Monday, August 29, 2005

A Whisper Above The Dirty Apes (but only just)



Nothing in my power can stop the high school boys in my neighborhood from hooting at me out the windows of their cars.

I am fat and slightly old. They are young and stupid.

So they hoot. It is what they have done since time immemorial.

I imagine that Ice Age adolescents, hitching foolish rides on wayward mammoths, leered and grunted insultingly at the dumpy women of their tribes as these same women stooped and grasped for berries.

Well, it wasn't berries I was stooping for the other day as I stood on the corner while walking the pup. See, Pip had done his secondary business a bit too near to someone's yard, so at the very moment I heard the hooting, I was using a stick to flick poop into the gutter in the interest of being a marginally good neighbor (i.e. at least it's not on your grass).

So it's good that I am a whisper above the dirty apes. Because it did occur to me that some hurled dogshit smacking against the windshield, or with any luck flying into the open passenger window, would immediately redirect any defamation being flung my way. To complete the devolution, I could have jumped up and down afterward, screeching "oo!! oo!! aa! aa!" the way the cartoon monkeys do.

However, y'all can rest easy knowing that I merely entertained notions of such primitive vengeance, and that none of them bubbled onto the prime material plane.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: the wide chasm between thought and action preserves my fool hide daily.

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That art is Aubrey Beardsley's, by the way.

Saturday, August 27, 2005

Old Habits

So I had to take Le Puggin in for his yearly heartworm test (which he passed, and is worm free, thank Christ). He's a year and five months old, and I just never have gotten around to getting him snipped. I've told myself all this time that it's because of time constraints and just not having the extra cash free to do it, but in reality, I'm in denial (as usual). It's not about the time or the money. It's about guilt. I've gotten used to him as is, and the thought of sending him away and getting him back a little lighter than before just kinda feels wrong to me.

I'm not sure why this is a sudden issue. I've had cats, and neutered them. But I guess with dogs (and male dogs in particular) it would be more obvious and guilt inducing.

"You really wanna get this done as soon as possible," the vet advised me as he poked and prodded. "They develop habits from carrying these things around."

This just spawned a host of defensive thoughts inside my head: "This is my baby you're talking about. And anyway, I bet YOU'VE developed a few habits carrying YOURS around. And how would you feel about getting them lopped for the good of the race?"

So here I am, in this quandary. It's actually not that unusual for purebred dogs to not be altered. And I could whore, I mean, stud him out for $250.00 each time. Not that I think I could do that either, but still. It might pay for dog food some day in the event we hit the skids.
Any bollocks-lopping guidance the collective blog community could provide would be considered and appreciated.

Monday, August 15, 2005

Trashcan Turf


Today as I was driving along in Funkytown (aka ghetto Dallas, aka the Stone Cold 'Hood) (ok none of that made sense to me either, but I am delirious with fatigue, cut me a break here, it was the first effin' day of skizzy today) I saw a trash receptacle similar to the one pictured at left.

A plasti-receptacle which is dumped by a large truck, spilling its discarded and/or decaying contents upon a mountain of like refuse, which is then carted away to dump parts unknown.

At the bottom of this receptacle or any one like it there ferments a stinky soup of pulpy tomatoes, poopy diapers, used cat litter, rotting vegetable peels, rusting cans, clipped toenails, toilet paper people have wiped their asses/noses on and possibly even worn out marital aids.


Still, some hardcore gangsta wanted in on the smelly, sticky ground floor of this virgin turf, yo.

Hence, I saw this:

Yep. This trashcan is MINE. Don't even try any weakass shit talkin' 'bout stealin' this Oscar the Grouch mo-fucker.... we will SMOKE you wit' a quickness.

Word.



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"I no punk bitch!" -- The only funny line in that Rush Hour movie


Sunday, August 07, 2005

Summer of Hair That's Accidentally Green

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
DISCLAIMER
The following post is recommended for mature viewers.
Graphic images of naked hair, Rubenesque women, and household products follow.
Consider yourself warned.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

As some of you may recall from previous posts, I've already turned my hair green once this summer, wrangling a box of Ash Blonde. Well, I've done it again. In a completely new way, even. Hence, in celebration of this odd trend of verdant tresses, I've dubbed this the Summer of Hair that's Accidentally Green, or SHAG.

It all began with a pleasant evening of night swimming at my friend Jean-Luc Picard's* apartment pool. Wanting to live in a trendy (read: gay) part of town, he pays far too much rent, enabling near, dear friends like me to make use of his, um, amenities. So I enjoy the pool, relax in the hot tub bubbles, steam in the sauna, oblivious to the danger a cheveux swirling around me in insidious, deceptive waves of uber-chlorination. In fact, except for being briefly skeeved in the spa shower when I noticed some dried "conditioner" splattered five feet up on the wall, I never realized the peril I was in.

Long about midnight thirty, I'm dressed, showered, and walking out when I catch a glimpse of a mysterious patina curling about the ends of the familiar frizz that is my hair.



Of course, I am shocked but undaunted. Diehard bleach blondes such as myself know that generally, a 2-liter club soda rinse will wash the green clean. So I trooped to the store, my relaxation morphing into annoyed ass-dragging, got home, and hit the shower with the dog staring at me and doubtless wondering why I was pouring beverages onto my head. Trouble was, it didn't work this time.




Apparently my hair had soaked up a club-soda resistant strain of green, and I still looked like a chunky mermaid who'd lost her tail somewhere. Well, shit. I wasn't about to go any fucking where now to buy chlorine-out shampoo, I didn't wanna go to bed and let it dry that way, thinking maybe I'd keep look like somethin' the sea'd rejected for a month or so, and a 1 am impromptu self-bob was right out.

After mulling these options, there was just nowhere else to turn. I appealed to a higher power: the interweb. "Mix vinegar and aspirin," some message board goddess recommended. Suspicious, I cross-referenced the remedy somewhere else. Yes, that was the sure cure. Supposedly.

Nekkid and pissy, I sought, found and mixed the components of the green-away tincture and dumped it on my involuntary highlights. Rinsed. No dice. Should you care to try it though, I advise you to secure your eyelids shut very tightly with tape, or wear goggles. Vinegar and aspirin in the eyes stings. A lot.

Dripping and irritable, I went back to the computer. This was it. If the next thing I did didn't work, I'd just have to join a band or somethin'. So I scrolled down the Fucked Hair Help Message Board some more, looking for some way outta this chlorine corner I'd backed myself into. There had to be something short of Drano that I both had in my possession and could be used to de-greenify.... and finally, the answer came: tomato paste.


I'd wager that few activities are more surreal and nasty than smearing pulverized tomatoes onto your head in the wee hours without so much as the benefit of a high blood-alcohol level. It mixes the normally mundane pursuits of eating and showering in an unholy way, transforming them into something unclean. And after you're done marinating your head in squishy spaghetti-smelling goo, watching a seemingly endless river of red-stained water flow off your body and down the drain is enough to make you feel like your last name's Macbeth.

However, there is one good thing about the tomato paste method: it worked.

I never thought I'd say this, but after this summer, I hope I never have another SHAG again.



* Fictional nombre, factual hombre
** For those of you who've been patiently waiting, yes,
I am completely nude in 3 out of 4 of those pics.
Don't you feel special that I was thinking about you in my times of trial? :)
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