Yowza

Tonight is the last night of my Turkey Tot Hotdish Extravaganza away from work and the real world. My nonsexual soul mate has been attached to my hip since Tuesday evening, and we've been setting the Dakotas on fire, that's fo sho. I've had more Bud Lights in my system these past few days than I have during the past 10 months combined, and amazingly, I've lived to tell about it. She flies back to her homeland tomorrow, and I'm already dreading the impending silence that she'll leave behind. No more belching, name calling, and creative cursing. Sigh...

Tomorrow night at this time, I'll be curled up on my couch in the fetal position with my phone back in my hand, texting my life away to my favorite Texan Two-Stepper, wondering where the time went. Internet friends are the new black. Everyone should have one.

A Merry Maid

Yesterday was a big day, folks.

My dear friend, Aimee, asked me to be the maid of honor in her September, 2007 wedding. Naturally, she asked me via text, and I responded via text, because that's how we roll.

It's going to be a swanky affair - sounds like me and the rest of the girlies are wearing black. I'm fucking pumped. My hurr is on the grow, and Operation: MAID OF HONOR BODY will start in March. Until then, I'll rely on my loose stool via Adderall to keep my figure in line.

I've gotta search the internet and poll my friends to see what Maids do. I know I'll hold flowers, straighten out the dress, throw some parties, and give a stellar speech, but I've gotta see what else the job entails. I mean, I don't care if I have to wipe her ass, I'm there. This is a huge honor, and I can't wait to strut down the aisle right before she does. Hell yeah.

Textual Healing

I love text messaging. If I could have a device that was only good for typing words to my friends and family, I'd snap that sumbitch up in a heartbeat. Screw voices and volume and sound and tone and all of that crap - I just wanna type.

I've always been a bit of a wacko when it comes to phone calls. Even back in high school, I had certain friends who I would have considered my BEST friends who I never talked to on the phone, because I was too nervous to call their house and have their dad or brother answer. Why? Who knows. I especially hate calling people whom I've NEVER talked to on the phone, because I don't know what to expect - are they full of pregnant pauses and awkward silences? Will they talk a mile a minute and never let me get a word in edge wise? Will I catch them at a bad time and sense the annoyance in their voice? I hate it, man! Stuff like that actually brings out the loose stool in my innards. No lie.

I love being able to shoot random one liners out to folks as well. Nothing makes me happier than being able to share the play by play of a bowel movement with my friends and family, via a two sentence message sent through the Verizon Wireless airwaves.

The manfriend and I love to text, too. I've always been annoyed with couples who call each other a minimum of 15 fucking times a day, just to check in or talk about something completely unnecessary. Get bent! Instead of doing that whole "what are you doing/nothing/what are you doing/nothing" exchange, we can zip each other a simple message like, "No time for a shower this morning. Lots of wet wipes. I'm disgusto magnifico." Or, "My farts....wow! Wish u were here!" I mean, why sandwich the good lines between all of that other conversation filler gunk? Might as well get straight to the point, even if the point is farts and wet wipes.

I wonder what's next. Technology is always one upping itself, so there's bound to be something far more spectacular than words on little screens making it's debut before too long. Scent messaging? I hope not. I'd disconnect my service and hook up a land line faster than you can say overage charges. Maybe someone will finally invent a cell phone that comes with a remote. I'd lock that sucker on vibrate and call myself until my minutes ran out if I had something like that. Hells yeah. Don't pretend you wouldn't turn your Motorola Razr in for a fine piece of machinery like that.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go tickle my keypad. Emmitt Smith just won Dancing With the Stars, and I need to blow up some phones.

Close Fucking Call

I took the opportunity today to have my buzzard plucked, seeing as how Veteran's Day was being observed and I had the entire day off. And, well, seeing as how TOMORROW is the actual Veteran's Day, and I'll be saluting my wonderful veteran, I figured now was a good time to get my wax on. It's the least I can do to show my appreciation for his effort at protecting our country, ya know?

I cruised on up to the salon, eagerly texting him to announce that Operation: Vagina Freedom was about to commence, and strutted my freshly showered self into the lobby. All was right with the world as my 'beautician', Jane, escorted me back into the top secret world of bush waxing, and had me grab a seat as she prepped her room for the return of my cho-cha. Well, as I rounded the corner to plop my ass onto a piece of couch, there stood the mother of two of my high school friends, and immediately, my heart plummeted to the bottoms of my old school Nike's.

Immediately, I turned the tables and struck up a conversation about having the day off and loving my government job and the weather and her plans for the day and the Vikings and gas prices and Thanksgiving and Britney Spears and country music and anything else under the sun that would prevent her from asking me WHY EXACTLY I WAS AT THE SPA. I guess I could have stuttered and spat and stumbled and said that I was just getting my eyebrows waxed, but seriously, who goes to the spa for that and only that? My pulse raced and my palms sweat during our entire two minute conversation, and I'm pretty sure the heavens opened and I heard angels break into chorus when she said she needed to use the bathroom. Phew! SAVED!

Don't get me wrong, I'm not ashamed of having a hairless wookie, but I'd prefer to broadcast that fact to strangers on the internet as opposed to people I'll continue to see until one or both of us expire. Well, now, that's not true. I DO talk about it in person with my friends and confidants, but I don't think a woman who has known me since elementary school needs to have a visual of what's going on with my genitalia. Ish. If word got out in my hometown, they'd probably think I'd joined a sex offender cult, and that I was earning extra cash by shooting porno movies. That's just how folks roll over in that neck of the woods.

I made it out of the spa a little lighter and without having to utter the word "Brazilian" to anyone other than Crazy Jane, and for that I am thankful. My piss flaps have their game face on again, and tomorrow they're going to salute the shorts of one very randy soldier. Happy Veteran's Day, all.

Heard

Me: "Fuck. My thumb STILL smells like an onion, and I haven't touched one since Sunday."
Mom: "Rub them on some stainless steel. That'll take the scent away."
Me: "Right. How the fuck am I supposed to do that? Go to Sears and rub on some of their appliances? I don't have stainless steel just LAYING around."
Mom: "Fine, bitch, then stick it in some vinegar. You've got vinegar. And, when you're done, you can douche with your thumb. Stick it right in there and DOUCHE YOURSELF."

Honestly. I'm ready for the camera crew to show up ANY day. Reality television doesn't have SHIT on my old lady. Good fucking grief.

Adventure? It's never lacking.

The soldier and I went to Target the other night so that he could load up on all sorts of odds and ends, and so that I could buy a single, solitary can of mushrooms. His list started out pretty normal - laundry detergent, freezer paper, cold medication, pizza cutter - standard purchases, but things got a little wacky when he told me he needed to buy tampons.

My hunk of man meat had apparently spent a few too many hours in his tree stand in the freezing fucking temperatures before DAWN, looking for deer, because at some point, adding tampons to his hunt became a good idea. No, no, no, you sick fucks, he isn't going to lure in a buck with the scent of a nasty period, he's going to soak dismantled torpedoes in deer piss and hang them from his tree.

Seriously.

The tampon hunt took a sizeable amount of time, like five whole minutes, which is LONG when you've got a seasoned tampon rider at your side. The soldier initially wanted to spend his hard earned war dollars on Kotex, but I quickly pointed out that the Target brand of cotton ponies was MUCH cheaper. Twenty regular absorbency crotch rods later, the soldier was a happy man.

He hasn't had a chance to launch his newfangled bait just yet, but hopes are high that he'll be able to breathe new life into the world of feminine hygiene, by the way of a deer slaughter or two. Now, that's my kind of guy.

Almost 28, and it's the first time ever.

So, today, November 2nd, 2006, I had lunch with my BOYFRIEND. Yep, you fucking read that right. I left my professional job, where I have my own office, to have lunch in a RESTAURANT with MY boyfriend. Wow. Lots of those words have definitely been under used in my vocabulary. But, I definitely like how all of them sound. Oh, wait wait wait. I've got a few more words to try out.....

Last night, I made homemade pizza in MY house for MY boyfriend, and then we sat on my couch and stuffed our faces and took turns belching LOUDLY, and it was fucking great!

The weather here on the prairie is beating my ass up. My knuckles are cracking and bleeding, my mouth looks like the god damn Joker, because the corners are cracked and dried, and I've been snorting snot and crud from nose to throat and then out of my mouth all week. Who's hot? I'm hot! I even spit some of that shit out of my window today while I was driving, after my new kick ass co-worker encouraged me to do so. I'm pretty sure it's frozen on the side of my ride, but whatev. That shit's in style in these here parts.

So, updating is minimal, but life is good, bloody knuckles and all. Stay tuned. I'll be around.