Murphy made me his bitch

Murphy and his damn law ate my lunch and dinner today.
It was one thing after another after another horrible gut wrenching thing today.
It started this morning: lemme lay it down for ya:
1. Went to get my gym bag from my car to find a bottle of tea in a glass container had exploded everywhere – thus creating a huge amount of glass shards in my favorite gym bag. Hmm, how to clean that early in the morning as my ride waited for me in the driveway – nope not gonna happen. So I run down the hall to get my back up bag – crisis averted.
2. As I was running down the hall, I step in fresh cat puke. Mmmm, it’s warm. And it squishes everywhere and sticks the bottom of my leather dress shoe – yippy. I run outside and wipe my nice shoe on the welcome mat trying to extricate the brown mush that was, just moments before, in my cat.
3. At school, something has obviously died in the heating vent above my desk, and every time the heat flares and blows on me, a monstrous whiff of dead animal floats to my nostrils and assails my sensibilities. The constant spraying of Lysol isn’t even enough to hinder the stench from overtaking my senses and producing my automatic gag reaction for an hour straight.
4. Right before lunch, one enterprising student thought it funny to bash two other students’ heads together – creating a need for me dive headfirst into enough paperwork that even the best office space geek would drown.
5. At lunch, my microwavable tomato soup explodes in the mircrowave. I gotta clean that up – there goes my 20 minutes for lunch and my bathroom break. Ugh.
6. Fifth period, we have a fire drill and the kids are in the middle of a big test. I’m already testy (see above) and exclaim way too loudly – SHIT. The kids all start doing the “oohhhh” chorus and then as soon as we get outside precede to tell the rest of the team, teacher said shit. I’ll get phone calls on that one.
7. I ride to work with my ex, and arrange another ride home because I feel I’m a burden to him because I know he prefers to hang with his new girlfriend, my former best friend. I have a deep-seated soul hatred for her, and he isn’t far behind. So when I tell him I have another ride, he dares to snap at me that “we’re not playing those games.” Excuse me? You’ve been screwing me over with your games for the last three months.
8. After a craptastic day I stop at Starbucks to get a jolt of caffeine to make it through the rest of the night. I sit in the big beige chair to watch some news and sit the coffee next to me on the cats’ climbing toy (you see where this is going?) the cat decides to jump on his toy at the same time – spraying me and the chair in black coffee – that shit stains.
9. Frustrated, I think, hey a nap. Yes, let’s bring this day to a quick end. So I sleep for a few hours, and the phone wakes me, it’s my mother and I happen to glance at the clock 640. I freak, thinking I’m late for school, obviously I’m outta it, so I shower and start getting ready when it hits me – Uh Friday night, not morning.
10. My computer takes a crap. Almost literally. Some about.com crap fills my screen about a thousand times. I’m ready to hurl the laptop through a window.
Is it Saturday yet?

So here I sit sipping on some red – ready to inhale the bottle in hopes to really pass out and get it to be Saturday – in a hurry. Three hours left to go – only god knows what hell could happen in that amount of time.

Goin' way too fast

I was hanging out with my cousin at a popular spot along the river one hot summer day, eons ago (read: I was young and stupid) at the river in the town where I grew up. Everyone hung out there, cuz, well, it was the place to be. We would traditionally park our vehicles up on the hill and trek about 100 yards to the river.
As such, we coudn't really see who was showing up until they ambled down the bank to water. On this particular day, there were about 10 of us there from my high school. kickin' back, tossin' a few, swimming. The usual teen bullshit when there's nothing else to do in a miserably small town. Before we knew what had happened, a group of losers from a rival high school, a county away, had decided to crash our hangout - because what else are you gonna do if you're a teen and don't have a river to hang out at and you know you can cause trouble elsewhere?
The invading marauders started shouting insults and whatnot and created an annoyance. Now, my cousin doesn't really appreciate when I would get into fights and drag him into - oh, he'd fight, but at heart he wasn't as mean as me. So, as I was amping up the verbage - I knew the football players through mutual sports - the other kids were gathering up their stuff because escalation was in the air. Finally, my cousin had to physical drag me screaming epitahs about their school colors and what our mascot would do with his cock to their bird mascot.
We trudged back to our cars, Im steaming - but apparently the visual image of the bird taking it in the arse is too much for Mr. Muscles, he follows my group to our cars. Mr. Steriods is parked behind my speed wagon and leans against his piece of shit Honda CRW or X- I think that's it, this was back in the early 90's. It was a small little car - two doors.
My cousin has the doors open to my vehicle and is hissing "Straight, (not my name) get in the damn car." I can't. It's personal now. He said I suck at basketball and instead of shooting suckass free throws I should give him free, um, dates. (still not orginal even today.)
I toss all my crap - beach towel, suntan lotion, cooler_ on the ground and yell my favorite slogan "Bring it." He's all like I'm not gonna hit a girl. That pisses me off. Then the light bulb goes on so bright it hurts my eyes to even think.
I pat the side of my dragster and give his car a condescending look - wanna settle this on the road? All my friends stare at me in disbelief, and his friends bellow in hilarity. So Mr. Muscles ask - what are the stakes? Hmm. I think - easy - I date you if you win and if I win you come to one of my games and wear my school colors and cheer for us.
Deal. Sucka
We pull up onto the road, which is a nice straight-away used for racing anyway. I know the layout better than him - he's so toast.
We line up, do the whole rev your engine male ego testorone crap - then we're off. Im faster at take offs, mainly because I cheat, but, eventually in a short distance he catches up to me - no problem. As he passes me, smokin' me, actually he does the lewd tounge in cheek motion for a blow job - I smile serenely as a local cop pulls out behind us - lights blazing. Mr. Muscles looks ready to hurl.
Cop drives by me and pulls over the rice burner. I wave as I pass - still going 70-ish - I reach the finish line first. I win.
I also cheat like hell cuz I don't lose. It doesn't hurt knowing where cops who are your relatives sit and know what your parents' van looks like and you know they're gonna be waiting there because they told you that when you picked your cousin up at his house two hours ago.
Mr. Steriods looked cute in my school colors as he cheered my team on at the next game.

Bumps in the Night

The old adage about things going bump in the night is so true. My imagination is full of things that go bump in the night. Especially in a dark house, along a lonely road, with a big backyard filled with trees, shrubs and other shadowy scary places bumpy things may be lurking.
There is the classic bumpy noise – the strange noise from the living room. It’s a creaking nondescript noise. It doesn’t belong with the normal creaks in the house, the groaning settling noises the house makes that you’re used to. No, this is abrupt, sudden, and all is quiet again. It’s loud enough to wake you from a sound sleep and a perfect lovely dream involving some hot as heck movie star and a deserted beach. But it’s too late – something bumped and now you’re up, laying in bed, wondering if it’s really worth the effort to crawl out from between the nice warm covers and check it out.
Another bumpy noise that I hate is what I like to call “the voice.” Again, you’re sleeping – because bumpys only happen when you’re asleep and they wake you – and you hear someone talking or someone, usually a male voice, says something in your ear, or whispers gently from across the room. It’s not loud enough to be discernable, but the volume is sufficient to rouse you from your slumber. For me, when I hear “the voice” my breathing stops, my heart beats erratically in my chest. I try to listen almost to the point I invent noises to hear, to listen, to see if I really heard someone whisper my name. I’m dying to turn on the light, but terrified to move in case someone is in the room. Maybe it was just a dream, I try to rationalize. Good luck going back to sleep.
The bumpy noise that bothers me a little more than most is the one where I’m in the realm of half-sleep, half wake, and my eyes are open, and I see . . . something. A shadow where none should exist, a movement where there is no light, a breeze of air when the heat is off and the windows shut. Something brushes against your skin – ever so light not unlike a feather tickling the skin. Or, the covers rumple slightly and you didn’t move under them. I try not to think too much about these.
And of course there is always the outside bumps. The one that’s been getting me lately is the scratching noise against the side of my house, right under my bedroom window. It’s not the sound of footsteps, but more that of an animal rooting for foot, snuffling around against the clapboards. Of course, then there are the human bumps outside in the dark. The footsteps too close to the windows, the loud drunken laughter in the blackened backyard, the sound of the outside closet door opening and shutting as someone walks around on your deck.
Yeah, I’m really tired of the bumps in the night. Maybe that’s why I don’t sleep anymore; I’ll do without if it keeps the bumps away. Or I lubricate my senses with healthy doses of alcohol to dissipate the ability to feel and hear and see the bumps. Also, lots of lights and loud music tend to chase away the strangeness in the night. If only it could be day all the time. I’m never gonna sleep tonight now. I would be better off not thinking of such things before I fall asleep.

Snow - ICK

It snowed. I got the first snow day of the year. Probably will be a snow day tomorrow as well. Three inches and ice tends to shut down roads very effectively. I’m not complaining. Well, yes, maybe I am.
I left the house for about 45 minutes today to get some pictures of the thousands of birds eating lunch at the feeders. That was kinda cold. Especially when the snow landed on my neck, uncovered from the scarf which I just can’t seem to find in the closet that is jammed with way too many coats, gloves, mittens, boots, random athletic equipment, Christmas decorations that have never seen the light of day, and ancient vacuum cleaners (it’s the closet where things go to die).
I walk back inside, happy to be out of the cold, take two quick, dance-like steps inside the kitchen door and pirouette like a prima ballerina because the cat was staging an all-out assault to get out of the house and I had to protect the gateway to the promised land. It’s snowing for pete’s sake cat. What are you thinking? But he wasn’t able to have sane thoughts any longer; animal instinct flowed through his veins and I was what was blocking his escape to the home of his ancestors – my big backyard. A feral snarl ripped through his teeth as he crouched ready to explode into my body – tear me to shreds so he could fulfill his feline destiny and reign supreme as tabby of the neighborhood. I had one hope, one salvation that would save me from bite and scratch marks – “Here, kitty, have a treat.” It calmed the beast within him, long enough for me to shut the door – crisis averted.
All the excitement with the scary tiger-beast, now a purring gelatinous mess happy to have his kitty num-nums, left me addled for a second. And it was that second that did me in like a tray of warm, sugary, frosted doughnuts and a room full of hungry football coaches. I took the third step away from the kitchen door, on the now sopping wet, snowy tiled kitchen floor, and because I had to yet separate my aging body and frozen stiff body from my snow-covered tennis shoes I began to dance.
Imagine a frozen block of ice on ice skates maneuvering over a chasm filled with pointed rocks and sharp metal edges – yup, that was me. My legs took on minds of their own – not unlike the strange mechanical arm things that kidnap the reason and brain of Doc Oc in Spiderman II – and flailed wildly through the air – I would have pissed myself at the comical figure I must have presented but instead thoughts of hospitals and traction machines and sheer boredom filled my mind. By the pure effort of sheer will, I slip and slid and flail myself to the kitchen counter and latch on, till my feet find purchase on dry floor. I mutter a few oaths and kick my shoes off in disgust.
But wait, there’s more. On the kitchen counter that I grasped wildly at – in hopes of not breaking leg bones or my ass (I have actually broken my ass) – I slap my hand blindly on the counter, and managed to land it on the paring knife I left on the counter from last night’s dinner. It seems to have stuck in the soft, fleshy part of my palm. I gaze numbly at the knife sticking out from hand, and groan as blood begins to seep around the cut. Cold water, large bandages, a shot of whiskey, and 25 minutes later Im good as new – but determine to never the leave the house when it snows again.
All the while, my cat is sitting in the middle of the floor, sanguine, and content cuz’ he got his treats.

Get the damn knife outta my back

I do try to not be a violent person. I make efforts to control my fighting tendencies. I enjoy the freedom of pugilistic endeavors as much as the next heathen, but to ball up my fists and smash them into the face of a person I used to call a friend, and who is more than 70 pounds lighter than me and a way girly girl – so not my style. I enjoy the manipulative type of tactics not unlike a honeybee seeking the best honeysuckle flower in the spring. Destroying a person’s mind and crippling their resolve is more my style; although the urge to wrap my fingers around her puny little neck and squeeze until I heard the last bit of breath escaping her lungs while none had gained entry was once a daily thought I entertained; but being of a sound intellect and not wanting to spend the next century in prison, fending off the nightly broom handle attacks, I resisted that urge till it burned off like morning dew under a hot June sun.
Now, I just seem to lose my ability to think and handle stress when I’m around her too much. The fact that the person who jammed a butcher’s cleaver into my back and twisted teaches only 50 feet from me is like a slow parasite burrowing its way into my soul. I see her, and am torn between the former friend feelings and the violent urge to destroy her will to live.
So, that brings me to today, regardless of the constant rumors of how she and my ex are all but living together (and, yay me: I haven’t once driven by either of their places to determine if this rumor is true.) and how they are always all over each other, it was the big unveil.
It was a school-wide assembly; and, I knew all eyes would be on both her and I when we were seen together since the first time it all came out about two weeks ago. I made sure to not walk into the gym at the same time as her, to avoid the scene it would cause, and instead walked in late – head high, past her without a glance and handled my business with the kids. I laughed, enjoyed the assembly while she graded papers and was, in general, a cold-hearted bitch.
Afterward, word got back to me that the general agreement amongst the teachers, as apparently they had all observed our actions during the assembly (as if I had expected less), and the comments most oft repeated were “I don’t know how she can keep from beating her ass.” “She’s got great self control, how great is that?” “What a slut (not meaning me).”
I’ve decided it’s time to go take back my dignity with great force from the empty vastness within which it has been hiding.

Finding my muse

People come in and out of our lives so frequently it’s hard to keep up with who is important and who you can let go into the mist of the past. At the time they all seem significant, but sometimes it’s you who is the one that matters.
You never know the impact you’ll have on a person, or vice versa. Maybe it’ll hit 10, or even 20 years down the road when all is bleak and dawn is far away and you’re in desperate need of something, a little glimmer of inspiration – then something that person said or did pops into your head and there is some light, well enough to get you through what’s hunting you down.
Sometimes, the impact of a person on your life is immediate and visceral and they don’t even know how vital they are to your life. The sad part is most people don’t have the guts or the will to tell the other person what they mean to them. Sometimes humans are too afraid of the emotional fallout of telling someone how they really feel. But what happens when that person leaves; bounces out to another life. You’re left standing in shock, feeling like a part of you has been torn away. And you were too stupid to make that person understood what they did for you.
Yeah, it may or may not be time for them to leave, but they did, and the tears flow, leaving stains on your clothes, cleaning little spots on your laptop keys, and you are a better person having known them. In some cases, that person knew how to push all your buttons and was a muse, or maybe while they were around that person was pushing you to be better, to reach a higher plane of understanding. Or maybe you just needed a shoulder and he/she was there at the right time.
In most cases we get what we need, rarely do we get what we want, and on those very rare occasions we get what we both need and want; even if for a moment in a lifetime. That moment can carry you on for years, and provide a level of comfort when times are bleak or the bullshit piles up.
Then there are the other times when you enter someone’s life. You have no clue why you’re important to them, because, again you don’t get the feedback or information you need to be what that person needs, so you stumble blindly through their life while they want you around hoping you’re feeding them what they want. And when that relationship ends, since you were the one that was needed, the pain may not be as bad. It may not even be more than blip on your radar; but for that person it was the balm needed for the burn or the salve for the gaping wound.
It’s easy to fix non-arterial bleeds – apply a little pressure, a little friendship, some love, and a kiss to make it better. It’s just the puzzle of why that person is there for you or why you’re theirs that tends to bite us in the end, and leaves either the tear stains, smile lines, or a bitter taste in the back of your mouth. I prefer to opt for the tears and smiles; and the rare glimmer of hope that the person who was what you wanted and needed will return one day, and be yours again.

Attack of the Killer Popcorn

“You and me, we got it coach. We got it. Don’t be a doubter.”
Famous last words – yeah, almost. At least the “we” turned into a trey before anyone (me) died from electrocution or being beaten to death as some patron gagged from food poisoning.
My turn to work the concession stand fell on a hapless Wednesday night. No big, I thought as I desperately coerced some of the kids I coach into helping me. No joy there. Only one said he’d show, and I knew I could count on him. But, two people cooking and taking orders and counting up money – nope – not enough. So I fretted to my co-hort and he reassured me, over and over that he and I could do it.
Game starts at 6 p.m., so I go to the stand at 450 to start the process of slapping down some franks on the roller cooker thingy, heating up the pork bbq, microwaving the cheese for nachos, starting the first of about 30 turns of popcorn, dragging out condiments, finding the candy bars, restocking the cooler with drinks, and cooking the chili for the dogs. As I was loading up the 64 frozen dogs onto their cooker, a slow panic loaded into me. There was no way. No way. No way two of us would be able to handle it all. No way two of us would even be able to get everything ready in time for the game.
A bead of freak out settled on my brow as the dogs slowly began rotating on the electric frying thingy. Luckily my athlete showed up early and started setting up the counter and stocking the drinks; then miracle of miracles, another athlete showed up – my athlete had rethought the all out philosophy and asked the new one to come help.
At 550-ish, the asst. athletic director opened us up. People flocked to the concession stand like flies to fresh cow crap. Candy, popcorn, and sodas were the trifecta of choice for those frequently the stand early in the evening.
Around 530, an older crowd started purchasing items; many parents often use concessions for their dinner when their child is playing at night. Soon, orders poured in for nachos and chili-cheese dogs, and bbq sandwiches. As it was my job to “cook” I went to the cheese crockpot and dipped the ladle into the gooey yellow nacho mess glob. Hmm, I thought, it’s cold. Odd. Actually, I said this aloud because the girl athlete came to check on the freaked out panic permeating from every poor. I felt the chili and bbq crockpots, as well. All cold.
Oops.
Forgot to plug them in.
It’s gonna be at least 30 minutes for cheese and the like, I announce to the growing mob of people fueled by growling stomachs. Angry mob time. Here, have some popcorn. Yes, placation.
Time flies serving the masses heart attack inducing fare cooked by someone who once burned water and set off the smoke detector – at the same time. The game starts and I finally have a couple of minutes, between nachos and soft pretzels and jeering comments from students I know, to eat a chili dog – the epitome of crappy fast food ballgame staples. As I stuff my mouth, and feel my arteries screaming in pain, the girl starts screaming and dives to the floor, the boy covers his face and yelps. I hear it before I see it - mini explosions reverberating off the concrete concession stand walls. I do believe I utter the no-no phrase of “What the fuck?”
Then I see it – shards of popcorn sailing through the air. We are under attack. The popcorn maker was taken over by evil entities bent on my school’s domination. The first line of defense, myself and the two hardy athletes realize that we must mount a defense – we all shriek and run into the safety of the hall.
When the explosions finally stop, I stick my head back in the door to find the white-tiled floor littered with hundreds of popped corn kernels. Fun time – I’ll clean that later. I grab another bag of the small yellow kernels and ignore the possessed machine’s grinding noises and commence making another turn.
That bunch burns in 10 minutes because I forgot to remove it from the heat. So I pop in another bag; 10 minutes later, a black cloud wafts from the machine. Damn – again.
A vote was taken by the two high school kids – I was voted outta the concession stand. But, being the adult, I got to override their coup – but I did agree to stay away from the popcorn machine the rest of the night.
Thirty minutes later a father from the opposing team motions me over and hands me a couple of small bolts and washers he found in his popcorn. Oops.
Another thirty minutes and we run out of cheese. No problem got six tubs in the cabinets. Because I am the adult, I get the cheese down and begin to open it with an old-fashioned can opener. Of course I pick the tub that is bent to hell and back and the opener won’t cut through the bent areas. Again with the no-no “What the fuck?”
I turn to the kid standing next to me – I’m not sure who he is, but he has taken to restocking the drinks – here, you do this before I hurl it through the door. He laughs at me – I should figure out who he is at some point. The last thing I see is him taking a pair of scissors to the metal container; two minutes later this new kid is wearing yellow nacho cheese all over his clothes, some is even in his hair. I don’t care so much. I have cheese.
Another thirty minutes pass – a nice older lady orders a bbq sandwich. I go to fix it, and oops, I’ve burned all the bbq pork to the side of the crock pot. No more bbq.
Fourth quarter – I open the oven door and almost cry. There are about 60 wrapped hot dogs that didn’t sell. So much for being proactive and cooking and cooking an cooking. I tell the kids to run and sell them at half price, then when no one else is buying give them away. They came back empty handed – I don’t want to know how many they gave away.
Clean up time. Thank goodness.
Damage estimate:
• One popcorn machine maker
• Two nachos, five chili dogs, six cokes, two Gatorades, four candy bars= what the kids ate gratis.
• Three wasted bags of popcorn (I spilled one on the floor)
• One vat of pork bbq (burnt)
• One glass crock pot lid – oops.

Drug for my Soul

Today I was reintroduced to the most bestest drug ever. I try to stay away from things that chemicallly change my general make up. But, man, I had to have it.

I took just a little to start, not sure if this was really happening. It was. I was hooked. Giddy; giggly even. I don't giggle. EVER. I plunged full in. Head first, committed to totally enveloping every part of me in this perfect high.

I wanted more and more. Euphoric on the high, I couldn't control myself. I shook with ectasy as I felt the chemical change in my system. The rush overtook the logical part of my brain, the part that controls rationality. Before I knew it. I was a kid splashing through a mud puddle sending rivlets of water cascading through the air. My face couldn't contain my smile.

I shuddered with pure pleasure as the high carried me through the evening time. When I finally came down, I was so used and freezing on the inside and out. The drug has suddenly become my internal fire; and now I feel powerless without it in my system.

I'm so gonna get me more of that absolutely wonderful mind and body altering high. I get goosebumps thinking of it now. Mmmmm.

Track season.

Spinning the Bottle

Using one of my handy-dandy empties that seem to follow me everywhere these days, I'm gonna play a little spin the bottle. You know it, the cheap middle school way of conning a smooch off that hot boy you always had a crush on. It's not quite as good as truth or dare (my personal favorite which garnered me several liplocks from the dudes i was too chicken to talk with).
So, let's give it a twirl - hmm, first up:
Truth: I'm plastered watching football and tossing back the usuall adult beverage stuck in the annoying single world of figuring out if the next dude who pm's or chats or calls or texts or who asks me where to find the scifi section in Borders, or who holds the door for me at Circuit City is gonna be "the one" (i laugh, as if that even exists).
Fiction: Aliens are swarming outside my door as i write this, knowing that I am their god and needing my guidance as they plan to take over the world. Just to let everyone know, I will be personally residing in Hawaii - so be nice and I'll tell the aliens to not strap you on the rack and then quarter your lame ass.
Irony: What if Lincoln had been carrying a gun?
Justice: Karma's kicking the ass of a former best friend of mine. I'm childish - but damn pick the same sex when it comes time to battle the genders.
Reality: I want people to stay outta my life because I'm not a people person; but damn if I don't want, really really want certain specific things that will go unnamed unless you already know what Im talking about.
Entertainment: Where are those damn extra AA batteries - the remote has died, again.
Thought: Maybe I'm too cynical and impatient and should chill and let things unfold.
Bullshit: Mmmm, has the softest lips, most gentle and sensual tongue, fingertips that would drive even a nun insane with the light, loving caresses. Gotta go back for seconds for this guy.

Rumors

My entire life I have tried to avoid being sucked into the swirling vortex of insanity that accompanies nasty rumors. It’s that part of office politics that I can’t stand. But, in a school, rumors are the driving force behind the educator culture. It doesn’t matter what the “brains” tell you about a professional learning community; it’s more like a professional gossip community. The rumor mill in a school system is the fastest moving form of viral evil I’ve ever seen or witnessed.
Unfortunately, I found myself in the middle of the most recent maelstrom today. The turbulent waves of hate bounced around me and landed on someone I care for, and someone I’m used to protecting. He may be my former husband, but no one deserves this level of ignorance and malfeasance directed at them.
I arrived at school at 748, and by 9 a.m. a teacher I trust ran to me and warned me that she had just been questioned about an affair my husband may have had before we were separated. I about fell over. I told her to diffuse the situation when someone asked her about it and tell everyone he and I are separated.
But the situation escalated into a run-a-away 100-ton train carrying a load of coal and Waterford Crystal. By the end of the day, I was made into a martyr who deserved pity (which I hate); and my former and the accused female have been declared evil personified. I don’t want to be a part of this in any way. I want people to leave me and my situation alone. I had reconciled my feelings regarding my former and the female, and now this nonsense drudges up feelings that I had hoped were long gone, but apparently not.
When I got to school, I was happy, lighthearted, and optimistic about the remaining school year. I was determined to make the most of 2009; but within an hour the dark cloud had caught up to me and within three hours my stomach turned nervous and I was exploding nervousness. I’ve never sought out any “professional” type help before, but I felt ready to implode and spent about 90 minutes with the counselor in order to keep from going classroom door-to-door and telling people to screw themselves.
I don’t want to go back to school; I just want to run – far and fast away from all the mind and soul numbing ignorance.

Big Scary Monster Time

I was separating the last of the joint socks today, and noticed something very odd and disconcerting. I have 12 socks without a match. How does that happen?
To clarify the situation, I dug around under the bed where the clean clothes are tossed before I fold them, then checked around the dryer, under my bed – all to no avail. These poor socks had been widowed by the evil and uncaring sock monster.
I have never seen the sock monster but, after losing way too many socks for random reasons – am a firm believer that the sock monster does exist and it lives in my house. When I lived at home or college I never had this problem. I could always, always account for all my socks. They would eventually turn up – in another load of laundry or hidden in some sleeve of a shirt. Not this time.
The only answer is the elusive and destructive sock monster. This heinous creature breaks up homes and happy socks for no reason other to cause malicious mischief. I have little doubt that the sock monster has done this before to other happy sock mates. It sneaks in during the transfer from the foot to the laundry hamper to the washer to the dryer and then to the actual mating process. The monster finds cracks and weaknesses in the bonding between the socks and creates wedges and openings for which it will insert itself into the pairing.
Then, without thought to the socks, it winds its slippery, cold and calculating fingers into one of the pair and tugs and pulls and manipulates till the socks are separated. From there, neither sock knows where the other is, and the king’s men have no joy in putting them back together. The socks can just blindly hope to find another sock, similar enough in pairing, to join them. But for the sock the monster tucked away into the hidden spaces in life it’s a dark life – no one can ever find the lost sock again. And, for the left behind mate, if no pair is made – it’s the garbage bin.
Damn sock monster.

Online Dates: EPIC fail

I’ve come to the conclusion that online dating services are actually elaborate schemes for highly-paid escorts. It’s a breeding ground for those looking to be better than what they are and convince others of the same.

A friend suggested I try one of these services (like I don’t have enough trust issues as it is), to see what I can find. Well, boredom reared its ugly head recently, and aided by my favorite amber fermented liquid, I decided to check out the men on one of these sites and “see who’s on line.” An experiment in the absurd is what I expected, but still I opened my mind – just in case I happened on my soul mate because I am .00009 percent sure that my soul mate is residing somewhere in my general location and I will find him by reading the endless drivel people hork up on their profiles.

My new late-night assignment for myself was to find a dude online to hook up with; however, this deal turned out to be more like selecting my very own blind date. Yippee.

So first I filled out the prerequisite bullcrap that certified that I was a female and off I went. I typed in the town I live in and picked an area to search men in (hahaha) that was roughly 15 miles from my location. Oh, the men I found.

I knew several on the site, which made me giggle and realize I never really want people to know I use a dating service let alone one online, and worse yet, I found one that I had worked with (when I had a different life). And here comes the rub – he so lied all over his info background thingy. I know for a fact he didn’t go to the college he claims to have went. And he is so no where as interesting as he makes himself out to be.

Worse, each male on the site had described, using the site’s preselected what-u-look-like keys, his perfect woman and, ha!, they all looked the same. Borring. Everyone wanted a red-haired, slender/toned, nonsmoking, drinking woman between ages of 21-30, who loved to cooked, erotica, and thunderstorms. Um, sorry, Angie Everhart is married.

I tried to pick the selectors to create the perfect male – but no luck so I want this guy: muscled cut, hard 6 pack abs, about 6’3, perfect white teeth, big smile, tanned, broad shoulders, sinuous legs, artistic and likes some sort of creative endeavor like writing or music.

But then when I submitted that to the site, I had to laugh because I determined, after sludging through the various couch potatoes who claim to work out every other day, but who have “love handles” I have no clue what or who my type is and I’ll only know when I find him.