Cramping My Style

I never believed it, but it's true: You should wait at least 30 minutes after eating before you swim.

Yesterday, I ate some cherries and a piece of provolone, and then went to swim a couple laps before dinner. Ten seconds into the first lap, my feet (both!) cramped up with an intensity that made in me exclaim, "Shit Fire Asshole!" just like my Nan does.

Now it's got me wondering if, in fact, there are chemicals that people use in their pool that react with urine, like my Dad always threatened. I have been positively frightened by the thought of a bright green chemical cloud billowing out from my crotch for 27 years because, I'll admit it, I pee in the pool. Not all of the time, but yes, sometimes.

There, I said it.

There's actually something else I was going to say, but decided against. I had this long, drawn out post about insecure people and their plots to drag me into their neurosis and how sometimes I have to write people off because they are just too broken for me to deal with.

It was kind of mean spirited, which indicates it was worthy, I think, of some karmic retribution because I didn't write it with a pure heart.

Then I thought, "I don't need the universe to kick my ass just because Persons X, Y and Z have serious issues. Let it go, 123V."

So, I am trying to let it go. There are crazy people in this world. There have always been crazy people in this world. And, sure as shit, there will always be crazy people in this world.

The best I can do is try not to join their wicked little club. So, here's my plan to deal with crazy people who are currently inhabiting my world:

1. Distance
2. Deflect
3. Dehydrate

Yep. After 7:30 p.m. Eastern, A.J. and I will be the proud owners of a Ronco Food Dehydrator for a mere $20. For our two-month anniversary, we are buying each other used kitchen appliances found on Craig's List (well, "like new! only taken out of the box for the picture!" appliances). We pick up our juicer on Sunday. Seriously.



The Turkey Jerky train's a-coming. Ya'll better get on board, cause we're bound for the Fruit Leather Express!

So, hey, I want to take a minute to send a sincere note of gratitude to those of you who made a little time to pray for/send energy to/think about Megan Jane. The tests came back, and all is well this time. Phew. Amen. Thank you, Jesus. Hallelujah.

Call me hokey or whatever, but prayer and collective energy do work. Thank you for your kindness.

How 'bout a round of Pomegranate Wheatgrass juice to celebrate?

No. How about not.

A.J. and I are also embarking on the mulberry-wine-making expedition tomorrow. In the Comments section, tell me what kind of wine you'd like us to attempt next. Oh, and also if you have a used kitchen appliance that you'd like to sell us.

If I Were a Porn Star, I'd Be 'Community Chest'

I have a history of "showing my ass," as the ladies from Flavor of Love/Charm School like to say.

Usually it involves a lot of wine. Case in point: Sunday evening, A.J. was over and I somehow managed to drink nigh to two bottles of wine by myself.

See, my pretties, there are few things floating around in 123V's world that are causing some distress. It's not prudent or fair for me to tell you any details becuase they don't involve just me.

But, I can say that if you've got some spare prayers, and you could send them Megan Jane's way, that would be most appreciated. And maybe just a tiny request that the universe provide a little evidence for me (either way, Universe--I just want this settled) because I know it's hard for most people who are not named 123Valerie to accept my "gut reaction" as proof of anything.

In any case, the world is a flutter, and as is my custom, I tend to drink too much when things go awry. It's so much easier than dealing with problems, no?

Well, not when you're poor A.J. who must listen to me blather on and cry and say mean things in a tone thick with wine.

I woke up the next morning foggy, but rightfully sheepish. Do you know what the boy said? "It's okay. I took away some good points from what you said."

Well, I'll be. So handsome and a heart of gold, too. I guess it goes without saying that A.J. is NOT one of the things currently amiss.

We all get one Get Out of Jail Free Card, kids. Since I've done used mine up, and quite frankly I'm getting tired of so many turns around the board, I'm going to stop playing the game for a bit. Because at the end of the day, drinking too much is a lot like Monopoly money--having it makes you feel good in the moment, but as soon as the game is over, it's entirely worthless.

My pretties, 123Valerie is going to lay off the sauce for a good bit.

I know. Crazy, isn't it? By good bit, I just mean until Mist 1 comes up here to visit in early August or I stop thinking of drinking as my "go to" when things go bad, whatever comes first. It seems like a good idea to head off any problems at the pass.

It feels weird to write that and it makes me a little shaky, but you know, I owe it to myself and all those around me who suffer the brunt of my inability to cope.

In addition to much-needed clarity and rejuvination, A.J. and I are also on a tear to lose a few pounds--nothing crazy, 15 and 10 respectively. I figure the time I am not drinking, I can be doing crunches and squats.

But please, my pretties, let me know if I become one of the those people, okay?

If we can do it in two months, our reward will be a romantic getaway at the Eastern Shore's only legal nude beach: Gunnison Beach in Sandy Hook, New Jersey!

We're gonna be hanging our with our wang out and jamming out with our clam out with our new hot bods, ya dig?

Come on, ya'll--you know I wouldn't leave you on a heavy note. It's Tuesday, for Pete's sake.

In the Comments section, let us know if we can help you with anything.

Win Rhymes with Grin!

There are no losers, my pretties. Just people who win less.

At least, you can console yourself with that thought after I tell you that I am Akelamalu from Everything and Nothing #3 Rockin' Girl Blogger and you're not. Suck it.

I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I'm a little cranky, kids. It'll pass.

In the meantime, you can read a sunnier post of mine on Burt's Stache. You know you want to.

In the Comments section, tell me who you think is a Rockin' Girl Blogger (it's a given that Akelamalu is on that list, kids).

Give Me Two Steps, Give Me Two Steps, Mister

My friends Glynnie and Hot Sauce Flo Dad are getting married, taking the proverbial steps down the aisle. Everyone is very happy about it.

So happy, in fact, that Glynnie's girlhood friends got a bunch of us other girls together recently to celebrate the union with burritos and margaritas. And presents. Oh, and cake.

The wedding shower was in Pittsburgh, which I frequently opine is the San Francisco of the East. Then people invariably groan and throw things at me, and not in the sexy Tom Jones/panties kind of way, either.

Yet and still, I love The Burgh. It has an exorbitant amount of character with a reasonable cost of living. I am an adult now, and I must consider things like this.

Where did that pesky point go? It was here just a minute ago …

Ah, yes. The point, then, my pretties is I got to spend a lot of time with my D.C. Sisters and finally got to meet the lovely Elise, Kera, Missy and Sarah.

During the four-hour car ride up with Megan Jane and Hannah Banana, and throughout the weekend, it became apparent that there's a lot of change in the air. As women, most of us pride ourselves on our intuition and the sense that we're on the "right" path.

But, how does one get on that "right" path?

Megan Jane shared her patented Two-Step System for navigating life. Here it is: Take two steps toward your goal.

That's it. Take two steps—the universe will reward you or let you know that it's not the correct path. Simple. Progressive. Brilliant.

Now, A.J. and a few others from whom I'll tolerate it, think I am a "flake" because I appreciate and use astrology, numerology, crystals, meditation, intentions, intuition, bourbon and dream interpretation to help me along the way.

I assure you, my pretties, I have a real grown-up job, I wear my seatbelt when I drive, and I use coupons at the grocery store. I'm not a flake.

But, I do frequently get off my path. So, I've been using Megan Jane's Two-Step System a lot these days, and much good has come from it.

I've decided to go back and get my Master's degree. It's time. I've been out of school and paying on my loans for 16 months too long.

I'm also taking some folks up on their offers to help me out with my music. Scary, my pretties.

It's like handing your diary over to someone and asking them to proofread it. But a wicked talent dude named Travis that Kristin set me up with is throwing himself headlong into my little ditties. It's very exciting. He added sort of a disco beat to a song I wrote about my dead Mom, and I love it. You've just gotta trust me on this.

And this project is finally getting underway. If anyone knows of some swingers who'd be willing to talk to me about their sex lives, I'd appreciate it.

Speaking of swingers, Peter DeWolf approached me the other day. He said, "Hey pretty lady, I like your style. Come sit on Burt Reynold's Mustache for a good time."

I was like, "Peter DeWolf, it's like you've known me forever, but I have no idea who you are."

Come to find out, like all good hookups, Mist 1 was involved.

So, that is how someone who never posts on her own damn blog will soon be contributing to a group blog on the 24th day of every month. Peter DeWolf was adamant that I "bring the funny."

Oh, I'll bring the funny, mister. Just you watch me.

Yessereee Bub, lots of stuff going on 'round here.

For those of you keeping score: A.J. is still amazingly wonderful, the new jobby job remains most excellent, but … I have put back on ALL of the weight that I lost (thanks A.J for "loving me just as I am" but this ain't cutting it) and there's a really funky smell in my car.

You know, some good some bad.

So, I gots to get to steppin', kids—Two-Stepping, that is. God, I am so clever.

I'll give ya'll a reminder when you can find me on the 'Stache, but in the meantime, go say hi to the nice folks over there.

Oh! Whoa—I almost forgot. The Boob Hat. I thought it was pretty much self explanatory, but I guess not. Here you go, sickies. I should preface with: I don't think the proportions are very accurate, particularly in the nipple area.



Oh, and the guy in the dickie and Santa hat is none other than my brother-in-law John. Not Bake, though, who wears a different kind of Dickies. John has a Dickies and Nog party every year at Christmas, which is also just what it sounds like: You wear a dickie and drink egg nog. Because it's funny, my pretties.

Whatever. Don't roll your eyes at me.

In the Comments section, tell what you need to take two steps toward.

The U.S. Relaxes Some Passport Rules for Regional Travel

A.J. is always telling me that he loves my non-sequiturs. He also loves when I play Boob Hat, but since I can't (and really shouldn't) play Boob Hat with all of ya'll, here are some sequiturs that are non. I love lamp.

I was cleaning my toilet this morning and bent over the bowl, I was surprised to find that it smelled like pee. And then I got surprised that I was surprised because if there's anything that's supposed to smell like pee, it's probably a toilet.

I made a bag of microwave popcorn in which there was not a single unpopped kernel. Not. A. Single. One. I was frightened.

At work, my buddy Jim recently told me that our network allowed us to listen to our co-workers' iTunes collections. This is probably not big news to you all, but as a slight techno-phobe, I was floored.

I have found that my musical tastes absolutely mirror our company's Vice President of Businessy Financial Stuff or Whatever (VP of BFSOW). I have fought against the "corporate" label (rather lazily, given my 87 pairs of pantyhose), but now I have to re-think that, if "corporate" means digging Josh Ritter, Ray Lamontagne and The Black Keys.

Saying Grace

Hi, my pretties. What's shaking?

After I saw my picture on a milk carton, I figured I'd better whip something up for ya'll:

When I was a young lass, I was fortunate enough to have friends from all faiths, except Judaism. This explains my present-day fascination with Jewish people and also why I make A.J. recite the Hanukkah poem to me in the boudoir. Don't judge; Jesus doesn't like that.

But, Jewish folks aside, I grew up with (in no particular order) Hindus, Buddhists, Pentecostals, Methodists, Baptists, Catholics, devout Mormons and even one Pagan friend.

"Pshaw," you say. "Big whoop, 123V."

Kids, I grew up in small-town Ohio. Given our teensy population and the fact that it was SMALL-TOWN OHIO, I think it's pretty significant that Megan Jane and I learned to mingle with and welcome various faiths and cultures. Because—fast forward a couple of decades—some people are still trying to reconcile these cultural differences.

Now, I know as well as anyone (especially as a relapsed Catholic, plaid skirt and all) that people are not solely defined by their religion. But for this purpose, let me say that Megan Jane and I recently had a chance to catch up with our "Pagan friend," Ingrid.

Ingrid is now part of an accomplished Americana duo, Coyote Grace, along with her damn sexy life partner, Joe, and they are touring this great land in an RV named Harvey.

I hadn't seen Ingrid in nigh a decade, but all memories of her include copious amounts of dancing, singing and laughing—just an overall sense of freedom. Her mom had a beautiful cabin deep in the woods of southern Ohio, and our group of adolescent girls spent a lot of time there running around naked, eating organic vegetarian meals, building fires and kicking each other in the crotch.

I can't really explain why, except to say that our sexualities were blossoming, and it seemed like a good idea at the time.

In any case, Coyote Grace blew through town and put on an amazing show at the nation's oldest lesbian bar, Phase1. I was happy to attend the show on so very many levels.

• Ingrid and Joe make endearingly beautiful and sassy music, which I lurve.
  
• Ingrid plays an acoustic stand up bass. The wood finish is nearly the same shade as her lovely auburn hair. Joe plays a strong, soulful guitar and has a fierce beard that was admired by all.
  
• I got to hang with some of my favorite kids including A.J., A.J.'s best friend Billiam, Broke Kid, Hey Pretty, Jason, JennyJenny8675309, Lorelai and Sean P.K. at a gay seafood restaurant called the Chocolate Starfish Café. Okay, it was just the Starfish Café. Geez.
  
• At dinner beforehand, Megan Jane got a schwee bit tipsy on some vino. Megan Jane tipsy is generally comprised of:
  3 parts "Oh my God. Did she just say that?"
  2 parts dancing
  1 part Megan Jane making this face:

I lurve it. (I don't know who that guys is, but his cunnilingus tongue is weak. WEAK.)

• Speaking of, and most importantly, I also lurve lesbians in the cultural, biblical and pornographic sense.
  

Also speaking of, Ingrid is just as lovely now as she was then.

Please try to check out Coyote Grace if they're in your area, and tell 'em Megan Jane and I sent you. If you can prove that you went to their show, drop me an e-mail at 123Valerie at gmail.com, and I'll send you one of my CDs for free, which was recorded right in my very own bedroom. While wearing only my underpants.

In the Comments section, tell me about a recent concert you went to see and/or if you love lesbians, too.