed a stumbly, bumbly, mascara-smeared 123Valerie who often steamrolls right over the needs and emotions of others in favor of her own pursuits.

For the record, Door and I did not have The Sex. We had The Everything But, and it was glorious. Four times it was glorious, know what I'm saying? He's a good serviceman already, kids.

In the Comments Section, tell me if you walked around the city in your stocking feet like I did last night. Because I am a classy lady.

I Hate Blogger (Or I Will Now Pimp Out My Blog Space)

So, if Blogger sent me a MySpace friend request right now, I would reject it. Re to the ject it, my pretties. Then I would kick Blogger in the shins and make fun of its hair.

Ya'll may notice that I had to remove all of the fun descriptions of your blogs because it was either that or start kicking people off the list; Blogger decided there just isn't enough room on the infinite Internets for me to tell people how wonderful you all without wonkying up my sidebar format. It was FUBAR, kids.

But, this is where the fun begins. I have room for some descriptions--I think about 10 if I gauged it correctly. Oh, we'll go with 10, why the hell not. These 10 spots will revolve every week based on the number of comments you leave. The more comments you leave, the longer your description stays up or the better your chances for getting it up become.

Now, that said, I want you to know I will be employing no scientic methods and really "the number" of comments isn't a static concept. Maybe you leave 72 comments a week, but if they're dull or you smell like mushrooms, then I reserve the right to not count half of them. Maybe even three-quarters. Or, if say, you send me naked pictures of yourself, but you don't leave any comments, that counts for, like, 637 notes, so you can secure yourself a description.

Everyone is starting afresh and new comment-leavers/people I lurve who stumble onto the magic that is 123Valerie go into the mix, too.

So, maybe you're saying, "123V, I don't care about your stupid descriptions of me or my blog, and I will not comprimise my integrity just to get a little added linky love and possibly increase traffic to my blog."

To that, I say: Get the hell off of my blog. Comprimising integrity is what I'm all about, and if you don't want to ride down with us, then there are plenty of kids who'd like your spot in the handbasket.

It's true that absolute power corrupts absolutely, but an Absolute martini never hurt anyone.

In the Comments section, leave a comment. No time like the present, kids.

Read N Material

So, I just finished a vunderful book from E.L. Doctorow, and now I need new stuff to read.

I've updated the ever-expanding blogroll to reflect all of you beautiful people with good taste who swing by to give me your invaluable ideas in the comments, but I need something I can take with me to the bathtub, so ya'll tell me what your reading [sic. Hi, Kevy K]. Blogs, magazines, books, plays, poems, subtitles: I don't care what it is. If you like it, I want to read it.

Um, do I have to go over this again? In the Commments section, tell me what you're reading, so I can read it, too, please.

I Am Kind Of a Heartless Bitch

Can I be just a little bit of a heartless bitch? I think so. I know I'm not fully a heartless bitch because I like puppies and kittens. Well, I'll let you decide how much of a heartless bitch I am.

So, there's an ex-boyfriend. (Isn't there always an ex-boyfriend? Geez, 123V.) His name is Kevin. He loves me. He said so all of the time, and I would say, "Quit it" and swat him as though he were a fly.

Then, so he would finally shut up, I said it back. Quick, like I was pulling off a Band-Aid: "Iloveyoutoo."

It made him happy.

Then we broke up because he wanted to be my father more than my boyfriend, and I already have a great Dad that I don't mind saying, "I love you" to. I moved down to Disco Central and he moved to Tejas, and I thought (hoped) that was that. Not so.

A few months ago, he started calling again--late at night, usually really drunk, which has always been an irresistable factor for me. We'd talk and then before I knew it, I was professing love again. I even agreed to come visit him in Dallas. Then I promptly started ignoring his calls.

So, it was with some relief that I recieved an e-mail, complete with multiple typos from him (e-mail, kids. Good God). I've provided you with some of the better excerpts (I need you to know that I broke up with a guy for his use of "irregardless," okay? Grammar and punctuation and all of that stuff--it's important to me):

Hey baby, I just wanted to say that this might be the last time I talk to you. I need you to know that I have always found you to be the only girl in my dreams. I just have a small issue with never talking to you, or not ever knowing your feelings.

Baby, you know I love you with all that I am. I have gave it my all, I have fought for you, but Baby I think that I do not need to be in your life any more. You know that I always wanted your's forever and well, I guess...

Baby I love you. I never found you nothing but the most amazing person, which I could never have. Really, all said, I do not want to spend my life with no one else.
You are really my end all be all.

But baby you have to much going on. Your life is your life. I just want you to know that one person finds you to be all that is amazing in life. Really walk away knowing that one guy , still two years later, is still a fool in love wth you. Baby you are the greatest thing to walk the Earth.

Have a great life! Kevy K out

I can't make this up, my pretties. "Kevy K out?" Oh, my. I sent back a poignant, thoughtful e-mail (shaking my head the whole damn time) about who knows what the future will bring, blah blah blah, always in my heart, hooey, hooey, hooey, etcetera, etcetera, ad nauseum.

I bring this up because I'm really concerned that Karma is going to kick my ass for lying because I recently saw Door opening into my life again--he's the friend of Sean P.K.'s that I've been macking on for months. Ya'll, I like him. I really like him. Please say a prayer that everything works out as it should.

We are going to get drunk together for a Wednesday happy hour, and no activity bonds a future couple like tequila slammers, ya heard?

In the Comments section, tell me who you are crushing on nowadays?

Be Aggressive. B-E Aggressive. B-E-A-G-G-R-E-S-S-I-V-E

So, kids, I got the news today that I didn't win the writing contest, but I did make it to the Top 10, so I get prizes. (Oooooooooh, prizes! I love prizes. I also lurve sur-prizes!) Books and such, I believe.

I'm beat, ya'll. I'm afraid I'm still working, so in lieu of thoughts and words and stuff, you get my non-winning story.

I should tell you there was a prompt and a 500-word limit. The prompt was: You just got a box with no return address and in it you find a pom pom you thought you'd lost in high school.

That's it. No other direction. It was actually kind of fun. And, since I am having no fun right now, let's revisit the fun, shall we:


Rolling Along

A lot of people don't think a roller derby girl'd like pink. My uniform was black and yellow, but couldn't no one tell me not to wear my pink pom poms.

I could skate gentle as a whiff of honeysuckle or angry as a bearcat, but most of the time I was a ballerina on wheels. Them pom poms was little wings on my ankles. A lot of girls thought they had to storm the track, but they's the ones that got took out. I'd breeze right by.

I remembered seeing him the first time. I couldn'ta been but 17. I'd left school to spend more time on the circuit with the Renegades. Mama had a conniption, but until I met him, the derby was the best thing in my life.

We was jamming with the Detroit Destroyers, and they was some mean sons a bitches. I remember like it was yesterday. One of 'em square kicked my shin. There was blood. Lots of it, too, or I woulda kept going. But rule one is don't get the track wet.

Coming out of the pack, I saw him standing next to the box, eating a hot dog sandwich. I was bleedin' but all I noticed was this little bit of mustard in his mustache. I wanted to lick it off.

"Got you pretty good," he said.

"Yeah." Unlacing my skate, one of my pom poms fell off. He bent to pick it up.

"What you doing with this?" he wanted to know. "I figured you too tough for pink."

I told him I was only tough when I needed to be. "Do I need to be tough with you?" I asked.

"No, ma'am," he said, putting that pink pom pom in his pocket.

We watched the rest of the jam then he asked me out for a beer. I was still in my shorts, so he gave me his coat to wear. We had steak sandwiches and a couple of pitchers.

"Where you from?" he asked.

"Greenup, Kentucky. Family's been there forever. Everybody knows us. No one even puts our address on letters no more—just 'Get this to the Wright family' and they do." I swallowed a mouthful of beer. "How'd someone handsome as you end up alone?"

"I'm ain't. My girl's fixin' to have a kid. It ain't mine, but I done told her ma I'd marry her."

"Well, shit. Give me my pom pom back. One's no good, anyhow."

"No, ma'am. This here's mine to remember a beautiful lady."

We walked back to the rink. The team was going to Cincinnati, so I kissed him goodbye and climbed on the bus.

Seems about a million stops later, I made my way back to Greenup. I was raking leaves when Bill dropped off that box with the address "Get this to Jesse Wright. Greenup, Kentucky."

Now, what in the hell am I gonna do with one pink pom pom and a first-class ticket to Reno, Nevada?

In the Comments section tell me the most memorable thing you ever won.

The Weight

Because I am a white person, I have the luxury of complaining when someone prejudges me, rather than the daily confrontation and societal disappointment that my loved ones of color must endure.

I am keenly aware of the ignorance this world harbors, and it saddens me. Therefore, I'd like to pre-empt this post with a message that I was raised correctly in a family—and with peers—that celebrated differences. We were taught to understand and embrace, rather than exclude or persecute. We also ran around naked a lot and worshipped Goddesses. Whatever.

So, because it doesn't even occur to me, I find it extremely unnerving when people judge me based on my skin color. I wish I were alone in this, my pretties, and I am sorry if this experience pales in comparison to a real episode of intolerance that you may have experienced, but, well, this blog is about the events in my life, so bear with me.

At a store this morning, there was a long line. A woman, who happened to be African American (no, really. Nigerian, I think, based on the accent), politely asked the lone Indian (Bangalore) cashier if she could call for help because the line was building. An appreciated request on behalf of all.

So, the help (Guatamalan--she wore a national flag pinned to her smock) came up front, saw me standing second in line, swiftly grabbed the three items out of my hands before walking to her cash register then ordered me to, "Come over."

I don't know why—maybe my ultra-red hair or my complacent nature stood out to her. I simply said, "Uh, okay," and waddled over to her register.

As I swung around, the African American woman who requested the help and had since moved over said, "Where the hell did this white bitch come from? Trying to get to the front of the line? I'm not surprised."

I was mortified, my pretties. I'm not that person; you must know that. But, I am also not someone who tolerates untruths, so I said, "I'm sorry. She told me to come over."

"Whatever you say, white bitch."

Now, I can overlook ONE irrational comment—we're only human, kids. But, twice? Well, it just offends my sense of truth. Had she said:

"Whatever you say, white drunk ass."

Or

"Whatever you say, white girl who should do more crunches."

Or

"Whatever you say, white girl who needs to get laid," I would have probably given her a High Five. But, kids, I'm not a bitch. Never have been. That hurt my feelings. So, you know what I did to get back at her? I helped a young black gentleman carry his bags to the car.

I would've done it anyway, watching him struggle the way he did, but it felt damn good to see her mouth gape in surprise as I offered to help with some of his burden.

In the Comments section, tell me about someone ignorant or, preferably, benevolent you've come across lately. I'll help the winner carry bags to their car.

On Your Face

There was a cute little girl at the gym tonight waiting for her Mommy to get out of an aerobics class.

She asked one of the trainers, Spud, I think they call him, "Did you have to get stuck with needles to get those tattoos?"

"Needles? Aw, no, nothing scary like that. There's a tattoo fairy. She comes in your window at night and gives you tattoos when you're sleeping. But you better be good, or else you'll get one on your face," Spud said.

The look of horror on this poor girl's, as yet un-tatted, face was almost beautiful in its purity.

Still it was no match for my reaction when, at the start of my workout, I realized why some people call a "locker room" a "changing room." I'm renaming it, once and for all, the "You're Not Quite Ready to Be Parading Around Here All Naked Just Yet. Go Do a Few More Jumping Jacks and Then We'll Talk" Room.

In the Comments section, tell me about your tattoo, or EVEN BETTER, e-mail me a picture, and I'll post it to the blog. The winner of the best body art gets a visit from the tat fairy--just remember to be good. Unless you're Mike Tyson, then it doesn't much matter, does it?




He must have been very, very bad.







********
UPDATE

Ya'll, the sign of a true friend, my lovely Kirstin heard a blogger's call for photos of tats and came through:
This is her lovely DMB firedancer complete with lyrics. Don't be shy, my pretties. We're all friends here.

Argh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Speaking of scary, Scotty, sent in this frightening photo (not a self portrait, ya'll ... At least I don't think.) Blogger hates Scotty almost as much as Word Press hates me, so I have taken the liberty of leaving a comment for him.

Just Because I Can't Eat KFC Doesn't Mean I Can't Think About It

Can anyone tell me why KFC (the artist formerly known as Kentucky Fried Chicken) is using Lynrd Skynrd's Sweet Home ALABAMA in its ads?

Seriously. Is there a good reason for this complete disregard of geography? Or even a not-so-good reason?

I'm sorry, my pretties. I get cranky when I'm hungry, and, for rizzle, I would gladly kill for a potato wedge right now.

Incidentally, my Step-Mom is a distant relative of the Colonel's.

In the Comments section, tell me what you are craving, food or otherwise. The person who gets me to stop thinking about honey barbecue wings wins!

New Year's Cleavage

"Well, Megan Jane, I guess if we're going out tonight, I'd better go buy something slutty to wear," I said and hung up the phone.

Last New Year's was spent alone with my Mom, both of us finally deciding that neither cared to see the ball drop, and we were asleep by 11:30. I wish I would've gotten confetti or something, but I confess I was a little aggrieved about signing up for Mom-sitting duty on that particular night. One more thing to feel guilty about, I suppose.

Previous years were spent in some variation of bartendressing or flying the friendly skies, essentially allowing others to enjoy their evenings, save for the one year I actually got the night off and caught my boyfriend making out with another girl in a bar bathroom.

I don't like New Year's. Everyone puts so much importance on one stupid night, and because I am a superstitious mutha, despite my vehement protestations that it doesn't matter, I too think it sets the tone for the whole year. So, I keep my expectations low.

I fully planned to stay in, watch the tube and have a bubbly bath with some bubbly, but, even as anti-New Year's Eve as I am, I couldn't ignore the many signs suggesting that I actually get my ass out and celebrate, gosh darnit. I finally gave in to the universe's gentle prod.

#1Laura and her gang planned to meet at a local dive-ish bar (my fave!) called Dr. Dremo's, which just happens to be within stumbling distance of Megan Jane's house, and--would you believe--Matty's from Animal Mind. I also had to pick up JennyJenny8675309 up from the National Airport today, just a stone's throw away from the area.

So, because I am brilliant, I thought the equation was something like this: wonderful friends + low-key bar that I like + not driving anywhere + meeting Matty in person + showcasing my rack in a slutty dress + drunk enough to sleep on Megan Jane's Ikea Couch of Death + zipping over to pick up JennyJenny8675309 in the a.m. = the possibility of an enjoyable New Year's.

And I was right, my pretties; we had an enjoyable New Year's, though we had to modify the equation a bit.

While, rest assured, my breasts looked exquisite in a black and pink polka dotty dress, Matty "pussed" out. It was somewhat expected, I must admit; real life is no match for Internet porn.

And Dr. Dremo's had a $25 cover. Aw, hell no. On principle, I won't pay to get into a bar with sticky floors and overflowing toilets.

So, while we waited for #1Laura and Co. to arrive, Megan Jane and I ambled up the street where we encountered ridiculous things such as $40 covers and lines. I don't do lines. On any level, actually.

But, we spotted an empty little restaurant bar across the way with 1) no cover 2) no lines 3) a very friendly bartender who didn't seem to mind he was working on New Year's Eve. Perfect.

"Let's just have one drink, watch the damn ball and call it a night," Megan Jane and I said at the same time.

Soon, though, a crowd of party-goers also refusing to pay covers and stand in lines bumbled in, so we had ourselves a festive atmosphere.

A new bartendress came on shift, also very friendly, largely because of the copious amount of coke she was sniffing in the back. She spilled no fewer than six drinks before uttering, "Oh no, what have I done to myself."

Then a gentleman wandered in, and sat down next to Megan Jane. Now, we are sensitive people, Megan Jane and I. We truly are, but let's just say he had some challenges in his life, the major one being that he smelled like burnt cheese and mothballs. He also had some irregular facial features.

"Oh, God. His eye! Is it protruding? Is it a protuberance from his face?" Megan Jane asked, a bit frightened.

"No, MJ," I assured, "It's recessed. It's more sunken in."

He may have actually heard us because he got up to leave, and Megan used that opportunity to coax a young gentleman and his buddies to all move over a seat in case the guy came back. Guys will do anything for a beautiful woman.

We acknowledged the karmic points we were losing, but it seemed a small price to pay.

The ball dropped, Megan Jane and I stammered through a few bars of Auld Lang Syne and we finished up our drinks. As we walked past Dr. Dremo's, we both turned, wondering if the cover was still in effect.

"Go check," Megan Jane said. "Put your boobs to work."

Okay! No more cover, so we met up with #1Laura and Co. afterall. We enjoyed a beer, some champagne left over from the toast and I believe I planted a goodbye kiss on #1Laura's friend, Adam. Just a little one. It's tradition.

Then that was it. Megan Jane gave me the new Roald Dahl collection, Omnibus, for Christmas, and I was very, very eager to get home and start reading, so I forewent her Evil Ikea couch and drove home.

I actually have to put some pants on soon to go pick up JennyJenny8675309 from the airport. He finished his last marathon yesterday in Missouri and JennyJenny8675309 was right there with him--52 marathons in one year! Holy crap.

So, James Burnett put out the challenge to post revealing, honest New Year's resolutions. My first one is to not run ANY marathons this year. I feel pretty good about sticking to that.

The rest are really quite simple, my pretties.

Spend more time on the people, things and ideas that are important to me and less on fruitless labor. AKA stop procrastinating.

Open myself up to falling in love. This is a scary thing, kids. Very scary, indeed. Much safer to be flippant, but safe isn't always better.

Drink more water.

In the Comments section, tell me if you got to kiss anyone on New Year's Eve.