I was feeling a little saucy the other day, so when I saw the Tinker Bell T-shirt with the word FLIRT emblazed across the front of it on the clearance rack at Wal-Mart, I succumbed.
So what if the seventeenth anniversary of my twenty-ninth birthday is right around the corner, I’m still cute. And Flirty! You could even say I exude a carefree sassiness that says I can take the world on with a smile. (But not when I first get up, I have to have coffee and put my face on first. Then I am carefree sassy all day everyday and twice on Sunday.)
Ok, I’m wearing the T-shirt, and my good bra, the one that turns back time, and I am feeling it. Flirty! That’s me. Flirty! Why don’t I just saunter, yeah saunter, over to the ABC liquor store and try on something in a Chardonnay.
Oh looky here. They are having a wine tasting, must be my flirty luck. “Yes I would like to try a little taste, not too much,” snorty laugh, “do you need to see my ID? “
“No ma'am, would you like me to refill that?”
“Yeah, hit me”
I couldn’t understand why everywhere I went that day, people didn’t seem to respond to my overt Flirty sassiness. WTF?
So when Wayne got home, I asked him. “Baby, do you think I’m pretty.”
Auto response: “Pretty and smart and fun to be with, I am the luckiest man alive.”
Well, he’s right about that. “Yes baby, but am I flirty?"
He gives me a good solid once over then gently delivers the death knell. “It would be really hard for anyone to be flirty with their bi-focals hanging from a chain.”
I’ll be dipped in shit. I walked around all day with my FLIRT semi-obscured by dangling reading glasses.
He tries to soften the blow. “That’s kind of like wearing a hernia belt with sweat pants that say JUICY on the ass. Nobody could pull that off, no matter how juicy their ass was.”
“Thanks baby; you always know just what to say.”
I guess I will just have to start stowing my glasses inside my shirt and only pull them out as needed.
But there’s one problem with that plan: It’s hard to read the carbohydrates on the back of the whole grain, super fiber, cereal box when your glasses have boob glitter on the lenses.
March 11, 2011
For King and his little pal, Louis, who are both gone now.
Here comes the dog down the hall with a gerbil in his mouth. In ten years I never hit the dog, except for that day. Mistake #1.
Ok, so it’s Thanksgiving Day a few years back and the whole fam-damily’s over at Mom’s. My sister’s two boys had pet gerbils they kept in a fish tank with a flimsy wire lid, and the dog found them. Without thinking I slapped the gerbil out of the dog’s mouth. The gerbil wasn’t dead. (Dam) It had a broken back and was pulling its tiny little self around by its tiny little furry front legs. (Oh man)
One more good chomp and the gerbil would have been out of his misery, but no, I picked just then to smack the dog. Did I hit the dog when he ate the Christmas desert off my Mom’s good serving platter while we were at midnight mass? NO. Did I hit the dog when he ate 3 pounds of Halloween candy while Holly and I ran to the beer thru? No. So why now?
Well, it was a holiday so Aunt Ruth and Uncle Bill where there. Uncle Bill rode the boxcars cross country when he was fifteen, was a marine at Guam or Midway or someplace bloody and laid tile floors for a living until his knees gave out. “Take him out side and hit em with a rock”, He grumbled.
“The dog or gerbil, Uncle Bill?”
“Just hit em with a rock and get it over with.”
“But Uncle Bill, I can’t hit the tiny little fellow with a rock.”
“You gotta do something, hit em with a rock!”
“Hit him with a God Dam rock for Christ sake.”
“ I killed 8 men in one day and you can’t hit a gerbil with a rock?”
Who’s got a rock?
Well, you know I couldn’t hit the poor little broken backed, furry legged stupid fucking gerbil with a rock. Mistake #2
Did you know that if you call around to enough places you can actually find an emergency vet that is open on Thanksgiving night? Yeah, go figure. Off we go on ½ hour drive to the emergency vet, (you’d think the gerbil would have had the decency to die on the way). My niece offered to run over the gerbil with her Camero, I can’t imagine why I didn’t let her do it, maybe I thought it would be worth it just to get out of the house. “Hit him with a God Dam rock.”
The vet asked us if we would like a minute with the gerbil to say goodbye, and could we please pay before services where rendered. “Do you take checks?”
Long drive home, crying little boys, disappointed uncle, snickering dog, and my mother doesn’t keep any liqueur in the house!
“Yes Uncle Bill.”
“How much did you pay that vet?”
“$45 Uncle Bill” answering = mistake #3
“You know that vet got your $45 and took the gerbil out back and hit him with a rock.”
Aunt Ruth and Uncle Bill are gone now too, and I miss them all.
Hit em with a rock Uncle Bill.