Tuesday, September 6, 2011

And I woke up with a bra in my handbag . . .

There are weekends, and then there are weekends.

Labor Day Weekend, 2011, NYC.

Somewhere on the Lower East. Four or five Mojitos in hurricane glasses in (mmmmm, Mojitos). Somehow the conversation was on bra size, and the three people I was with (two lesbians and a straight man, mind you) were baffled that I am D cup.

I'm wearing a super cute halter top I bought at a boutique in July. Point, I'm wearing a strapless bra. What do I do?

Take my bra off without removing my shirt. Three people were speechless. One, more than the rest, as she then played with my bra. It ended up in my handbag as we wandered for another bar with booze.

Sunday I woke up and reached to shut the alarm on my phone, which was in my handbag. Imagine my laughter as I pulled out my bra.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Can't go Back

Last night, seemingly out of nowhere, a conversation with someone from college crossed my mind. Well . . . it didn't just cross my mind, it hung around like a thick, humid summer's air along the banks of the Ohio on the Bluegrass side. The conversation . . . not so much a conversation, more of a final au revoir moment since I couldn't be what he wanted me to be.

Oiy. I could have been "the Sheriff's wife." For real.

We drank together, hung out, and never made out. That final conversation was about me not wanting, or being able, to spend my life in a little town we both knew. He grew up there; I spent two years there in my youth. College reunited us, so to speak. As to why it crossed my mind last night . . . I don't know. But damn, if it didn't linger like a hooker's perfume.

Even better . . . a dude I dated in high school is now a detective there. Since it is a small town and all, he's pretty much the lead guy. I haven't been back to see the river, bridge, cobble-stone streets, and memories of my youth in ions now. 2002 to be exact, for a wedding. I was there less than 48 hours.

Those people, from along that river, and I still circle around one another, find each other, and hold bonds like story book tales of a lost time and place. Last summer I ran into some of them, on the other side of the state. Good times were had by all. Yet, the little town we all once knew as home . . . I'm like a bad country song. The Sheriff and I have a history, per se, and the detective and I once played tonsil hockey. It's like a sad bar scene from an even sadder 80s movie.

I can't/don't want to go back, but my mind likes to play nightmares with me remembering long forgotten moments of passing, smiles, and touches of the cool evening air.

Sunday, October 10, 2010

There's Something about H&M

A friend of mine ponders her experiences at H&M, and I do have to say that A) H&M is noted for small sizing and B)vanity sizes are more myth than reality. They occur on wedding dresses and some low end lines . . . overall, not so much. BUT . . .

Around the time C was eschewing her salad for a two bill shopping marathon, I went to NOVA and hung with a college girl friend all day. She's been on the "let's loose my depression weight" train--as I've always known her to be a four--and she had some size tens left over to give my shrinking ass. I should tell you, I am now six pounds heavier than I was in 2008. Booyea bitches. My size four freak needed some new pants, so I traipsed along. We ended up at H&M, and this is where I should not have to remind you that I am always inappropriate.

You might also want to know . . . in college a roommate, whom I was friends with for ions and we somewhat talk again now (read: she's on my FB page, and I'm on hers), always played the holier than thou routine. I walked to Kroger with her, on more than one occasion, for the pee test. She also did a lot, A LOT, of the "you aren't paying attention to me" shit. Case in point, on more than one occasion, she stood on our coffee table if the conversation in the room wasn't giving her enough attention. I particularly liked the one when she flashed me her new panties. I was sitting on the floor. See where this is going? Though, in retrospect . . .

So, little miss attention seeker is now burlesque dancing. Yup. Here's the thing. In the south we call a farm a plantation, as it rolls off the tongue a little sweeter. Hence, calling yourself a burlesque dancer just makes your stripping sound better.

My girl in NOVA, me, and several others have issues with it. But, we roll . . . Well, as Miss NOVA entered the dressing room and remarked on the state of her checkbook and body, I remarked that as long as she didn't start swinging from a pole--for which I then did a pole swinging move--I would be good. Two H&M employees nearly peed themselves laughing, and my NOVA gal doubled over. A few minutes later, as she debated her jeans, I told her that not only did they make her look hot, but "if I were to date women I would so do you in those pants." More laughter. A gasp. Someone's single digit age child heard me.

Like I said, always inappropriate.

Saturday, September 11, 2010


Sometimes I get somber and write things resembling song lyrics. Not about the one I call Jackass.


I don't want to love you tonight,
I don't want to remember they way we were.
I only want to lie with you,
Like we used to before . . .

I won't call, I won't ask
About her or your life.
I don't want to know how pretty she is.
I won't even say her name.
I only want the memory of you
Wrapped up with me, one last time,
Like it was before you lied with her.

I don't want to love you tonight,
I don't want to remember they way we were.
I only want to lie with you,
Like we used to before . . .

In the morning I'll roll one way,
And you'll go the other shaking me off
Like the dusty has been memories we are.
When you call and tell her you love her,
I'll pretend we didn't lie
For one final night, like we did before.

I don't want to love you tonight,
I don't want to remember they way we were.
I only want to lie with you,
Like we used to before . . .

GB--10 Sept 2010.

Friday, August 13, 2010


For no particular reason, my mind has been pondering the effects of my station in life. More so, that I come from a family of conservative Republicans. I am not. Politics are as they are currently, and there is nothing ground shattering to have really rocked my boat so to speak. Yet . . .

I was the youngest, and throughout high school I was active in the church. Hell, I was even a Junior Deacon. At some point along the way, well actually at several points along the way, my path changed and I evolved (and at times jumped) into who and what I am. I might sew and crochet, but I am far from domesticated.

I love baseball; to be more precise, the only team I care about is the Yankees. I love yelling at the TV or radio during games, I love going to the stadium (which I don't get to do nearly enough), and I love the thrill of the game. I also like drinking beer with said games, or bourbon. If I ever had a significant other I am sure he would become a baseball widow, and I don't really care who I offend with the games.

I also like my space. I do not want someone up in my business all day, everyday. I'm the type of girl who isn't going to call you to see how your day went. I am not the type of girl to send text messages wanting attention. Don't get me wrong, I like my attention and all that jazz, but I am not the type to be the instigator every day. There might be a week before you hear from me. Hence, I like my freakin' space.

I like to drink bourbon. I prefer it on the rocks, but if I'm up to no good I drink it with coke. True fact.

I can be a beast in the kitchen, but that doesn't mean I want to do it every single day. Fuck that noise. I do my laundry when I run out of panties, which really means I'm down to wearing the thongs that act as dental floss on my ass. I frequently leave my dirty clothes in a pile on the floor. I drink my beer from a bottle. I've been known to smoke. If there is a coffee table nearby, my feet will be on it. And, if you haven't figured it out, I cuss. Heh.

That being said, my parents would be less shocked and appalled if I were my sister. The person she was twenty years ago better suits elements of my personality now. I am loud, obnoxious, liberal, and single in my mid-thirties. Snort.

On the opposite end of this spectrum is my sister. Ten years ago she marched in gay pride parades, saw the AIDS quilt on one of its last showings, wore the lambda symbol around her neck, had dolphins tattooed on herself, and her truck spoke of gay pride. Now? Um . . . she's a self-proclaimed born again Christian, conservative, anti-homosexuality, and . . . (I shudder) a Republican. All I can say is those have to be some good drugs she is on for various mental issues, but that leads me to other things.

As in, what the hell would happen to me if I were on those drugs? Would I suddenly become domesticated? Would I wear pearls and vacuum, cook on the daily basis, and no longer be a loud-mouthed Yankee fan? Would I eschew my bourbon for pink colored fruity drinks? Would I become a Republican and embrace the Palin love? I shudder. Absolutely shudder.

And now that I've about sent myself in convulsions. . .

Saturday, August 7, 2010

Weird Sex

In what seems like a million years ago I posted this on MySpace. Shush. I was cool for like five seconds. I've added some more to the list.

Random happenings, in no particular order or year frame. I’ve changed their names. And these priceless tid-bits are the reason that (as my friend PD says) I am the reason two soldiers should not have children. The system made me so fucked up.

1. While having sex Stoner said “thank-you.” Really. Then he said it afterward and the next morning. He kept kissing me saying “thank-you.” I had no idea what to say in response. I think I finally said “you’re welcome.” I later learned he wanted to say "I love you."

2. Another while having sex, Gyspy-boy said “fuck yeah, oh fuck, fuck yeah.” I still have no response to that one.

3. Dirty-boy never looked at me. Two rounds of mattress dancing never got me looked at, but he sure as hell made the noises of enjoyment (as did I). Weird. Dirty-boy he is. Actually, he never did look at me while we mattress danced. Perhaps that comes from the now knowledge that he was banging other chicks, and his now wife, while with me. Classy. Super classy.

4. This one is Deflator Mouse number one. Yeah, there’s been two. Deflator Mouse’s grandma came in to get his dirty laundry (ironically, I bet I fall into that category). My hair was still red, and he said all you could see was red curls sticking out from under the covers. He tickled me the whole time, but after she took my clothes I made him go get mine. Deflator Mouse . . . you can figure out the name. Too much whiskey and beers lead to that malfunction. This occurred during college, and after the first deflating occurrence he didn't call for a few weeks. I broke down and talked to a buddy about it. He coined him Deflator Mouse.

5. While watching some court television show my Dad asked a dumb question. The case was about the return of sex toys (I shit you not), and my Dad wanted to know what the hell was so important about a Beaver. I, forgetting where the hell I was, told him. You should have seen his face when he found out. I thought he was gonna die as he said “God-damn” and nearly feel off the couch laughing.

6. Another priceless Dad moment. While driving along I-95 in Virginia one day he decided to give me shit about my lack of a dating life and lack of a marriage. Yeah, I bet you can figure out that that one went over real well. Well, I matter-of-factly told him that he already had a highly dependable son-in-law that is a doctor. He turned and looked at me in disbelief, started to ask why he hadn’t met him, and that was when I said “And he runs on double A batteries.” The Sarge nearly wrecked the car that day, but to this day he hasn’t brought up the marriage subject with me.

7. On another ride with my Dad we were passing through a raunchy area of Richmond, and there was Pricilla’s Lingerie Shop. Okay, Pricilla’s is a porn shop . . . I asked Dad if he wanted to go in and get another son-in-law. He didn’t speak to me for nearly two hours. Priceless.

8. A friend of mine recently told me that she closes her eyes and superimposes me for her girlfriend’s face. Okay, that was/is unnerving.

9. A certain drug-ridden actor, that I used to dig watching, was given a BJ by my brother. I still can’t watch that guy on screen. As to why my brother told me that story . . . If you got a Ouija Board please ask him for me.

10. At a departmental party (for the History Department) a few years back two grad students (I was not one of them) got together and made Boobaroni and Peckeroni Salad. The look on the chair’s face when he realized what he was eating still sends me into fits of laughter.

11. Musical Condoms. Need I say more? No, I’ve never used them, but they certainly sound fucked up. Really, if I ever heard music emanating from me while I was getting my groove on you would see my naked ass running down the road.

12. I’ve never done this one, but . . . I have the flag belly ring, a friend has the flag tattoo, flag blanket, and service. So, perhaps we should get one of those musical condoms (as in “The Stars and Stripes Forever” because they come in that tune too) and have patriotic sex. Then I could use it as a source for something about patriotism.

Okay, that was even a bit much for me.

13. Someone I used to know told me that she joined the Air Force for “the free pussy.” Yup. She’s also had more pussy than I have pairs of panties.

14. An acquaintance asked the nurse if flavored condoms make your pussy taste different: as in snacking after intercourse. Why, why, would you ask that question?

15. A friend’s quick fingered kid found my vibe one day. I told her it was a bed warmer, and she said “So you hold your legs together and put it there to keep you warm?” He he he.

16. A girlfriend tells me that her senior year in college her roommate had sex with her in the room one night. Afterward, she slept with her camera every night, as to ward off the hanky-panky. I hear she woke up a couple of times from tossing and turning and took pictures.

17. A delicious one hummed during sex. Okay, that one isn't so bad. I want to keep that memory for the good file. There are other things with him that piss me off--like us being friends once, or so I thought, and now we aren't because of the naked night together. That was a good night though. I long for the day I have that kind of chemistry again.

18. The salesman . . . Salesman talks ALL through it. Seriously. Why in the name of god would you talk so damned much? Honestly, it kills the mood.

19. Larry the Carpenter from Ireland. Apparently, sex with me was so awesome he wanted to marry me. There is a Genevieve shaped hole in South Boston on his account.

20. Back to Deflator Mouse. One night he said "You can call me Tim, if I can call you Faith." As in the country singers. Probably wouldn't have been so bad if we hadn't been in the middle of it . . .

I should stop now. I think this entry is foul enough.

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Things that cross your mind

First, I axed the Social Spark experiment. Not really into being a product junkie.

Onto the things that cross your mind and the things that you just need to "get out" there to get them out of you.

Why is it that assholes and players can be the best lovers? Seriously, the best one I've ever been with doesn't want me. Hell, I have a track record of Dudes not wanting to be seen in public with me. No joke.

It is funny how we think we have time. That there will always be another shot, and that we can still be that one we let get away. I always thought I would. We evolve, revolve, and know mutual friends. I always thought. Guess I was wrong. Dead. Fucking. Wrong. You don't think a single year is enough time for someone to permanently move on, so to speak. A part of me thought the late night dialogue would come true, and that we would finally--after all of these years--give things a try.

In light of my having Lupus and my family's history how will I find someone? Let's face it, having a sick (or what everyone but me sees as sick) girlfriend isn't the ideal. Then, if she has a sister who is a schizophrenic, and uncle of the same (but lesser on the scale, so to speak), and a brother who killed himself several years back . . . Yup, run now if you may. For the record, I generally just say the sister is bi-polar. She is. I just don't disclose much. I'm private like that. I am also practical because people will turn on you on a dime.

On that note, I have a beach date with a gal pal today. I am officially dating this lovely city because men have not been good to me, in a parody of the Johnny Cash song "Love's Been Good to Me." It has not.