America's Next Top Dildos

Summary haiku:
New York is "famous"
for dating Flava Flav. And
that is your prize. Ew.




Chaos broke out at the "I Love New York 2" house tonight. Oh, what a delightful evening of trashy television!

There was grabbing, pushing and one contestant even hucked a giant loogie at another guy. As usual, nothing but class. Although I am torn as to what is more disgusting: the loogie, or watching New York allow random losers to suck her nasty-ass feet and groaning with pleasure as she makes out them each week.

Seriously. Who are these losers that want to date her?

Then again, even though she's a hooch and possibly a he-she, why would she want to date any of these ridiculous asshats that have been cast? And therein, lies the entertainment value.

Anyway, I know lose IQ points every time I tune in, but I can't help it. I will redeem myself at 10 p.m., when I watch the bright, intelligent "Weeds" on Showtime.

To close, a quote from New York, who was mortified that one of her dates included a mud bath: "It's not a place where a woman who wears a weave and fine jewelry should go."

John Deere, the babysitter

Summary haiku:
Sometimes, I wish I'd
used a rubber. So I use
lawnmower nanny.








Far be it from me to judge someone's parenting skills, especially when I have no children of my own. However, today I saw a scene that struck me as, well, pretty fucking ridiculous. And dangerous.

I was out walking the dogs, working on the stuff we learned at dog class this morning. We rounded the corner to a loud motor, a yapping canine and squeals of delight.

I look down the street and see this: A little girl, who couldn't have been older than 9 years old, driving a John Deere riding lawnmower at a speed that I didn't even know lawnmowers would reach. She was weaving in and out of her yard, going down the middle of the street, then pulling a quick u-turn and going back the other direction and over the humps of her yard.

Three smaller kids -- maybe ranging in age from 3 to 5 -- were in a red wagon which was tied with a rope to the back of the lawnmower and careening around behind it. The younger tots were laughing and giggling as the wagon bucked and swayed during its travels over cement surfaces and grassy declines.

As if this isn't disturbing enough a scene, there was a Jack Russell terrier (no leash, of course) rabidly circling the mower, barking its head off. The erratic child driver almost hit the pooch numerous times in the process. She was so close to running him over, I fully expected to see a Jack Russell pancake by the time we reached the end of the block.

And all I could think was WHERE IN THE HELL ARE YOUR PARENTS?

"If it has shoes the cover, I know you'll read it."

Summary haiku:
Am I really that
shallow, or does my husband
just pay attention?





Yesterday, Kyle was on his way out the door, on his way to a library clearance sale where they were getting rid of extra books: Everything you can fit in one (giant) box for $10.

He said he'd try and find some stuff for me, too, but he wasn't entirely sure what I'd like to read. Then, after a pause, he said, "I'll just look for anything with a shoe on the cover. If it's got that, I know you'll read it."

I laughed really hard at his joke -- but mostly because it's true. I guess that's what happens when you're with someone for more that 7 years. Two of my favorite reads are "In Her Shoes" by Jennifer Weiner and the (somewhat horrifying) fairy tale, "The Red Shoes" by Hans Christian Andersen.

So Kyle called me after he was done and said he'd scored about 15 books.

"Did you get any that weren't about sports or being a black man in America?," I asked. And he starting cracking up. Because you know what? I know his reading habits, too.

In the end, he also knows my passion for fiction and true crime novels, so he did pick me up a few offerings -- none with footwear on the front. But if they're no good, well, they were only $1.25 a piece.

My closet runneth over

Summary haiku:
Accessories have
the power to raise me from
coma. Hellz to the yeah.



I was super tired earlier -- too tired to write -- but I just got this spurt of energy, to which I credit two recent purchases.

I just got two really awesome things. Things that have improved my life times one million.


These boots were only $36, and I love, love, love them! They're from a great local store, General Eccentric. They're man-made leather, but seriously... why pay $200 for leather pewter boots that are more novelty than everyday shoe? And in person, they look really expensive. Our fashion director at work thought they came from some chi-chi boutique. Score! Can't you see Prince romping around stage in these?



My other purchase was this gorgeous Michael Kors mega-bag, which I won last week on eBay. It retails for around $370, and I got it for less than $100. Brand new, still had tags on it and it smells delightfully of fresh leather.
I sold a bunch of stuff on eBay (a pair of shoes, a Puma jacket, a Wilson's Leather organizer/briefcase) in order to buy it, and it was so worth it! I got rid of stuff I probably would have just given to Goodwill, and got a gorgeous bag in return. Every time I look at it, my heart skips a beat. It goes with everything and it's so well made.

Oh happy day!

Happy Halloween weekend!

Summary haiku:
What happened to smart
costumes? Anyone can
do the sexy nurse.





Archie and Lucy wish you a very spooky day!









Halloween is my second favorite holiday, so it is with great sadness that I'm sitting it out this year. I had every intention of dressing up. I'd even talked Kyle into doing a couples costume -- we were to go as Dog the Bounty Hunter, and his wife, Beth.



But we procrastinated getting costumes together, and then The Dog Incident (Dog, as in Archie, our Jack Russell Terrier, not Chapman, the bounty hunter) happened. (More on that later.) That made it virtually impossible to get it together in time.

Instead I reflected on some of the fine (and not so fine) Halloween costumes I've had over the years. I wish I had pictures of them all, but memories are powerful enough to get me by.





Wonder Woman. Not the Lynda Carter bustier-plus-panties outfit, but the appropriate-for-a-six-year-old version that my grandmother made by hand. It was a fabulous white top with red trim, worn with a blue skirt covered in white stars. Of course, she also handmade awesome bullet deflecting bracelets and a headband. Grammy was an amazing seamstress.




Raspberry Tart. Another masterpiece by Grammy, except this one was an exact replica of the real thing. It was fantastic!











A school of sperm. This was an ill-fated idea we had in college. Four of us dressed up in white tights, white shoes and white garbage bags. We used another white garbage bag to cover our heads (except for the face, obviously) and we shredded more bags to create flagella, which trailed from all of our butts. We all wore a sign that said "Seminal Swim Team." But it didn't really work once we all got seperated at the party. People would see one of us and go, "What the fuck was that about?"




A Smurf. One year, my friend Michelle and I rented costumes. She was Smurfette and I was a Smurf. The costumes were head-to-toe and hot as hell. The heads were enormous and made it impossible to drink any beer, which is the point of dressing up as an adult, isn't it?

We were out with a group, and of course, ended up at different parties. Drunken chaos ensued. At Michelle's party, a crowd on the dance floor played volleyball with the Smurfette head. The next day, with a hangover, we spent some time trying to unravel her blonde dreadlocks before returning her to the costume shop. The blue tights had runs in them. Ergh.

But more importantly, that was the year we learned that heads and masks were a terrible idea.

A cavewoman. This costume was actually pretty awesome. Comfy, tough, functional. I wore camel colored, knee-length dress with a jagged bottom and animal print trim. I ratted up my hair like crazy and put white plastic bones all inside the 'do. Also, I grunted a lot and carried a plastic club. Having a prop is fun, as long as it does not impede your ability to drink, which this did not. (Somwhere, I have a picture of myself clubbing a 6'5" man dressed as a nun, but I can't find it.)



Powerpuff Girls. This is probably my favorite costume I've done as an adult. It wasn't my idea, but I went along with it when it was suggested by Danielle. We made the outfits ourselves and they turned out pretty freakin' great, I think!

I'm baaack

When I promised myself I'd be religious about flexing my writerly muscle on this blog, I fully expected to follow through. However, weird and long hours at work, playing tug-of-war with the pets and watching crap like "I Love New York 2" and "America's Next Top Model" easily distracted me.

Besides, only a few people know about this blog, so there aren't many people to hold me accountable.

Anyway, I'm trying it again. And hopefully, it goes better than my repeated attempts at establishing a regular workout routine, which also seem to ebb and flow despite the daily glimpses of flab I see each time I pass by the mirror.

Unfortunately, I'm too fried to post anything of substance at the moment. A 6 a.m. to 2:30 p.m. shift will do that to a girl. But tomorrow is a brand new day... and I have plenty of random thoughts about house hunting, The Dog Incident and what I will wear with my new pewter boots.

For now, off to bed to dream about giant goblets of expensive red wine and when we will finally get a king sized bed that comfortably accomodates me, Kyle and the pets.

I beg you, think before you send

Summary haiku:
If your email
is longer than this, please
don't send me that shit.


So, I just had a lovely week. I was off work for a 7 days, my mom was in town and we ate, drank and shopped. It was relaxing and fantastic and great to see mi madre.

But how quickly the serenity wears off. I only worked Wednesday-Friday, but it felt like a week. Probably because it took me that long to filter through all the email. Not just the spam. But the email from people I know. Friends, family members, even.

PEOPLE WHO FORWARD TONS OF ASININE EMAILS ARE ASSHOLES. I mean, who really does that, right? A lot of motherfuckers, as it turns out. Forward or not, I am constantly surprised at the things people send out to multiple recipients. When I open my email, I should not have 23 messages from the same person, sent on the same day.

But can you really block these people from your email if you're related to them, or they're your friends?

Here is a list of things I'm interested in having forwarded to me: Pictures of cute shoes. Mullet haikus. Links to your online vaction photos (I like to live vicariously). And the periodic dirty, grimy joke. BUT -- and this is of the upmost importance -- these emails must be short. If they can't be read without scrolling down, please keep that shit to yourself.

I never want to see any of this again: Forwards about Jesus, abortion, the $25 that Bill Gates is supposedly giving away (it's a hoax, people!!!!). Ghetto prom pictures, terrorists, rednecks (except, again, the mullet haikus... send those), etc.; inspirational quotes and long-ass narrative stories that end up being about God. (I don't have anything against religion, but I'm just sayin': I don't need 35 messages a day about it.)

Also, please do not send messages that include any of the following: "It's girlfriends week! Thank you for being a wonderful girlfriend," "Please forward this to the person who sent it to you and ten other people," "I'm a walnut tree, what are you?"

Sure, pressing the delete button is easy. But I sure wish I didn't have to. If I'm really a wonderful girlfriend, send me a card in the mail. I'll put it on my mantle and cherish it.