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Archive for the ‘Books’ Category

I have no other explanation for this period of months since Meat Halo (where I left off) where I’ve run around like a mad woman in a demented dash to scare up a “mate”.  I haven’t written in so long that I kind of forgot who I talked to here in my word cave.  Lately, I feel like I’m coming off a bender until I realize strangers around me are also behaving more rabid.  On two separate occasions I’ve even witnessed random acts of public vomiting.

The first was outside our apartment a couple weeks ago while my roommate and I waited meekly for our ride to Nerd Nite[sic].  One of our dear neighbors, a lady if you can refer to her as such, spewed a perfect cherub fountain stream of puke while opening her car door.  Surprisingly, her passenger wasn’t alarmed in the slightest.  Together they climbed inside the vehicle shutting opposite doors in unison and drove away.

The second was on my birthday run around Lady Bird Lake last Saturday.

Sometimes I like to jog just behind someone who looks like they know what they’re doing.  I judge this based solely on their matching exercise attire and chiseled physique.  While I know this makes me sound like a shallow alien, for all you know that could be accurate.  This specimen in particular looked like a milk chocolate covered Bodyworlds Exhibit.  I could see literally every muscle on her frame and I was intrigued (read: hungry)!  We must have just hit the two-mile mark over the wooden bridge when she made quite a hasty departure to the right and blew chunks through her hand, in between her outstretched fingers, and directly into the forest.  I know it’s hard not to read this next part in a Forrest Gump voice, but I just kept on running.  Before you say I should have stopped, I’ll let you know she later lapped me and then some.  She’s fine, okay.  She does it all the time!

As I was saying about that series of relationships, they didn’t end with Meat Halo.  There have been a couple more worth sharing, but each sort of deserve their own time in the sun… like a dying grape becoming a newborn raisin.

Here are some things Meat Halo may or may not be privy to:

The evening before he departed on the train, his brother, mother, and I stood together shooting the poop in the parking lot outside my home.  The conversation ended with a round of hugs and when his mother got to me she whispered into my ear, “You should have dated my other son!” Only it was more of a gravelly voice at regular volume than something spoken softly with very little vocal cord vibration to prevent being overheard.  I don’t know why, but I expected something more discrete from someone who had just farted on me in public a few days before.  Neither brother gave me a visually disturbed clue that they noticed what was told , so I never said anything except to a few friends and now the entire Internet…nternet…ternet…net.

Yeah, it’s hard to type in echoes.

I’ve had some wine, so I just in poor taste typed and deleted the next sentence, “I’m a bit of a pussy lover…” remembering quickly that my dad reads this and for that reason I have a difficult time writing what I could never say out loud with him in the same room.  What I meant to say is that, “I love cats…” I have a cat named Mr. Bill.  Proof!

Meat Halo wasn’t able to bring his cat, a fluffy white snow demon named Gibby, with him to NYC initially, so I agreed to foster her until his brother (the one their mother thought I should have dated) was able to deliver her a couple months later.  This was all fine and dandy until we split up a couple weeks later.  Then the cat’s sixth Hellraiser sense kicked in, and she began puking (more puking!) and crapping (!) from one end of the apartment to the other.  I could not deal and neither could Mr. Bill, so I arranged to have Brother retrieve her.

Sounds easy enough, right?  Step one:  Pick up cat.  Step two:  Remove cat from premises.

So Brother arrived to do just that.  That evening, I opened my front door wide enough to see that their sister was in tow, too.  Awesome.  And before I thought there couldn’t possibly be a more awkward number of his family members crammed into my home I nearly close the door on their mother.  Gibby was agitated at the mere sight of them and KNOWINGLY bolted to the tippy-top of our Ikea bookcase.  The Swedish designed the thing to house flimsy, boiled down paperbacks, not to also serve as a protective beast fortress.  It teetered to-and-fro and gave life to the potted, fake plant on top.  Plant scooted closer and closer to the edge as their mother stood below telling the cat how simply rude she was being.  Good point.  Talk her down.  I also thought she was being rude, but I guess I’m just not that confrontational.

Naturally, this never worked.

Eventually, his brother and sister swatted her down and she ran directly into my bedroom and onto my  bed.  They tried covering her with my blankets while I stared on in horror, frozen in the doorway.  She then whizzed a steady stream of kitty tinkle all over the damn place and howled into the night like a hairy, possessed lawn sprinkler.

It was then that I heard his mother say, “Brother, take off your belt!”  “Mom, WHAT?!”  “TAKE OFF YOUR BELT!”  And then he actually began to take off his belt to I don’t know, wrangle it?!  I finally came to my senses and told everyone to get the FUDGE out of my apartment and that we could try a new tactic another time.  “EVERYONE KEEP YOUR BELTS AND YOUR PANTS ON, PLEASE!  I NEED TO GO TO SLEEP!”

I hope that was the first and last time I have to tell someone to literally keep their pants on.

I kept Gibby safe and sound for the next few days until just Brother came back.  I’m not kidding, he walked through my door this time with a GIANT NET and a GIANT CAGE I can only assume was meant for Sasquatch quarantine.  Harpoon nowhere to be found, hrmph.  Thankfully, by that time my roommate and I had already cornered her politely behind the toilet and tackled her (gently) into the cat carrier with the help of our magical, humane woman powers.

Up Next:  How I almost moved to Baltimore to live with a guy who wanted to marry me in the Peabody Library while I dressed as a banana and he wore a gorilla suit.

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I’m way overdue for a brain dump.

Meat Halo left Austin for school in the Big Apple a couple of weeks ago.  I didn’t want to mess my big girl pants in the midst of our big league, Hollywood goodbye that morning, so I opted for an organic vanilla milk for my breakfast beverage instead of a coffee.  My dad and I share many traits, some of which I wish I could politely return like my penchant for the band,  Rush, laughing really hard at my own jokes, and stress related bowel issues.

There’s a laughable trend lately where my goodbyes take place at none other than the “TGI Fridays of Southern Italian Food”, Buca Di Beppo.  I had my leaving Charlotte dinner there, too.  It’s large party friendly is mainly why, but also because it’s the only Italian restaurant in town(s) where you can order an oversize mixing bowl full of tiramisu.

I sat next to Meat Halo’s mother at one end of the table, opposite of his siblings on the other, and scooped favorites onto my plate from what seemed like an endless parade of bowls.  That many bowls made me slightly tense.  Let the record show that I’m diagnosing myself right here and now with a mild case of Irritable Bowl Syndrome.

At some point I was awakened from my food coma by a heated argument regarding one of those pesky amendments.  Luckily, Meat Halo’s mom had a pocket constitution, SURPRISE, not in her pocket.  That’s not important, and neither are the amendments (in the context of this tale)!  As she slowly leaned to the side to retrieve said item from her bag we were not only met with evidence to support and possibly settle the argument, but also with a copy of the not so widely regarded… pocket constitootin’.

*insert “FWERP” followed by silence*

It was the kind of flatus that one of my favorite non-fiction works, Farts: A Spotter’s Guide, refers to as “The Long Goodbye”.  The button for this one in particular on the battery-powered fart machine attached to my copy is no longer operational because I’ve pushed it one too many times.  I mean because of the batteries blah and how they don’t blah blah hold a charge like they used to blah.

My Vulcan mind melding techniques must be super rusty lately because Meat Halo didn’t receive the one I sent him in which I compressed a very long explanation of why it would be less awkward to ignore the fart than it would be to address the fart and run away from it.  Before I knew it he’d grabbed the purse from the back of my chair, threw it over his own shoulder, and shot out his hand into mine.  It was just on the cusp of Terminator’s “Come with me if you want to live!”

Wait, what?!  Are we dining on a land mine?  Is this an authentic, Sicilian, flammable gingham tablecloth?

I’m pretty much the world’s worst actress, and my improvisational solo piece titled:  I Didn’t Hear a Goddamn Thing and All I Smell Is Penne Arrabbiata turned out to be a bona fide flop.

I followed him into the hallway where he continued to wear my purse and I muffled laughter and attempted to focus on the situation at hand instead of my fellow restaurant patrons just behind him gathered round a table where Pope Benedict XVI’s head spun around in the center of a lazy susan packed with spaghetti and meatballs.

We hugged it out, returned to the table quietly and calmly, never to speak of it again (until I asked permission to tell a small chunk of the internet).

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Did you know that trees have something called a crotch angle?  I can’t read about them without snickering.

“If removal of a “V” crotch will destroy the shape of the tree, you can leave it in and add artificial support using cables and hooks.”

I think I’ve gone to bed at night hoping I’ll awake less awkward for over twenty years now.  Just when I think I’m getting the hang of it that dainty, towheaded girl from the gym wants to talk to me about books again and my tongue is too busy curling itself tightly around my brain (like a boa constrictor) to speak or gather my thoughts.

It released its death grip long enough for us to discuss starting a book trade and I brought her my selection the next day.  I spotted her on my way out and nimbly made my way over.  

Okay, I’m lying.  I was so inexplicably anxious to hand it off that I handled the thing like a hot potato.  And I walked on searing coals to get there.  Did I say “ooo, ahh eee” out loud!?  I can’t be too sure. 

I’m in the middle of Ann Rule’s The Stranger Beside Me and I’m worried she’s going to ask if she can borrow it next.  I think I’ll tell her that I’m sorry, but my copy smells like Bradford Pears. 

(In so many words, a “v” crotch.)

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I hover between delighting in conversation with other women at the gym and being completely, mentally chafed by it. 

A couple weeks ago a real looker of a blonde-y asked me what I was reading as I was hard at work huffing and puffing and blowing my way through a cardio session on the elliptical.  While I took a few hours to catch my breath (I was a Texan, teenage, Marlboro red smoker)  she offered, “I’m always looking for a new book!”   

Something about the way she was beaming up at me from the treadmill really caught me off guard.  She never broke her stride and I can hardly turn a page without belly flopping off of the machine.

Here’s my winning reply:  “It’s good!!!”  I should capitalize that because I did sort of shout it as I flashed her the title quickly, but it’s almost too embarrassing (even for me) to share that part.  She smirked and looked away. 

Instead of turning the next page with a moistened fingertip I wiped my forehead and pruned the following pages with a handful of nervous sweat.  

It’s too bad Amazon doesn’t carry my next read  in anything other than paperback.  I was going to request it on toddler vinyl with more pictures.  Wait, maybe less in this case. 

Product Description
It’s difficult to love a woman whose vagina is a gateway to the world of the dead.
 
Yeah, tell my boyfriend about it. 

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