STories of woe and, uh, Stuff

Mobile Porn (star)

Sun, 30 Aug 2009 21:50:12 -0400

Harry met me for lunch the other day and we ordered a pizza - we ended up having an impromptu devil's three way with the pizza delivery boy until sauce got into "no-no" parts which led to a halt on the naughty action at hand as well as "fun with garlic sauce."

I do enjoy men that smell of expensive cologne and garlic... :)

Back to reality - Harry met me for lunch the other day and after a quick meal at Wendy's where he politely walked me to the car and opened my door, waited for my fat rolls to pass the threshold and then gently slammed the door shut.

"I want ice cream," I said before his jean-clad ass could even hit the suede insert on his Audi seats.

"Okay - from where?" I have no clue how I got to be so plentiful.

"McDonald's," I said and off we went to sit in a line for twenty-five minutes for me to get my sweet tooth on.

"Here," Harry said, handing me the ginormous white mound of frozen dairy treat.

I took it - and frowned. And pouted. And thrust it back at him. "Too much ice cream. Eat it," I said, practically shoving it into his ever-lengthening and oddly-ruddy goatee.

"Fine." With two big bites he had eaten the majority of the ice cream away. Handing it back to me, he kept one eye on me and one eye on the road. "Now what's wrong?"

I was sitting in my seat, face screwed up and staring at the still-too-big ice cream cone. Without saying a word I thrust it back at him and crossed my arms.

"Are you kidding me?" He then put the entire ice cream cone in his mouth and pulled out a nubbin of dairy sitting atop the cone (which was really all I wanted).

"Wow," I said, staring at him wide-eyed. "You should've been a porn star," I said in awe.

His face turned red, he guffawed and I watched as he did a quick calculation of how much it would cost to clean cheap ice cream off the upholstery of his car versus how much pleasure he get out of killing his wife on the side of Route 60.

"You bitch!" he swore as he managed not to spew the contents of his mouth on to the steering wheel, window, windshield... "You called me a porn star! And a gay one at that!"

I couldn't breathe. I was laughing hysterically and sputtering and trying NOT to drop the remainder of the cone in his car.

We pulled up outside my work and I got out after carefully, slowly and deliberately, eating the rest of the cone.

"You better not tell anyone about this," Harry warned me. "My throat still hurts!" he said - which only made me laugh harder and run up the concrete stairs.

Moral of the story? If you're gonna call your husband a porn star - make sure to get it right -- or sit far enough away that he can't retaliate! :)

gRAPES of Wrath

Sun, 30 Aug 2009 21:34:36 -0400

"Wanna do it?" Harry proposed as I laid in bed, a sweaty, greasy, house-worked, over-worked lump of mass; however, I did contemplate his proposition momentarily.

"Uh, no," I said and went back to reading my book, ironically titled, "Holly's Inbox."

"C'mon. Let's do it."

"No," I repeated. I was skanky. I had just spent the majority of the day cleaning and then had to iron his shirts for the upcoming week. After twenty minutes of sweating over a steaming iron I finally had Harry check the air conditioning unit. It was determined through a series of investigations - that the heat was still on. He was lucky to even be alive to postulate copulation much less retain the use of those prized parts after that incident.

"I'm skanky. Go away." I rolled on to my side away from him.

"Fine," he said. "Rapin' the wife, rapin' the wife, I'm rapin' the wife," he sang under his breath as he tugged on my star-bedazzled panties.

"Stop that!" I said, trying not to laugh.

"Hold still!" He smacked the cheek nearest to him.

"Harry!" I rolled over on to my stomach and put my face in the pillow - my lame attempts to hide.

"Now you've done it. That's it. Now you're gonna make me have to-"

SLIIIIIIIIIIIIP! "Aghhh!" CRASH.

I popped my head up. "Hey! Where'd you go?"

"Ouuuuuuuuuuuuch..." Harry said from the floor. Apparently, in his attempts to collect upon his husbandly "rights" he ventured too close to the edge of the bed and his knee slipped on the 1,000 thread count sheets and ended up, face-down and spread eagle in the bedroom floor.

"You okay?" I asked in between loud fits of laughter.

"Uh huh. Owww."

"You done trying to rape me?"

"Uh huh. Don't write about this."

"I wouldn't dare."

Do it or DIEt...

Tue, 25 Nov 2008 19:06:24 -0500

A while back while I was still recovering from a very basic surgery that had very non-basic results, I had been been taking it easy. No exercise, no stress, and no long periods of doing anything more than lying in bed and demanding meals be brought to me from my favorite fast food establishments (and there are quite a few). Needless to say, the extreme amount of non-extreme physicality had left me – a little plump. Okay, fine, I was a little plump before – but I had begun starting to wonder when the camera crew and the burley guy with the crane to lift me out the window will show up.
I awaited a call from Jerry Springer with bated breath.
So, when a Sunday arrived and my loving husband politely ordered me from my bedchambers so that he may study for an upcoming exam in peace, I did so. Grumbling, whining and stomping my foot like Godzilla in a tantrum, I made plans to go to my mother’s house.
Upon arriving at my childhood home I was immediately overwhelmed with a sense of nostaligia. And by the smell of paint. Two hours later, I was sitting in a new addition to my parent’s house and was painstakingly covering a corner in a shade of butterscotch semi-gloss.
Craaaaaaack!
The sound was loud and seemed to come from right under where I was sitting. I looked around in alarm and confusion. First wondering if my niece had done a header off the second floor landing in attempts to fly like Barbie in “Fairytopia” and then wondering, well, it was too horrible to contemplate. I broke out in a sweat and felt my chubby cheeks flare to a painful shade of red.
“Was that me? Did I do that?” I asked my sister who was perched on the toilet seat watching me work while drinking a cup of vanilla scented coffee and wiping her nose with a tissue.
“No,” she said and continued to dab with her wrinkled Puffs. “Unless that huge crack in the wall above the tub is new.”
“OH MY GOD! MY FAT [BUTT] JUST BROKE MOM’S NEW TUB! OH MY GOD!” I flew from the tub like an ungraceful, half-dead, over-fed bird and lay on the couch. My lips were pursed in horror as I grabbed my pink cell phone and speed-dialed my husband. It was obviously his fault for making me leave the confines of my cocoon to be a productive member of society.
“OH MY GOD! MY FAT [BUTT] BROKE MOM’S NEW TUB! I’M NEVER EATING AGAIN! I mean, we can have pizza tonight but after that I’M NEVER EATING AGAIN!” I shouted into the phone.
“We can do that. That’s fine,” was his non-expressive comment on my very devastating happening.
“Well, that’s just mean,” I huffed.
“Can I go – I’m studying here,” he said. I hung up and flung the phone to the far end of the couch. Crossing my arms I vowed not to leave the couch until I was allowed to return to my bed, never to depart, or to eat, again.
“What happened?” My mother appeared in the doorway.
“Holly’s [butt] broke your new tub,” Summer, my ex-sister tattled to mom.
“AND I’M NEVER EATING AGAIN!” I cried dramatically as my sweet, tiny mother examined the crack in the drywall and declared it an accident. “Never,” I vowed again.
“I’m going to Taco Bell. Anyone want anything?” my father asked as he entered the living room where I lay on the couch in defeat.
“I’ll take a Nachos Supreme! No meat!” I say. What? “Never” is a strong word! And in a cruel twist of fate, the purple-shirted Taco Bell worker left my order out.
“Oh, sorry honey,” dad said as he dug into the first of his four chili cheese burritos.
Never. Eating. Again.

An Embarrassment of Riches

Wed, 22 Oct 2008 21:31:07 -0400

Embarrassment is a funny emotion.
Truth be told, it’s a rather useless one but it does have its purposes. I mean, most of us get up every morning, wash the sleep from our eyes and the grease from our hair, toss on a pair of not-too-ratty underpants (unless you are a young celebrity and this last item if far too much of a hassle to deal with) all for the sake of saving ourselves from a red-cheek inducing encounter. Instead of covering up my idiotic ways from you, the general public, I’ve decided instead to purge them to paper. Enjoy.

1. New to the internets I happily added all of my friends to my address book giving them cute nicknames like “dork” and “dweebiepod” before clicking “add.” However, when entering in my delectable crush’s name I swiftly typed “Lustobject Extroidanaire with the Cute Derriere” before adding him. A few weeks later and too many awkward encounters to be considered accidental, I finally found out that the nicknames were attached to the emails I sent. Including the well-scripted casual one I openly attached to my crush.
2. While coming home from Hawaii this past June my husband and I made an emergency pit stop. “Hey, do you find it funny that the airport’s safety truck has a tail light out?” I mused to the ambulance driver with the big blue eyes and thousand watt smile which pointed directly at me while he said “Wow, that’s really observant of you! You must be really smart!” Happy with my obvious intellect I sat back in the squeaky seat and looked out the window. “Well,” I said, “the scenery is at least pretty here. I haven’t been to Atlanta in awhile! Too bad it’s under these dire circumstances!” I turned to grin at him. He looked at me blankly, one eye still on the road. “Is that where you were going next – to Atlanta?” He paused and then said, loudly “Because you’re in San Francisco.” That was the moment I learned not to speak after someone complimented my brains, because I’d be sure to make them question their own intelligence!
3. “Your eyes are amazing,” I cooed to my then future husband. “They change colors – they’re like, uh, like camouflage!” That was me, the English major, showing everyone how important it was to not become too reliant on one’s dictionary or thesaurus.
4. Last year at a wedding shower for one of Harry’s best friends I felt the need to comment on the food every five seconds. “I loved the big hot dogs!” I bellowed across the table at a kindly woman who was looking more and more frightened as the words flew from my lips like volatile spittle. “The BIG HOT DOGS were wonderful! I had THREE!” I could hear myself talking about the brats, but couldn’t keep from commenting on them. Repeatedly. To anyone who would listen. Or who couldn’t move away fast enough. “Thanks for having us! We had a great time!” I yelled as my husband tried to stuff me in the car. “I LOVED THE BIG HOT DOGS!”

So the next time you find yourself embarrassed beyond reason, facing a room full of stranger or worse, loved ones who will remember and tease you relentlessly for the next several years or so, just remember – I’ve probably done worse.

Lucky Me...

Mon, 1 Sep 2008 22:14:53 -0400

I was relaxing in the most beautiful place on earth in an open-ceiling shopping mall paradise. Retail venues lined my view while the blue Hawaiian sky peeked from above. I sat on a man-made stone wall, basking in the sunlight and enjoying the pond behind me teeming with over-sized tropical fish.
SPLAT!
Just like that - I became the mobile toilet for one of Hawaii’s finest feathered friends.
Looking down, I instinctively knew that the putrid green streak on my pants was courtesy of the bird that was now peeping at me from the rafters above.
I glared at Harry, my newly appointed husband and keeper of my “sickness and health.”
“Wha? Uh? Wha?” Harry struggled to form a coherent thought that didn’t start with “You just got pooped on by a bird!”
I knew that the closest public restroom in the stupid, stacked mall was four stores down and two stories up in Macy’s. Pushing past Harry (he leaped away from me lest he get any ricocheting bird crap on his pristine clothes) I trudged past the beautiful bronzed people of Hawaii and past the sparkling make-up counters full of expensive beautifying products while the employees stared openly at me.
A chubby girl.
Covered in day-glo green bird crap.
I trooped past them, head held high, cheeks flaming and all too well aware that my choice of outfit, a pink “Hillbilly Haven” tee and Old Navy green Capri’s was not helping my delicate condition and much-needed sense of concealment at the present time.
With every step I took toward the escalators, the goo between my toes seemed amplified. Even so, it was hard to ignore the man following a safe distance behind me, sniggering into a closed fist and wailing, seemingly in pain, “When can I laugh? Oh GOD, when can I laugh?” He would cry out in a strangled peep every time a bit of bird excrement would dislodge from my pants and splatter on the white tile floor.
I said nothing.
Arriving at the bathroom after my treacherous trek from the pond, I tossed my purse at my husband’s head and pushed my way into the crowded bathroom filled with tiny Asian women. All were speaking a language I didn’t understand and seemed to be trying to decide how many of their friends and family should be in the picture of the Macy’s restroom.
Ignoring the chatter, I raised up one large leg and stuck it in the sink.
The tallest woman, wearing four tank tops, satin bomber pants and four-inch spike heels, had the audacity to raise her camera in my direction.
Now, I’m sure a picture of a chubby, sweaty and extremely angry-looking American woman with her piggies plunked in a department store’s sink would be an extremely delectable photo op for any amateur photographer.
However, I was really not in the mood. I shot her a look that contained all the fury of someone who - literally – just got crapped on by nature. She ran down the hall and locked herself in a stall with four of her entourage, rattling, I’m sure, about how “Crazy big American woman –try to kill me! Kill me! Picture? Sure! Peace sign!”
After using every last piece of two-ply in the bathroom I was finally content that no trace of bird feces remained on my person. Walking out I stood before my red-faced husband. The man I loved. The man I married. The man who was turning purple with effort.
He handed me my striped handbag without uttering a word. Walking slowly back toward the exit I kept one eye on the ceiling, vowing to toss my Coach purse at the next flying animal that so much as looked in my direction. Harry put two hands on my shoulders, breaking my gaze from the heavens and steered me into Tiffany’s.
“Do you want me to buy you a little something? Maybe a bracelet? Would that make it all better?” he cooed tenderly.
“Don’t wanna talk about it,” I said, pouting and staring at my still wet foot.
“Maybe a ‘Return to Tiffany’s’ one? With your initials?”
“Still don’t wanna talk about it.”
“C’mon,” he said, wheeling me through the entrance and past the security guards that lined the front of the store. Both men glanced at us and then blatantly stared at my leg that was soaking wet from the knee down. Flashing a weak smile at the guards, Harry placed me in front of a large glowing display case.
A small lady with short, dark hair popped up from behind the counter.
“This is our new collection,” she said. “Would you like to try it on?” She held out a clunky charm bracelet.
“Yes, she would,” my husband said and took it from her. He placed it on my wrist. I looked at the bracelet that was so shiny and clean on my tanned arm and then looked at the un-soiled lady who had offered it to me.
"What brings you two to Hawaii? Honeymoon? Vacation?" asked the lady trying to sell us overpriced sterling silver. “Are you having a good time? Enjoying yourself? Don’t you just love it here?”
I cracked under the barrage of questions.
“A bird pooped on me,” I said.
“Oh.” She looked taken aback - but quickly recovered. “Cash or charge, then?” she asked, backing away from us.
I’ve often heard people say that having a bird relieve its bowels on someone is a sign of good luck to that “lucky” person. I, however, found it to be a sign to buy new pants, shoes, and – luckily for me – new jewelry from Tiffany’s.
We leave for Hawaii again in a month. And, if I play my cards right, I just may end up with earrings to match my silver Tiffany’s bracelet.

Itunes You Out

Mon, 1 Sep 2008 21:45:41 -0400

I have something to admit.
It’s embarrassing and humiliating and something that I’ve kept as a secret from everyone I know, including my loving husband.
I can’t work my Ipod.
It’s true.
I’ve tried. I just – can’t.
Weekly, it seems, my husband tempts me relentlessly with visions of tiny music-holding pastel doodads every time we enter into a store that is known for its clever way of packing too many electronics in 600 square feet of florescent lit and linoleum clad store front. But I demurely defer, holding up one nail-bitten hand in mock protest as my eyes quickly take in the color screen, the smooth edges and the alluring wheel of the newest generation of apples. Soon, I think to myself as I peruse the HD-DVD’s , Apple will find a way to directly download into our heads! “Hello, welcome to Itunes. Please jam this USB up your nose to begin.”
Today, however, it is just me verses a tiny MP3 player. My frustration starts as soon as I pop a cd in to my laptop (a nice HP whose disc drive sticks and possesses a temperamental hard drive that crashes as soon as it’s moved) and the whirring and churning commences. Beads of perspiration pop from my freckled forehead as the Itunes box appears in the middle of my screen. “Would you like to import the cd?” it asks in a high pitched voice (only because I picture the kid from the Mac v. PC commercials asking).
“Agh! I don’t know!” I cry to no one in particular. I’m not worried about being heard. It’s been weeks since the release of Halo 3 and the aliens still, apparently, need to be destroyed.
With shaking fingers I move the cursor to the “yes” tab and click. I’m sweating profusely now as I wait for the import of my newly purchased cd on to my pink mini.
“If I can successfully import this cd, I will buy a new Ipod. If I can successfully import this cd, I will buy a new Ipod. If I…” I mutter my mantra over and over as my heart skips a beat. “What the heck do you want now?!”
Apparently it is very important that I download a new version of Itunes before completing my import.
“Fine,” I said, mustering my courage and clicking the “yes” button.
Three hours, two reboots and four personal meltdowns later I am finally back to square one. Syncing up, I scrolled the wheel and searched for my new songs.
They weren’t there.
After hours of rebooting, syncing and cursing, I still had the same old songs on my pink mini Ipod.
I knew I could do the unthinkable: I could slink into the other room and drape myself over the blue leather couch and feign the damsel in distress to my Xbox obsessed and electronically-inclined hubby. But I couldn’t. I refuse to admit defeat.
Unplugging the Ipod, I glanced around to see if anyone was watching me – and stuffed it between the couch cushions. Later, much later, I will realize that it is “lost” and have no choice but to replace it.
And just like that, I mastered the dreaded Ipod.
Well, physically at least!

Sew... You Want to be a Millionaire!

Mon, 1 Sep 2008 21:44:19 -0400

My sister, Summer, and I look nothing alike. She's my own flesh and blood and I often wonder if she sucked the gene pool dry, leaving nothing for me but the sludge that got caught in the filter. I have to admit, though, her schemes are some of the best around which leads me to, where else? Wal-mart. So there she was, tall, blonde, pale like Nicole Kidman and with a nose that is non-denominational (unlike mine) up to her perfect, round eyeballs in questionable fabric choices.
Why?
Because they were in the dollar bin.
Anyway, so we're digging in cheap and sometimes tacky fabric, and I'm relaying to her how “Mommy Dearest” (a nickname she earned without resorting to wire hanger abuse) was teaching me to sew on my never-before-used sewing machine. It was very hard for Mom to trust me with the machine (she still sees me as a five-year-old with grubby jelly hands and potentially harmful reflexes that may be hell-bent on tearing up her Singer) but she tried to make due. However, every time I would reach for her scissors (the "bone-cutters" of my youth) she would sharply suck in her breath through pursed lips. Finally, I got so frustrated that I told her we'd finish it "later" (a point to be determined later when my patience, and my Xanex prescription, had increased).
In the murky aisles of the Super Center, Summer suddenly grabs a "Sew Easy" pattern off a small wire rack and thrusts it towards me, directly in my freckled face.
"Wehavetomakethisandnottellmomwecandoitallbyourselvesandnooneneedstoknowuntilit'sdone!" It was all in one breath. I stared at her, wide eyed. My synapses fired rapidly, trying to make sense of the high speed comment that was just hurled at me at five times the speed of sound.
"Okay." I replied and jumped up and down for emphasis (not knowing that emphasis is sometimes not the thing that is emphasized when a chubby girl bounces in the middle of a Wal-mart) and began the task of finding corresponding fabrics. I settled on a tame purple and green plaid with a tiny flower print accent for the pockets. I was content with my very tasteful choice and turned to see what my sister had chosen. Summer, however, decided that only a bright pink fabric with accents of black and silver crossbones will do. The pink studded trim she descends upon later only adds to the “festiveness” of her extreme cook wear.
Two hours later we are spread across the floor of my living room.
The pattern is, apparently, in Greek. Or Hieroglyphics.
Okay, not really, but it might as well have been! "Sew Easy" – my eye! The cream colored and extremely fragile paper was marked with dots, lines and triangles. Numbers and borders were placed in the center and on the edges in order to fully flummox the person naïve enough to think that “Sew Easy” was not just a clever play on words but actual up front encouragement to the newbie seamstress.
We finally figure out the pattern by combining the brain power of two excited girls and one reluctant husband and began the task of cutting, pressing and sewing our soon to be world-renowned aprons. Our excitement is cut short when Summer gets behind the needle of the sewing machine and makes something that looks eerily like a tarantula on Miracle-Gro.
We forgot to lower the foot.
Our second attempt is better with me manning the machine. My apron pocket is the picture of perfection and I'm beaming like a proud fabric-loving mother. Until I break the bobbin.
Crap.
We have no idea how to change the bobbin.
Precious hours are wasted as we study the picture on top of the sewing machine which is supposed to be a helpful artist's rendition of a successful bobbin winding. Summer curses, I throw things and we both hit the fragile machine while pulling and tugging and readjusting every knob, bell and whistle on it.
Finally, I look hard at the picture - and - pick up the bobbin from underneath the foot and place it on the spindle on top of the machine - just like the drawing illustrates.
Well. That was easy.
We dissolve into shrieks of laughter before toiling onward and upward in our quest to conquer the world - one apron at a time.
As soon as we get one made, that is.