Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Pregnant pause, fast forward and stop

(Reposted from my old blog. New blogs coming soon!)

Well... I spoke with Turbo.

No, no, no, not about that!

It turns out I'm not pregnant. I just have issues with stress, and...

... okay, bloating. I don't want to get into that right now.

I found out in the ER at St. Joe's. Courtesy of While You're Down There, Doc.

That's the name of the routine Suki and I have developed to compensate for the fact that the temp agency offers really sucky health insurance.

We'll give each other a cut or a bruise, nothing major, or we'll get something lodged somewhere - you don't need to know the details - and we'll rush one another to the emergency room.

While the doctor is stitching or swabbing or--gah--extracting, we'll say, "While you're down there, Doc, could you also look at this?"

I don't recommend the practice if you're not cute and a girl. There are definitely advantages that come with that combo.

Also me and Suki have stopped doing it now that we've found out that emergency room treatments aren't free.

Don't let it be said we didn't go out on a high note: "While you're down there, Doc, could you see if I'm pregnant?"

He did, and I wasn't.

Oh, anyway, back to Turbo.

I hunted that fucker down to make him pay for removing the scratches from the door of my Hyundai. With trying to hire new girls, I've been even more strapped for cash than usual.

We met down in Hollywood, at that same In-N'-Out where we had our little rendezvous.

And NO, we didn't do it again.

Okay, we did mess around some, but that's not important...

He refused to pay to fix my car door. At which point I was ready to zip him up and tell him to go fuck himself, but then he surprised the hell out of me.

He made me an offer for the Hyundai. Twelve hundred bucks. Okay, yeah, that wasn't much, but I was desperate.

Plus the car really was a piece of crap.

So I finished what I was doing--which took way too long and I think may have aggravated my repetitive motion disorder--got Turbo tucked in and squared away, and had him drop me off at the subway station at Hollywood and Highland.

Which was a complete circus. I should have had him take me to the station at Vine.

Have you ever tried to negotiate the sidewalk around Hollywood and Highland? It's like some Third World bazaar! Only instead of people getting in your face and trying to sell you rugs and gourds and crap, it's people in shitty superhero costumes getting in your face and trying to make you hand them money for looking retarded.

I was still in my stuffy work clothes, which made things worse. Pantyhose and suits do not mix well with hot sun and pushy crowds.

I didn't just feel clammy. I felt like a clam.

The first obstacle I had to get past was the guy drumming on the big plastic pails.

I get migraines enough when it's just the clamor of my own thoughts deafening me. I don't need any outside help.

Don't get me wrong, the guy's great at what he does. He just happens to have honed a talent that is head-splittingly annoying.

Then I had to push my way past all the bargain basement superheroes, cheesy movie mascots and celebrity impersonators.

Let's see, there was a Superman, two Batmen, a pathetic Hulk with green bodypaint over a beer belly, four Captain Jack Sparrows, three ugly Marilyn Monroes, a seriously faded Spongebob, a puffy Iron Man--he was new--and a Supergirl who looked like she may have been pushing fifty.

Oh, and an idiot wearing an AC/DC shirt with a Butt-head mask. (Jesus, does anybody even remember Beavis and Butt-head at this point?)

I didn't see him at first. In fact, I almost tripped over him.

As I was pushing my way through this cavalcade of freaks, I felt something brush past my leg. I thought it was a small dog or--knowing Hollywood--a large rat.

Then I tried to take a step and felt something literally grab at my ankle.

I looked down, and there was Butt-head on all fours. Clutching at my leg, pulling at my pantyhose and trying to get a look up my skirt.

I kicked him as hard as I could. Which was apparently pretty hard, because his rubber face scrunched up and blood started to drip from his nose hole.

There was a big scuffle, and some cops were called over.

Long story short, I almost got myself arrested.

Turns out Butt-head wasn't a pervert at all. He was on his knees looking for a dropped contact lens.

I felt awful. I offered to pay the guy's medical bills, but he said we'd be square if I treated him to a cup of coffee.

His name is Roger. And with the big rubber mask off he's actually kind of cute.

Well... if you can get past the swollen, bloody nose.


Love you! See you all soon!

Fat Tuesday

(Reposted from my old blog. New blogs coming soon!)

Sorry again about the infrequent updates, but I've been really sick.

Nausea, light headedness, irritability, changes in appetite...

The kicker came Tuesday, when I was getting dressed for work.

Wriggling into my pantyhose has never been such a chore. And they squeezed my stomach in so much it almost hurt.

I thought for a second that I had bought a size too small, or grabbed a pair of control top pantyhose by mistake.

No such luck.

Once I realized that my skirt was fitting tight and that my blouse wouldn't button all the way down, I realized my clothes weren't the problem. My belly was.

Oh my God, I thought, what if I'm pregnant?

Given the timing of it, the only real candidate would've been Turbo. The greasy biker from the In-N'-Out parking lot.

That was too horrid a thing to even consider.

God, I don't know how I'd handle it if I found out I was carrying Turbo Jr.

At first I didn't even think I had Turbo's number, but then I noticed he'd scratched it into the door of my car. Classy, classy guy.

And even though I'm staunchly pro-choice and Turbo is a living argument for Roe v Wade, I'm also a lifelong Catholic girl weaned on copious amounts of guilt and shame.

So I don't know what the hell I'd do if I really was pregnant.

I told Suki about it and she got all excited. Which was the last thing I needed.

There are times when you need your friends to be happy for you and there are times when you need them to be miserable for you. This was one of the latter.

At lunch, I grabbed Suki and made a mad dash to the nearest drug store to pick up a home pregnancy test. Then we made a mad dash back to the office so I could run to the restroom and see what the story was.

Wriggling out of my pantyhose proved even more problematic than wriggling into them had been. The waistband had formed an airtight seal against my belly.

I was vacuum-packed!

The only thing left to do was--and there's no way to put this delicately--pee on a stick.

Unfortunately, all my pent-up anxiety was making it almost impossible to go.

I ended up having to turn on all the faucets in the restroom, just so the sound of all that rushing water would "put me in the mood."

That didn't work, because all the faucets are those hand-activated ones like you see in the movie theaters. They only turn on for a few seconds and then automatically stop.

I exhausted myself half to death running around and waving my hand in front of each faucet and then doing it all over again just to keep them all going.

Finally, with the clock ticking and scant seconds to spare before the end of my lunch break, the floodgates let loose. For some reason, thinking about the Loch Ness Monster is what did the trick.

I quickly did what I had to do, but then I realized I still had to wait two minutes for the results!

What were the results?

I'm still not sure!

The indicator was supposed to show a plus sign if I was pregnant and a minus sign if I wasn't.

It didn't show either!

What it did show looked like something halfway between a plus and minus sign. Sort of a short, squat capital T.

Just when things couldn't possibly get any worse, the restroom door burst open and there was the Alien Queen. Eyeballing me and the pregnancy test in my hand.

She didn't write me up for being late back from lunch, but there was an extra layer of weirdness between us the rest of the day.

And I didn't even know what to tell Suki.

All I know is I'm still feeling dizzy, nauseous and fat.

Whether that's due to an expanding fetus or an addiction to street vendor burritos remains to be seen...


Love you! See you all soon!

Things that stick

(Reposted from my old blog. New blogs coming soon!)

Sorry I haven't blogged much this week. Life continues to kick my ass at every turn.

First of all, and worst of all, my piece of shit Hyundai keeps stalling out on me. It's even happened on the freeway a few times, which scares the hell out of me.

I probably should get rid of the damned thing, but I can't afford another car right now. Or anytime soon.

Work has been hectic. It's performance review time, for perms and temps alike. And not only do I have to get ready for my own, I've been put in charge of scheduling everybody else's.

Meaning I have to go around and deal with EVERYBODY in the office. Including Ugly Eric, Grabby Matt, Princess Bitch, Pharmacy Phyllis and Sticky Pete (EVERY time you shake this guy's hands they're sticky, swear to God).

And oh yeah, lucky me, it has me working very closely with the Alien Queen.

Every time I think I have the schedule set, she gives me another reason to change it. First she wanted it alphabetical, then she wanted it boy-girl-boy-girl, then she wanted it by seniority, then she wanted it by position in the company.

Now she wants it by all those things, cross-referenced with their unused vacation and sick days.

Speaking of which, I haven't been feeling that great. Retched my guts out this morning when I got up. (Ooh, sexy.)

As I went around the office today, every single person - male, female and whatever - was staring at my legs. To the point where it was seriously creeping me out.

My first thought was, is everybody in the world suddenly one of you pantyhose freaks? (No offense, you know I say that with affection. You guys keep my lights turned on.)

Then I got panicky, thinking word had maybe gotten around about my website.

Which would be a complete frigging nightmare. If my temp agency caught wind of it, I'd be sunk.

I hate temping, but it's the only game I got.

It was Suki who finally told me to look down. Duh.

I had nicked myself shaving this morning, and didn't realize the cut had kept bleeding.

By late afternoon when Suki brought it to my attention, the blood had pooled up, soaked through my stocking and dried. I say "dried" but it was still pretty clammy and sticky. (Sticky like Pete, clammy like Icky Irene.)

On the verge of tears, I ran to the bathroom.

When I tried to take the hose off, I found that I couldn't. They were stuck to my leg.

I ended up having to hoist my foot into the sink - no mean feat - and splash water onto my leg.

Anyway, I got dizzy and passed out.

I woke up, it must have been three hours later. It was dark out, the office was quiet, there wasn't a soul around.

Nobody have ever bothered to look in on me. Not Suki. Not Alien Queen. Not even Bathroom Break Betty, who pees about a million times a day.

Suddenly, I heard this KA-THUNK coming down the hallway. There was a pause, kind of a muffled SPLOOSHING sound, then another KA-THUNK. This one louder.

All I could think was some machete-wielding maniac was stalking the halls, dragging a heavy body behind him and pausing now and again to hack another piece off it.

I have a weird mind.

The sound drew really close, so I freaked out and ducked under a desk.

I'm an idiot.

It was Herve, one of the maintenance guys, wheeling his bucket along and mopping the floor.

He must've thought I was a freak, huddled under the desk, wild-eyed and wielding a letter opener like a knife.

And oh yes, with a pair of bloody pantyhose dangling from one leg.

Herve took me down to Dan in security, who let me out of the building and opened the parking garage for me.

Dan's kinda hot.

Never mind that though, I've gotta get to sleep (seeing as it's almost time to wake up).

I am going to give Suki so much hell tomorrow...


Love you! See you all soon!

It may look like cotton but it sure ain't candy

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That's what a hamburger's all about

(Reposted from my old blog. New blogs coming soon!)

Even though we were tired from auditions and shoots, me and Sook did our usual club thing this weekend.

Our mantra, as always: get hammered, get laid, get sober and get the hell home.

To be honest, I'm finding less and less appeal in the whole routine.

It's a great deal for Suki. She's fueled by fun.

It's not that she doesn't make emotional connections. She just doesn't need them to be deep or lasting.

I kind of envy that. Because what I want seems so unattainable that I'm beginning to doubt it exists.

I want love, God damn it. With all the trimmings.

But the harder I look for it, the less evidence I see that there is such a thing.

I'm beginning to feel like a disillusioned Bigfoot hunter. Going through the motions because it's all I know how to do, but not really believing in the beast I'm pursuing.

Speaking of beasts, that's all there were at the Whisky last night.

I didn't even want to go there, just based on the name. I'm still getting over Whiskerbelle.

Anyway, that place was dead. As was the House of Blues. And the Roxy.

It was like it was Disgusting Knuckle-Dragger Night on Sunset Boulevard.

Even Suki couldn't find a guy, and she has notoriously low standards.

We did end up hooking up with a couple of bikers in the parking lot of the appropriately named In-N'-Out Burger.

I'm just saying this once: NEVER AGAIN.

No more greasy strangers. No more anonymous hookups. No more awkward, painful car sex choreographed to the music of jingling chains on a dusty leather motorcycle jacket.

No more guys who won't take their boots off and who answer to names like "Chazz" and "Turbo".

In short, no more nights that make me feel like pimping pantyhose is the LEAST sleazy part of my life.

Speaking of which, I think Turbo - the one I got stuck with - might have had a pantyhose fixation of his own. He certainly spent a lot of time pawing and tugging at mine.

And when he drove away, they were knotted around his handlebar.

Which sucks because they were nice, expensive ones. Not cheap ones like I waste on you guys (no offense).

I don't know why it is every Saturday night has to end like that. They all start out promising.

Maybe I need to watch my alcohol intake.

The lovely tramp stamp I staggered home with would seem to suggest so.

Swear to God, I'm going to make one too many trips to the tattoo removal clinic one of these days and they're going to laser my ass completely off...


Love you! See you all soon!

Beware of the Blob

(Reposted from my old blog. New blogs coming soon!)

I nearly gave poor Sook a heart attack last night.

I was still sore all over from my tumble down the stairs, so I made a bunch of cold compresses by stuffing silicone breast implants into old pantyhose legs and sticking them in the freezer.

When Suki walked in the apartment she saw me lying on the couch, buried under a pile of what must have looked to her like swarming nylon squids.

The way she screamed, you would have thought she had seen The Blob.

That's right. Suki believes The Blob is real.

And the thought of it absolutely terrifies her.

Growing up, her third or fourth stepfather--I can't keep them straight at this point--was watching THE BLOB, the original Steve McQueen version, with Suki on some Saturday afternoon movie show.

He told her it was based on a true story, and that the government hushed the whole thing up to prevent a widespread panic.

He was an Air Force man, and claimed he had info on pretty much every top secret operation you hear the conspiracy nuts talking about... Area 51, Project Rainbow, Project Blue Book, Roswell.

(Don't you dare ask how I know the names of all those things.)

Anyway, even after Suki grew up and found out her stepdad was nothing but a grease monkey in the Edwards Air Force Base motor pool, she continued to believe the story he'd told her.

I found her shrieking in my bathtub once because she saw a glob of conditioner puddling up at the edge of the shower drain and swore it was The Blob coming up through the pipes to kill her.

She's not a well girl.

After Suki's initial shock last night at seeing me swarmed over by space alien stocking blobs, she started pulling them off me and slamming them against the floor.

Kind of brave, when you think about it.

It was like she was possessed. I've never seen Suki so violent.

She was pounding and punching and wrestling with those funbag-filled pantyhose like they were alive.

And maybe they were. Because they were kicking her ass.

Suki collapsed on the floor in a tangled-up mess of stretched-out stockings and ruptured silicone sacs.

And I laughed so hard I ached over every inch of me...


Love you! See you all soon!

March of the pantyhose penguin

(Reposted from my old blog. New blogs coming soon!)

I overslept this morning.

I was up late last night, reviewing the audition tapes.

I don't know. I'm having such a hard time narrowing it down to just a few girls. But that's all I can realistically afford.

MORE than I can afford, if you want the truth.

It's awful.

I'm having to reuse coffee filters.

I'm relying on Popeye's Tuesday night 99-cent two-piece chicken special to provide me my meals for the entire week. Heaven forbid they ever raise the price to a DOLLAR.

I may have to start siphoning gas soon.

That trip to Target the other night set me back big time. "Stocking up on stockings" may be the thing that ultimately drives me to bankruptcy.

Between work pantyhose and "work" pantyhose, I'm hemmorhaging money all over the place.

The damn things run the first time you put them on.

And half the ones I bought the other night are two sizes too small. I tried on a pair, and was only able to pull them up to my knees.

Ooh, sexy.

Just then, of course, the phone rang.

I had to quickly waddle across the room, penguin-style, and literally leap for the phone.

Stubbed the fuck out of my toe.

Picked up the phone on the last half-ring. Completely missed whoever the hell it was.

But that's okay, because just then my building's fire alarm went off.

I barely had time to throw on a robe and frantically waddle out the door.

I raced down the hallway, as best I could manage.

Okay, I wasn't racing so much as hopping.

And stumbling. And tripping. And falling. And scrambling back to my feet.

Followed by more hopping.

I must have looked like I was losing the potato sack race at a No Nonsense company picnic.

The best part was trying to negotiate the stairs.

Let's just say I was on the losing end of those negotiations.

I tumbled end-over-end down the staircase, banged and beaten up every inch of the way, until I collapsed in a heap on the landing.

By the time my landlord Habib found me, I was shivering in the corner, balled up in a fetal position and crying my eyes out.

And still wearing those goddamn pantyhose around my knees.

He literally carried me back to my apartment and layed me down on the couch.

He's a good guy, when he's not hounding me for back rent.

Which he did IMMEDIATELY after asking me if I was okay.

I found the strength to get up and push him out the door.

Then the phone rang again.

It was the Jehovah's Witnesses. Asking me just what the hell I'd done to the girl they sent around the other night.

I didn't have the time or energy to explain or argue.

Long story short, I now have a subscription to The Watchtower.

How the hell I'm going to pay for it, who knows...


Love you! See you all soon!

Broomhilda

(Reposted from my old blog. New blogs coming soon!)

I tried to return my ruined skirt to Target.

You know, the skirt I spilled coffee on when my car slammed into the mountain of fake boobs on the freeway?

Anyway, for some reason - I don't know why - the (extremely hairy) customer service lady didn't buy that the stain was already there when I bought it. And that I was SHOCKED to discover it when I got home.

Given how every piece of clothing I buy at that place ends up getting stained by food, bird poo, motor oil, glue, juice, soda, blood, vomit or overexcited boyfriends with bad aim (don't ask), I think I've figured out how "Target" got its name.

I have a Target just up the street from me, and my favorite cashier up there is this stringy haired woman who looks like she should be lurking under a bridge and scaring billy goats.

I never notice the name on her name tag. I just call her Broomhilda.

And, in a weird way, she kinda reminds me of Whiskerbelle.

This woman can smile at you ear to ear and still make you think like she's sizing you up for a Hefty bag. And wondering how snugly you'll fit in the crawlspace under her workshed.

Best of all, she's covered with warts and has this gigantic, bloated head. And she has watery, droopy eyes. And this super ruddy complexion that makes it look like she got piss-drunk one time and STAYED that way.

She's always really gruff and irritable when she's ringing people up at the express register, and it's a crackup to watch.

I like to imagine her suddenly blurting out, "Hurry it up, will ya, ya little candy asses? Yer cuttin' inta my drinkin' time!"

She's squat and square and has a very rugged build. I bet she's a good bowler.

And handles a mean chainsaw.

I tried to sneak through the express lane last night with about fifty pairs of pantyhose last night. Big mistake.

I'm sorry, but if it's all the same exact product then it's ONE item.

Unless you're in line in front of me with about a million jars of baby food. Then you can go to Hell.

But come on? Fifty pairs of nylons? That's NOTHING.

Scan one and hit the "times fifty" button. A monkey could do it.

But monkeys apparently possess skills that psychopathic drunken lady trolls lack.

Broomhilda was thrown by the fact that some of the stockings were control top, some were sheer to the waist, some had reinforced toes, some were sandalfoot, some were nude, some were tan, some were beige, some were black... like any of that shit makes any difference.

Pantyhose is pantyhose. Just ring 'em up and be done with it.

Broomhilda kicked me out of the express line and made me move to a regular register.

That really hurt my feelings.

I thought she and I had something special.


Love you! See you all soon!

Boobs on the road

(Reposted from my old blog. New blogs coming soon!)

Hooray!

There was a huge traffic pileup on the 101 this morning and I ended up being an hour late for work.

A medical supply truck overturned and spilled its contents all over the freeway.

Cars were skidding and sliding into what looked like an eight foot high pile of dead jellyfish.

Turns out it was about 5,000 silicone breast implants.

Gotta love L.A.

When I finally did drag my sorry ass into the office--with McDonald's coffee spilt all over my brand new skirt--the Alien Queen was waiting for me.

With murder in her beady eyes and corrosive bile dripping from her savage mandibles.

Okay, she's not THAT bad.

I exaggerate for effect.

She did write me up, but I've gotten way past the point where I give a crap.

I've got over a hundred write-ups tacked to the wall of my cube. I'm thinking of turning them into some kind of artistic decoupage.

Maybe I'll let Suki do it. She's the creative one.

Sook and I did manage to work a little fun into the middle of our day. During lunch and on our breaks we went up on the roof and invented a game called Fake Boob Dodge Ball.

That's right. Mine was one of the cars that slammed into that eight foot jellyfish pile.

And I was damned if I was gonna walk away from the incident empty handed. I grabbed about two dozen of the faux jugs and hightailed it outta there.

You'd be surprised at the uses you can come up with for those things. I mean, beyond their obvious utility as paperweights.

I got a migraine late in the day, so I stuck one of the implants in the freezer and used it at as a makeshift ice pack.

It worked GREAT!

Suki suggested the opposite and said we should put one of them in the microwave and use it as a nice, soothing heat compress.

Note to you folks at home: don't EVER do that.

Let's just say our poor little test jellyfish met with a rather explosive end.

I don't know why, but it made me think of Whiskerbelle for a second. And I got sad.

Maybe we left it in too long, or used too high a setting. We put it on "POPCORN" but never figured the thing would actually POP.

All I know is if and when I can finally afford my own set of Robo Cones, I'm giving microwave ovens a wide berth. I'm just going to pretend I have a pacemaker and not go anywhere NEAR the damned things.

Alien Queen later asked us about it and we just told her Dickie in Accounting did it. He's weird, and paranoid, and used to being blamed for shit.

He should be, by now. He's our go-to fall guy.

We're bad. I know.

The office needed a new microwave anyway. I swear to God that one was leaking radiation all over the place.

I think it's what gave me my migraines.


Love you! See you all soon!

Holy Holy Holy

(Reposted from my old blog. New blogs coming soon!)

Went to Easter services this morning. Ugh. Yet another occasion that requires the damn pantyhose.

Put my big toe right through them, which was lovely.

Lovelier still was the fact that I didn't even notice until I was at church.

Suki had already given me a lot of shit about wearing open-toed shoes with hose, but what was I supposed to do? It's spring.

And anyway, they're called sandalfoot for a reason, right?

Yeah, believe it or not, I actually convinced Suki to go with me. Which made it a little more fun (if you can call church fun).

Father DiIorio looked at me funny through the entire mass, and acted like he was delivering his sermon directly to me. Surprise surprise, it was the one about Jesus washing the feet of the whores.

Wasn't I just talking about that the other day?

Anyway, I can't say I was shocked, given what happened last week.

I went and did a stupid thing last week. During confession, I told Father about the site.

I didn't plan to.

I just ran out of sins and there was this long, awkward pause. I can't abide an uncomfortable silence, so I blurted it out.

Plus I'm a people pleaser and I could tell Father was disappointed with my sin tally. I usually bring a lot more to the table.

Well, I practically BROKE the frigging table with the website revelation.

I'm STILL not done saying all the Hail Marys he assigned me.

I am enjoying a little payback though, in that I can tell it's absolutely KILLING him that he can't tell anybody.

Still, it creeps me out that I'm suddenly Father DiIorio's personal Mary Magdalene.

He's not coming anywhere NEAR my feet, that much I can tell you.

I may be done with that parish anyway. After what Suki did.

Let's just say Suki's not much of a churchgoer.

She didn't know what the holy water basin was for, so she right away assumed it was a drinking fountain.

After looking in vain for a knob or a spout, she figured it must just be a basin for freshening up.

And she DID!

Oh my God, I was mortified.

Well... her face is now safe from vampire attacks. I guess that's something.

Also, Suki is by nature a very loud chewer.

Which isn't that huge a deal until she's sitting next to you and chewing a COMMUNION WAFER during a moment of SILENCE for our troops in Iraq.

Bad enough I had to make her take out her chewing gum earlier. She still had it in her hand during the "peace be with you" handshake!

Oh! My! God!

But oh, it gets worse.

Much worse.

When the basket got passed around, Suki thought they were handing out some kind of party favors. So she pulled out a handful.

We came home with $87 of other people's church contributions.

We are going to HELL.

Who'm I kidding? I'm already there.

I stayed a little bit after mass to do the obligatory mingling and watch all the Easter festivities.

Even though the deacon in the Easter Bunny costume was wearing a big phony mascot head, I could tell he was ogling me all during the Easter egg hunt.

So I looked down and saw why. After all that standing, sitting and kneeling, I wore two huge-ass holes through the knees of these cheap frigging pantyhose.

If I didn't look like the Whore of Babylon at the beginning of the service, I sure did by the end.

Anyway, the Easter Bunny ended up slobbering so much that the drool backed up in his big fake head and he almost drowned right there on the spot. Paramedics came and the guy had to be rushed to the emergency room!

GOOD. Serves him right.

Anyway, me and Sook are home now and ready to relax.

We're ordering a couple of pizzas and some Cokes with our collection basket money.

Hell, here we come.


Love you! See you all soon!

Feet are nasty

(Reposted from my old blog. New blogs coming soon!)

I honestly don't get the whole "feet" thing.

Especially after watching the news last night.

Mayor Villawhatever and a bunch of city councilmen were washing the feet of the homeless.

I'm sorry, but... ewwwwwww.

I mean, I'm not crazy about feet in general, but homeless people feet?

Don't get me wrong, what the mayor and those guys did was a wonderful, decent, charitable thing.

But still... ewwwwwwwww.

I mean, not only must their feet stink like rotting cabbage and old cheese, but half of those homeless guys have gotta be diabetic. Which means their feet are covered with open sores, ulcers, pustules, gangrene and crap.

Ugh. And they all have those jagged, thick, yellow, fungusy toenails that look like they could slice your throat open with one good kick. Scary.

I don't mean to be mean. I do feel sorry for those people. I just have a hypersensitive Ick Factor.

According to what the news said, this is something the mayor and city council do every Good Friday.

... oh, shit.

Yesterday WAS Good Friday, wasn't it?

And I spent the whole night working on the site.

I'm for sure going to whatever Hell they reserve for L'eggs-clad dildo lickers who peddle internet sleaze on the day Jesus died.

I'm going to have to go to EVERY Easter mass tomorrow. Including the Spanish one.

And say about a bajillion rosaries between now and then.

God damn it.

I suppose I should stop taking The Lord's name in vain, too. But one thing at a time.


Love you! See you all soon!

Whores get all the breaks

(Reposted from my old blog. New blogs coming soon!)

I'm not finding a lot of time to grieve Whiskerbelle.

Tonight, we begin auditioning new girls. So I'm steeling myself for the parade o' pantyhose I've got ahead of me.

Speaking of which, I was in a hurry getting dressed today and put on the wrong stockings.

I spent the whole morning thinking I was wearing a regular pair of black hose, but Sook just pointed out to me that I have glittery seams running up the backs of my legs.

No wonder everybody's staring at me like I'm the Office Temp Whore.

And let's face it, that title's been taken. (No, not by Suki.)

There's this girl Bianca, she just started a few weeks ago. But she's already been under so many desks she's earned the nickname Head Secretary.

And surprise surprise, guess which temp just became a perm?

That's one way to do it, I suppose.

I've been here six times longer and worked ten times as hard, but just because I don't give...

I know what you're thinking. But Bobby in Human Resources doesn't count.

First of all, he was middle management.

And second of all, I felt bad for him. His wife had just died.

At least that's what he TOLD me. That cheesedick ass rat.

Trust me, girls. Nothing good ever comes of pity head. (Suki told me that should be my epitaph. One of many reasons I'm not letting her plan my funeral.)

Anyway, back to the whole audition thing. I'm not entirely sure I'm happy about expanding the site to include a bunch of new girls. And I know Suki hates the idea.

But Suki's a big diva. She wants a lot of face time.

Hey, she's got a lot of face.

Sometimes I just want to punch it in.

You guys don't know what it's like to have a best friend so gorgeous and so full of life that she makes you go invisible in a crowd.

Suki's my sidekick. I know that. She knows that. But the rest of the world sees it the other way around.

It's really hard sometimes. Sook does her best to be a good Wing Man whenever we go out, but all the good guys glom onto her and I'm left with nothing but dregs.

Suki says I actively seek out the dregs, but I don't think that's true. I pick out perfectly great guys. They just all turn out to be assholes and losers.

I hope these girls work out tonight. And the money really starts pouring in. If I could earn enough to bump my way into a better social class, I bet I'd meet a better class of guy.

Or at least, you know, RICH losers and assholes...


Love you! See you all soon!

Poor old Whiskey

(Reposted from my old blog. New blogs coming soon!)

I'm sad today.

I just got a call from Jay Edgar back home.

Whiskerbelle died.

Whiskey was my cat growing up. Since I was about seven.

Whiskey didn't much like people, and I'm pretty sure she hated me. But I loved her to pieces.

Story of my life.

We had her twenty years, but it's hard to say how old she really was. She was already a full grown cat when my dad found her.

He'd been called out for a tow and he found Whiskey curled up under the hood of the stranded car.

The car's owner swore she didn't know how Whiskey got there, but Dad wasn't sure he believed her.

Anyway, he brought her home. I tried to play with her. She bit me.

She bit me pretty much every time I tried to play with her. But that didn't stop me.

I was always braiding her fur, and tying little bows in it.

I never could get them out.

We had to shave her bald at least ten times, and the last time she stayed that way.

She was missing at least one toe on each foot. I never could get a proper count because she wouldn't stop squirming.

She was blind in one eye. The blind eye was glazed over and gray, and her "good" eye was this hideous blood red. She didn't have any eyelids either, so even when she was sleeping it looked like she was staring at you and quietly wanting to kill you.

She had asthma real bad. And would make this horrific whiffling, wheezing, metallic sound that would echo through the house at night. Sometimes I imagined it was Death himself trying to whisper my name through a mouthful of broken glass.

Apparently my whole family had the exact same thought. And they each heard their own names being spoken. Funny, huh?

For all that, she was my kitty. And I loved her.

In the end, she didn't go quietly.

She used to like to hide in the branches of the tree on the front lawn, jump down on the mailman's head and claw the crap out of his face.

I don't know why he never saw it coming.

Anyway, he never reported it. He was a longtime pet lover and animal rights activist, and he didn't want the authorities to step in and have Whiskey put down.

I guess it happened one time too many though, because he finally snapped.

Like a million other times before, Whiskey leapt out of the branches, claws extended, the fires of hate burning hot in her bloody good eye.

But this time the mailman spun around, drew a handgun and shot her mid-air.

Jay Edgar saw the whole thing, and said it played out like a slow-motion alley fight in a Hong Kong gangster movie. He's weird.

Afterwards, the mailman collapsed to his knees on the front walk and cried his eyes out for a good forty-five minutes.

I don't have any anger toward him. He's a good guy.

But I do miss Whiskey

I tried to tell Suki about it, but she couldn't relate. The only pet she had growing up was a skink.

I'm not even sure what that is.

Oh, but get this.

Jay Edgar found out about the pantyhose site.

But he's cool with it, and he's promised not to say a thing to Mom and Dad. He loves me.

And anyway, I've got so much dirt on him he wouldn't dare...

Whiskerbelle, R.I.P.


Love you! See you all soon!