One day, long, long ago.....
Baby Attorney (who is my son by another mother) is walking out of the office front door and somehow manages to open the door with Just Right Timing so as to walk face first into the door. Portugese Washer Woman, Sexy Mexican and I offer extreme sympathy by laughing so hard we soaked our Depends. We thought he had been punking us by somehow kicking the door with his foot. We had been quite impressed with his clever, invisible foot kick. But, nooo. His face swells up with an instant black eye and bloody nose which only makes us laugh even more. We are so there for anyone in a medical emergency. Portugese Washer Woman is a particularly mean individual and found ways to accidentally kind of smack Baby Attorney's sore nose/face over the next week or so. And gleefully shout "Pain button."
Then I come home from my first Jamaica trip and have just been given a tetanus booster shot by my doctor. Of course, the shot site swells and is miserable and, yes, Portugese Washer Woman found ways to accidentally kind of smack my shot arm over that next week or so. And gleefully shout "Pain button."
Then, finally, one day Portugese Washer Woman comes to work with a hideously infected finger from a rose bush thorn. We all demand she go to the doctor, where he cuts open her finger and gives her a tetanus booster shot. During lunch that day I moved the chair I was sitting in closer to the table. In placing my full gargantuan weight back into the chair somehow I managed to put the front chair leg onto the top of The Portugese Washer Woman's foot....totally squashing her foot, tearing the flesh, blood is spouting everywhere. It was a gory mess. And an actual accident.
A couple days later Baby Attorney is in the office and I call Portugese Washer Woman into his office to display to him all her current wounds: the swollen miserable tetanus shot arm and the swollen oozing foot that looks like maybe amputation is going to be the best option. As I have her take off her big floppy sandal so Baby Attorney can view the carnage better I somehow accidentally kind of pressed her foot with my hand, with all my still gargantuan weight firmly behind my hand. She screams in pain to which I then jump up and hug her, nice and hard on her shot arm, to apologize for the foot pain. She screams some more. Both Baby Attorney and I, in a cosmic melding of minds and thoughts, simultaneously and gleefully shouted "Pain button."
Oh, how we all laughed. Except Her Royal Portugese Washer Woman Sourpussness. And I am still mystified with this Question of the Universe: Why do people allow Pansy anywhere near them for any reason? Ever?
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Show Pansy Your Boobs!
So, Sexy Mexican is pregnant with her first child. Somewhere about Month 4 she discovers a lump near her armpit. She freaks and shows it to me and The Portugese Washer Woman. We tell her "We're Lesbanese Wannabes, dammit, NOT doctors, bitch" whereupon we then gave her comforting massages which she put a stop to after a half-hour. Selfish whore takes her jollies but leaves us hanging. The rest of that workday tensions were pretty damn high.
The doctor, who massaged her a little too much in my opinion, tells her all women are born with loads of breast tissue which usually gets together during puberty and becomes two breasts. Except when it doesn't. Her "lump" is another boob, complete with small brown nipple! Sexy Mexican really is sexy! Portugese and I squeal with laughter and take every opportunity from then on (this was 6 years ago) to loudly ask in any public place we can entrap Sexy Mexican "So, how's your third nipple doing?" Oh, how we all laugh. Except for Her Royal Sexy Mexican Sour Pussness.
But you know, what goes around sometimes indeed does come around. About 3-1/2 years ago I am lounging in bed at home and from across the room Mr. Pansy freaks and shouts "What is wrong with your armpits?" I look at him with annoyance, check my armpits and say "Nothing. They have always looked like this." Which is, they have always been somewhat convex as opposed to concave. I am seeing a doctor the next day so I ask him what's the deal, if there is even a deal at all. HE says "That's just extra breast tissue." And then my doctor massaged MY armpits a bit too much in my opinion. So now I have to go and confess to Sexy Mexican and Portugese Washer Woman that I have Armpit Boobs. I win the "quantity" contest with my Four Boobs, but only Sexy has an extra boob with a nipple.
And yet I am left with this puzzle: How stupid is Sexy Mexi (or anyone who spends more than 30 seconds with me) to not have learned after all this time to never, ever share any private information with Pansy?
The doctor, who massaged her a little too much in my opinion, tells her all women are born with loads of breast tissue which usually gets together during puberty and becomes two breasts. Except when it doesn't. Her "lump" is another boob, complete with small brown nipple! Sexy Mexican really is sexy! Portugese and I squeal with laughter and take every opportunity from then on (this was 6 years ago) to loudly ask in any public place we can entrap Sexy Mexican "So, how's your third nipple doing?" Oh, how we all laugh. Except for Her Royal Sexy Mexican Sour Pussness.
But you know, what goes around sometimes indeed does come around. About 3-1/2 years ago I am lounging in bed at home and from across the room Mr. Pansy freaks and shouts "What is wrong with your armpits?" I look at him with annoyance, check my armpits and say "Nothing. They have always looked like this." Which is, they have always been somewhat convex as opposed to concave. I am seeing a doctor the next day so I ask him what's the deal, if there is even a deal at all. HE says "That's just extra breast tissue." And then my doctor massaged MY armpits a bit too much in my opinion. So now I have to go and confess to Sexy Mexican and Portugese Washer Woman that I have Armpit Boobs. I win the "quantity" contest with my Four Boobs, but only Sexy has an extra boob with a nipple.
And yet I am left with this puzzle: How stupid is Sexy Mexi (or anyone who spends more than 30 seconds with me) to not have learned after all this time to never, ever share any private information with Pansy?
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
#4 -- Pansy Walks Into A Bar...
Well, actually this time it was a winery. Several wineries. Okay...LOTS of wineries. It was the usual gang of suspects: Stupid Elderly Baby Sister (SEBS), SEBS's Hubby, Mr. Pansy and me. We are touring the wineries of Napa/Sonoma/wherever the fuck that part of California is where all the hip, young, suave, heads-up-their-asses sophisticates go to swirl wine, sniff it and taste it. Well, we know WE got all that going on, especially the heads-up-our-asses part so we are there!
Now, this actually WAS in the "good ole days" when the wineries would fucking seriously fill up the wine glasses to the absolute top of some majorly big-ass glasses...which large glasses they supplied for Free. Not like nowadays where the cheap bastards have a pour-governor on the bottles and you have to pay serious bucks for the "real" wine glasses.
Of course, us four Turnip Truck Escapees know squat about wine but we are all over the age of 21, it's a glorious California day, and we are Carooozin' in the SEBSmobile: a 1954 convertible Chevrolet Bel Air in Robin's Egg Blue. As is the usual case when SEBS and Pansy are in a convertible car of any kind, we are looking totally hot with our naturally red hair flying in the wind. And we are with our fine looking men: SEBS' hubby is a fucking dead-on ringer for Bill Walsh. Which resemblance really screws him on the bar scene since nowadays Bill Walsh is in actual fucking fact dead! Mr. Pansy is a really fucking dead-on ringer for Jack Cassady of the Jefferson Airplane. Pansy has to bite her tongue all the damn time to keep from calling out "Jack" when with Mr. Pansy in the biblical way. And don't go getting all snorky about antique, out-of-touch Pansy. She knows the band has changed its name several times to stupid things like Starship in their pathetic attempt to still snag the youth market even though most of them are Really Old. They change their stupid band name more often than Pansy changes her Pomeranian's name! Pansy bets some of them, if not most, are, like, in their 50s for god's sake.
We stop at winery #1. "Taste" several glasses apiece of wine. On to the next winery, taste. Taste, Repeat, Taste More. We have no idea how many wineries we have been to but eventually come to the realization we are going to have to sober up to get home. We stay at the last winery to eat our picnic lunch. Some kind of mayonnaise-laden tuna or chicken sandwiches that have been warming in the trunk all day long.
We four are walking/stumbling to the car when suddenly (cue dramatic music with danger noises) Mr. Pansy sees the most horrible sight on earth. He is, really, practically in tears over what he sees and yells (which yelling is in and of itself very alarming because in the dictionary beside the word "extremely quiet" is a picture of Mr. Pansy) in his very deep voice but now laden with undertones of horror and a bit of fright: "Oh. My. God! There is a....DOVE stuck in the fence there!"
And it is!! There is a cyclone fence and this poor dove is struggling and struggling and then it would rest limply for awhile before it began its struggles anew. We all freak out. Mr. Pansy, acting as Point Man, leads the four of us very, very tentatively, in single file, toward the poor dove. We are all in a half-crouch because we don't want to startle the dove, you know. And most of us are weeping by now but there is no way out of this rescue/possibly suicidal mission. We have seen the bird so now we have the reponsibility to rescue the dove. Dammit.
We would creep forward a few feet, stop to take deep breaths, and then proceed forward again. Suddenly(!) Mr. Pansy stands straight up and yells in his very deep Charlton Heston-as-God voice: "WAIT! It is NOT a dove." [he squints real hard] "It is a....pigeon!" We hold a strategy meeting and as a group decide that even a pigeon does not deserve to suffer like that. So we crouch down again and continue sneaking up on to the bird who is still struggling and then going completely limp. We are very worried it may not make it before we can save it.
We look around for sticks, cloths, anything to help us hold the pigeon when we get there. Now we are about 30 feet from the bird. We think it has seen us (ya think? It certainly had fucking HEARD us by now.) because it gets very still. Maybe it is just tired but it is still slightly moving. Now we are 20 feet away.....10 feet away...5 feet away. FIVE FUCKING FEET AWAY FROM THE FUCKING TRAPPED BIRD BEFORE WE FUCKING FIGURE OUT IT IS A FUCKING GRAY FUCKING RAG FUCKING TIED TO THE FUCKING CYCLONE FUCKING FENCE.
Now, I am not certain but I do believe the warm mayonnaise sandwiches may have contributed to our states of mind. It couldn't have been the approximate 1 gallon of wine each of us had consumed up to that point in time? On empty stomachs? Naaah. You would think someone would have warned us about how stupid that fucking, goddam..msx#ixv%yhu^@!ep)+?fpppfffgg#t&tt! wine tasting can make you.
Oh, and the weather? A balmy, very light breeze day with occasional gusts to 10mph.
Now, this actually WAS in the "good ole days" when the wineries would fucking seriously fill up the wine glasses to the absolute top of some majorly big-ass glasses...which large glasses they supplied for Free. Not like nowadays where the cheap bastards have a pour-governor on the bottles and you have to pay serious bucks for the "real" wine glasses.
Of course, us four Turnip Truck Escapees know squat about wine but we are all over the age of 21, it's a glorious California day, and we are Carooozin' in the SEBSmobile: a 1954 convertible Chevrolet Bel Air in Robin's Egg Blue. As is the usual case when SEBS and Pansy are in a convertible car of any kind, we are looking totally hot with our naturally red hair flying in the wind. And we are with our fine looking men: SEBS' hubby is a fucking dead-on ringer for Bill Walsh. Which resemblance really screws him on the bar scene since nowadays Bill Walsh is in actual fucking fact dead! Mr. Pansy is a really fucking dead-on ringer for Jack Cassady of the Jefferson Airplane. Pansy has to bite her tongue all the damn time to keep from calling out "Jack" when with Mr. Pansy in the biblical way. And don't go getting all snorky about antique, out-of-touch Pansy. She knows the band has changed its name several times to stupid things like Starship in their pathetic attempt to still snag the youth market even though most of them are Really Old. They change their stupid band name more often than Pansy changes her Pomeranian's name! Pansy bets some of them, if not most, are, like, in their 50s for god's sake.
We stop at winery #1. "Taste" several glasses apiece of wine. On to the next winery, taste. Taste, Repeat, Taste More. We have no idea how many wineries we have been to but eventually come to the realization we are going to have to sober up to get home. We stay at the last winery to eat our picnic lunch. Some kind of mayonnaise-laden tuna or chicken sandwiches that have been warming in the trunk all day long.
We four are walking/stumbling to the car when suddenly (cue dramatic music with danger noises) Mr. Pansy sees the most horrible sight on earth. He is, really, practically in tears over what he sees and yells (which yelling is in and of itself very alarming because in the dictionary beside the word "extremely quiet" is a picture of Mr. Pansy) in his very deep voice but now laden with undertones of horror and a bit of fright: "Oh. My. God! There is a....DOVE stuck in the fence there!"
And it is!! There is a cyclone fence and this poor dove is struggling and struggling and then it would rest limply for awhile before it began its struggles anew. We all freak out. Mr. Pansy, acting as Point Man, leads the four of us very, very tentatively, in single file, toward the poor dove. We are all in a half-crouch because we don't want to startle the dove, you know. And most of us are weeping by now but there is no way out of this rescue/possibly suicidal mission. We have seen the bird so now we have the reponsibility to rescue the dove. Dammit.
We would creep forward a few feet, stop to take deep breaths, and then proceed forward again. Suddenly(!) Mr. Pansy stands straight up and yells in his very deep Charlton Heston-as-God voice: "WAIT! It is NOT a dove." [he squints real hard] "It is a....pigeon!" We hold a strategy meeting and as a group decide that even a pigeon does not deserve to suffer like that. So we crouch down again and continue sneaking up on to the bird who is still struggling and then going completely limp. We are very worried it may not make it before we can save it.
We look around for sticks, cloths, anything to help us hold the pigeon when we get there. Now we are about 30 feet from the bird. We think it has seen us (ya think? It certainly had fucking HEARD us by now.) because it gets very still. Maybe it is just tired but it is still slightly moving. Now we are 20 feet away.....10 feet away...5 feet away. FIVE FUCKING FEET AWAY FROM THE FUCKING TRAPPED BIRD BEFORE WE FUCKING FIGURE OUT IT IS A FUCKING GRAY FUCKING RAG FUCKING TIED TO THE FUCKING CYCLONE FUCKING FENCE.
Now, I am not certain but I do believe the warm mayonnaise sandwiches may have contributed to our states of mind. It couldn't have been the approximate 1 gallon of wine each of us had consumed up to that point in time? On empty stomachs? Naaah. You would think someone would have warned us about how stupid that fucking, goddam..msx#ixv%yhu^@!ep)+?fpppfffgg#t&tt! wine tasting can make you.
Oh, and the weather? A balmy, very light breeze day with occasional gusts to 10mph.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Pansy Au Natural
It all began, long long ago...
...on a blistering hot day. It was 110(F) by 10am and we were several days into a "pleasure bicycle tour" which involved the bus driving all of us up to Oregon, throwing us out with our bikes and a bag of dry rice to get home on....hundreds and hundreds of miles from home. Okay, it was a supported tour with lots of good food but that ruins the mental image of a rigourous tour. On this particularly hot ride day, the group had fractured into sub-sets and the group the Pansys were with knew of a "secret" local water delight. There were no roadside signs and although we waited for the other sub-set riders to show up we finally had to go on. It's that "save yourselves" rule of wilderness treks.
It was fabulous!! Fowler's Falls!! I still don't know where they are except somewhere in Northern California. A river flowing along a rockbed and then dumping over the edge (I swear it was a 20-30 foot drop) into the deepest, greenest, most refreshing pool of water before meandering further on down the mountain. There were some locals there and we watched them for awhile. They were jumping off the top of the waterfall into the pool of water. Looked doable. I got to the edge and froze. I could not do it and I Sooo wanted to jump. But it was very scary. I gnashed my teeth, watched fellow cyclists jump and survive and realized my problem was the exit route. You had to climb up a metal ladder bolted into the overhanging rocks and because the river had undercut the rocks so much over the years you literally were hanging upside down for most of the ladder climb out. And it was wet and slippery. I finally realized the "worse case scenario" would be that if I did slip off the ladder I would merely land in the deep pool of water. Okay. After yet 3 more false starts I took the almost biggest leap of faith I ever have. Oh My Gawd! I Jumped and Jumped and Jumped and Jumped.
Then I got "tired" which meant the Pansy Boisterous Brain Worms swarmed to the fore and took over. On my next jump I hit the water so hard that *somehow* the force just tore off my jersey! Really! It had nothing to do with my hands pulling it up over my head. Now, of course, I was wearing a lovely Pansy sport top so nothing to worry about there. Then, I swam down under the water to retrieve my jersey. *Somehow* the force of that action *tore* off my shorts! Unfortunately, while I expected it to be just a short mid-day moon, I had swum too close to the falls and the "washing machine" effect of the force of that falling water took my shorts away and tumbled them to the bottom of this rather bottomless pool, leaving me bottomless. And the water is crystal clear. It took many, many dives to retrieve my shorts. To the vast and ongoing amusement of everyone but the locals who hastily packed it out of there.
Okay, this would be good/bad enough. But, nooooo!! Each year that bastard Tour Leader designs patches to commemorate the tour. It takes a few months, but the patches show up, the tour participants get together and have a reunion party to show photos, eat, etc. EVERY ONE OF THEM KNEW ABOUT THIS PARTICULAR PATCH BUT ME. Even Mr. Pansy Knew! They all got their patches before I was handed mine. I am then cruelly subjected to just about the worst PayBack ever. Which makes me very proud of them and that piece-of-shit Tour Leader. And hate them immensely, as well. The patch was of a naked redhead woman with an overly ample (in my opinion) butt swimming upstream at Fowler's Falls.
Of course, I have Totally Paid BACK the PayBack, with heavy fines...but those are other stories, for other times.
...on a blistering hot day. It was 110(F) by 10am and we were several days into a "pleasure bicycle tour" which involved the bus driving all of us up to Oregon, throwing us out with our bikes and a bag of dry rice to get home on....hundreds and hundreds of miles from home. Okay, it was a supported tour with lots of good food but that ruins the mental image of a rigourous tour. On this particularly hot ride day, the group had fractured into sub-sets and the group the Pansys were with knew of a "secret" local water delight. There were no roadside signs and although we waited for the other sub-set riders to show up we finally had to go on. It's that "save yourselves" rule of wilderness treks.
It was fabulous!! Fowler's Falls!! I still don't know where they are except somewhere in Northern California. A river flowing along a rockbed and then dumping over the edge (I swear it was a 20-30 foot drop) into the deepest, greenest, most refreshing pool of water before meandering further on down the mountain. There were some locals there and we watched them for awhile. They were jumping off the top of the waterfall into the pool of water. Looked doable. I got to the edge and froze. I could not do it and I Sooo wanted to jump. But it was very scary. I gnashed my teeth, watched fellow cyclists jump and survive and realized my problem was the exit route. You had to climb up a metal ladder bolted into the overhanging rocks and because the river had undercut the rocks so much over the years you literally were hanging upside down for most of the ladder climb out. And it was wet and slippery. I finally realized the "worse case scenario" would be that if I did slip off the ladder I would merely land in the deep pool of water. Okay. After yet 3 more false starts I took the almost biggest leap of faith I ever have. Oh My Gawd! I Jumped and Jumped and Jumped and Jumped.
Then I got "tired" which meant the Pansy Boisterous Brain Worms swarmed to the fore and took over. On my next jump I hit the water so hard that *somehow* the force just tore off my jersey! Really! It had nothing to do with my hands pulling it up over my head. Now, of course, I was wearing a lovely Pansy sport top so nothing to worry about there. Then, I swam down under the water to retrieve my jersey. *Somehow* the force of that action *tore* off my shorts! Unfortunately, while I expected it to be just a short mid-day moon, I had swum too close to the falls and the "washing machine" effect of the force of that falling water took my shorts away and tumbled them to the bottom of this rather bottomless pool, leaving me bottomless. And the water is crystal clear. It took many, many dives to retrieve my shorts. To the vast and ongoing amusement of everyone but the locals who hastily packed it out of there.
Okay, this would be good/bad enough. But, nooooo!! Each year that bastard Tour Leader designs patches to commemorate the tour. It takes a few months, but the patches show up, the tour participants get together and have a reunion party to show photos, eat, etc. EVERY ONE OF THEM KNEW ABOUT THIS PARTICULAR PATCH BUT ME. Even Mr. Pansy Knew! They all got their patches before I was handed mine. I am then cruelly subjected to just about the worst PayBack ever. Which makes me very proud of them and that piece-of-shit Tour Leader. And hate them immensely, as well. The patch was of a naked redhead woman with an overly ample (in my opinion) butt swimming upstream at Fowler's Falls.
Of course, I have Totally Paid BACK the PayBack, with heavy fines...but those are other stories, for other times.
When Pansy's Whip Sings...
.....the Smart People Learn the Chorus Real Fast-Like. This is the tale of How Pansy whipped that silly attorney for a dozen years and he still hasn’t learned: Never Look Back!
It all began long, long ago:
I had been in a toe-to-knee cast for 120 days. It was 42 days before my favorite triathlon, The Great Race (TGR). A partner in the law firm where I had just begun working (I barely knew his name then) was receptive to my rantings about TGR and accepted my challenge: we would go mano-a-womano ironpersons. I loaned him one of my kayaks, offered him as many lessons as he wanted, gave him a complete outline of how to do the run/bike/kayak course and set him up to utterly defeat me. He is a good runner and every year he always left me in the dust during the run. I invariably called out to his disappearing ass what would become my enduring battle cry: Don’t Look Back, You Fucking Bastard!
YEAR ONE: I came across his carcass on the bike course. He was cramped up and stopped. I told him how to get going again. Beat him across the finish line by 15+ minutes. Oh, did I mention I am doing this race after being up since 3am doing paper routes to pay for Pansy Children Braces?
YEAR TWO: This time I caught him a bit closer to the bike/kayak transition. He was cramped up again and that was all she wrote. Beat him by 12+ minutes. After the 3am paper routes, of course.
YEAR THREE: Now he and his wife are doing the race, each in their own Ironman/woman category. She, too, is quite the runner yet I caught up to her 3 times during the run as she puked on the side of the path. She and I took off on our bikes at the same time and I never saw her again. I caught him at the shore of the kayak put-in. I beat them by 10+ minutes each. Yep, the 3am paper routes were still happening.
YEAR FOUR: 8 days before TGR I wrecked my knee on a slippery river rock while kayaking. I had to paddle 4 miles, deliver the kayak home and then go the ER. On race day I finally completed the run a godawful 66 minutes after I started (5.82 miles) and wifey was there at the run/bike transition spot as crew for Attorney. She informed me he was 14 minutes ahead of me. I next saw him gasping in disbelief at the kayak put-in where I had caught him after obviously doing the bike split of my life. I smoked down river in my kayak, mangled knee and all, and beat him by 2minutes; 56seconds. That was a close call. Again with the fucking 3am paper routes.
YEAR FIVE: Same old, same old. I catch him on shore, leave him behind. Get clotheslined in the rapids by rescue ropes meant for others, upside down I go, swim to the shore, have to empty the kayak, portage a dozen rocky yards and get back in the kayak/river. Meanwhile, he smoothly rips through the rapid laughing at me as I am portaging. Almost caught him but he beat me by 19 fucking ass seconds. Stupid, fucking 3am paper routes were starting to catch up with me, I guess.
YEAR SIX: Again with the usual catch him at the bike/kayak transition and totally beat his nasty ass on the river. He did buy his own sissy-la-la sit on top kayak with a rudder to thwart me. That day the last I saw him he was going backwards at the put in with the rudder all askew. Newbie rudder rookie! All together now: 3am, paper routes, fuck. But it was the last year of paper routes. Thank god. And then those ungrateful little bitches did NOT wear their retainers. But I'm not bitter.
The years thereafter have been team trials and his team has never beaten my team. He was a great sport about the public humiliation I subjected him to at the law firm. Lots of tacky loser’s prizes for him; a torso-only mannequin that I dressed up each year in the ridiculous outfits I wore while defeating him and displayed in the reception area; broke into his office in Year 4 to soil his desk with my body posing all over it in victory photos. Especially considering I had a ruined knee that particular year and still whipped him makes my Year 4 victory the sweetest. The outfits I wear are always ridiculous getups because I live and breathe by this credo: Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did....in high heels and a dress, backwards. Eat my ruffly panties, dudes!
Oh, did I mention he is 10 years younger than me and an extremely, insanely competitive Type A personality? Shocking for an Attorney, I know. We happen to share the same primary physician and Doc dropped his jaw when I told him I had beaten Attorney Boy. The doctor actually said "You beat him? But he is so competitive." To which I snark "Evidently he is not competitive ENOUGH." hahahahahhahahahha! Every year Doc likes to hear the race report and makes "notes" in Attorney Boy’s chart! It is mere coincidence that I am no longer employed at that firm.
I take great pleasure in dressing up for all things sports related because I actually could and did produce results. What amazes me the most is that my getups and attitude ANNOY the more testosterone-poisoned of the species. Okay, some women don't like it either but they are more quick to see through my facade than the boys are. One year I was the ironwoman pace setter the week before TGR to establish the time ironwomen had to beat in order to get a restaurant meal coupon prize. I show up all adrenaliney and spouting off. Then off we go: the ironman pace setter, the team pace setter (Runner) and me. I doodle along with the ironman and finally tell him I am sorry but I gotta go at my own pace. And leave him in the dust. I actually catch up to the team rider and draft off him for as long as I can hang on but he is fast. Into my kayak I go and through the rapids where I embarrassingly dump my new-to-me racing boat. I climb back in and paddle on down to the finish line. We are all yukking it up and eating after it's all over. I am teasing the ironman asking where had he been? That I had even waited in the rapids for him for awhile. Oh, yeh, the ironman finally showed about 12 minutes after I had crossed the finish line so for THAT year the ironwomen had to be faster than the ironmen to get their restaurant coupon prize. Sorry about that, ladies (talking to the ironmen there). hahahaahhahaha. Before we all leave a Big Cahuna of TGR (not Eppie, he already knew and loved me) comes lumbering over to me and says:
Him: I owe you an apology.
Me: What on earth for?
Him: Well, you showed up and were acting all stupid. And..well...you are so WHITE there was no way in my mind I could believe you ever work out or do anything athletic. And I was getting on people's cases about WHO had called you in to set the pace.
Me: Well, I am this white because all my workouts are for 2-3 hours before 7:30am since I have young children I have to be home for and take care of the rest of the time.
Him: falls over in a dead faint that this FUCKING FOXY BABE with abs that could crush nuts (ballstothewallnuts are a special favorite) not only whipped the pace setter ironman's ass, she is a Proven Brood Mare as well. Woo hoo!
During another race year I am running across the bridge toward the kayaks and this stupid yahoo ("a Young Male" for the Stupid Impaired reading this story) who had practically wrecked a bunch of us on the bike portion and sucked wheel but couldn't pull us worth shit is directly in front of me. He throws (literally) his bike at the volunteers and starts running yelling "Heads Up! Coming Through! Heads Up!" and is actually shoving people anywhere near him. I am incensed. So I run right behind him yelling as loudly (which is Very Loud...look it up in the dictionary. Right there by the word "very loud" is my picture.) as I can possibly bellow "Heads Up! Asshole Coming Through! Heads Up! Asshole Coming Through!" I was very disappointed that he seemed to not hear what I was saying. I was ready for him to turn on me and just try to pound me. Like that could ever happen. I had that whole fucking crowd on my side, believe you me. He woulda gone down. Even Better....here he is in his 20s and yet I, the Oldest And Still Most Manned Up Woman on Earth (don't you ever forget that) am right fucking behind him!? Puhleeeze.
Then there was the year I won my ironwoman division. In a red bikini and knee-length white lace tights and the usual 4-5 pounds of jewelry and hair ornamentations. I am standing at the time boards where the official finish times are being posted. There are 5 men in front of me all yakking about their finish times and they are looking for their friend's finish time. She was evidently also an ironwoman. One man says "Hey, did you see that stupid clown in the bikini and tights?" Another says "Yeh, what a jerk." Two others are laughing along but the FIFTH man has turned to look around and sees me standing close enough we can practically smell each other's breath. He pales but then smiles because I am smiling and turns to his friends "Well, before you say anything more you might want to know she is standing directly behind you. Right now." The other 4 all laugh him off and say "Sure." But cannot resist looking anyway. And there I am, in my clown outfit, wearing my number which IS the number on the board as the winner ironwoman. I have never heard so much back pedaling, stammering, apologizing, etc. I rip them a buncha new ones for awhile but in my Best Pansy Manner and so of course we end up friends. I then challenged them for the next year. I beat them all except one who DNF. You know how it is with competitive men. They would rather drop out with a "cramp" than ever admit defeat to some clown in a goofsuit. Especially when that clown is The Most Manned Up Woman Ever. hahhahahahahhaa. 2008 will be my 22nd consecutive year in TGR.
It all began long, long ago:
I had been in a toe-to-knee cast for 120 days. It was 42 days before my favorite triathlon, The Great Race (TGR). A partner in the law firm where I had just begun working (I barely knew his name then) was receptive to my rantings about TGR and accepted my challenge: we would go mano-a-womano ironpersons. I loaned him one of my kayaks, offered him as many lessons as he wanted, gave him a complete outline of how to do the run/bike/kayak course and set him up to utterly defeat me. He is a good runner and every year he always left me in the dust during the run. I invariably called out to his disappearing ass what would become my enduring battle cry: Don’t Look Back, You Fucking Bastard!
YEAR ONE: I came across his carcass on the bike course. He was cramped up and stopped. I told him how to get going again. Beat him across the finish line by 15+ minutes. Oh, did I mention I am doing this race after being up since 3am doing paper routes to pay for Pansy Children Braces?
YEAR TWO: This time I caught him a bit closer to the bike/kayak transition. He was cramped up again and that was all she wrote. Beat him by 12+ minutes. After the 3am paper routes, of course.
YEAR THREE: Now he and his wife are doing the race, each in their own Ironman/woman category. She, too, is quite the runner yet I caught up to her 3 times during the run as she puked on the side of the path. She and I took off on our bikes at the same time and I never saw her again. I caught him at the shore of the kayak put-in. I beat them by 10+ minutes each. Yep, the 3am paper routes were still happening.
YEAR FOUR: 8 days before TGR I wrecked my knee on a slippery river rock while kayaking. I had to paddle 4 miles, deliver the kayak home and then go the ER. On race day I finally completed the run a godawful 66 minutes after I started (5.82 miles) and wifey was there at the run/bike transition spot as crew for Attorney. She informed me he was 14 minutes ahead of me. I next saw him gasping in disbelief at the kayak put-in where I had caught him after obviously doing the bike split of my life. I smoked down river in my kayak, mangled knee and all, and beat him by 2minutes; 56seconds. That was a close call. Again with the fucking 3am paper routes.
YEAR FIVE: Same old, same old. I catch him on shore, leave him behind. Get clotheslined in the rapids by rescue ropes meant for others, upside down I go, swim to the shore, have to empty the kayak, portage a dozen rocky yards and get back in the kayak/river. Meanwhile, he smoothly rips through the rapid laughing at me as I am portaging. Almost caught him but he beat me by 19 fucking ass seconds. Stupid, fucking 3am paper routes were starting to catch up with me, I guess.
YEAR SIX: Again with the usual catch him at the bike/kayak transition and totally beat his nasty ass on the river. He did buy his own sissy-la-la sit on top kayak with a rudder to thwart me. That day the last I saw him he was going backwards at the put in with the rudder all askew. Newbie rudder rookie! All together now: 3am, paper routes, fuck. But it was the last year of paper routes. Thank god. And then those ungrateful little bitches did NOT wear their retainers. But I'm not bitter.
The years thereafter have been team trials and his team has never beaten my team. He was a great sport about the public humiliation I subjected him to at the law firm. Lots of tacky loser’s prizes for him; a torso-only mannequin that I dressed up each year in the ridiculous outfits I wore while defeating him and displayed in the reception area; broke into his office in Year 4 to soil his desk with my body posing all over it in victory photos. Especially considering I had a ruined knee that particular year and still whipped him makes my Year 4 victory the sweetest. The outfits I wear are always ridiculous getups because I live and breathe by this credo: Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did....in high heels and a dress, backwards. Eat my ruffly panties, dudes!
Oh, did I mention he is 10 years younger than me and an extremely, insanely competitive Type A personality? Shocking for an Attorney, I know. We happen to share the same primary physician and Doc dropped his jaw when I told him I had beaten Attorney Boy. The doctor actually said "You beat him? But he is so competitive." To which I snark "Evidently he is not competitive ENOUGH." hahahahahhahahahha! Every year Doc likes to hear the race report and makes "notes" in Attorney Boy’s chart! It is mere coincidence that I am no longer employed at that firm.
I take great pleasure in dressing up for all things sports related because I actually could and did produce results. What amazes me the most is that my getups and attitude ANNOY the more testosterone-poisoned of the species. Okay, some women don't like it either but they are more quick to see through my facade than the boys are. One year I was the ironwoman pace setter the week before TGR to establish the time ironwomen had to beat in order to get a restaurant meal coupon prize. I show up all adrenaliney and spouting off. Then off we go: the ironman pace setter, the team pace setter (Runner) and me. I doodle along with the ironman and finally tell him I am sorry but I gotta go at my own pace. And leave him in the dust. I actually catch up to the team rider and draft off him for as long as I can hang on but he is fast. Into my kayak I go and through the rapids where I embarrassingly dump my new-to-me racing boat. I climb back in and paddle on down to the finish line. We are all yukking it up and eating after it's all over. I am teasing the ironman asking where had he been? That I had even waited in the rapids for him for awhile. Oh, yeh, the ironman finally showed about 12 minutes after I had crossed the finish line so for THAT year the ironwomen had to be faster than the ironmen to get their restaurant coupon prize. Sorry about that, ladies (talking to the ironmen there). hahahaahhahaha. Before we all leave a Big Cahuna of TGR (not Eppie, he already knew and loved me) comes lumbering over to me and says:
Him: I owe you an apology.
Me: What on earth for?
Him: Well, you showed up and were acting all stupid. And..well...you are so WHITE there was no way in my mind I could believe you ever work out or do anything athletic. And I was getting on people's cases about WHO had called you in to set the pace.
Me: Well, I am this white because all my workouts are for 2-3 hours before 7:30am since I have young children I have to be home for and take care of the rest of the time.
Him: falls over in a dead faint that this FUCKING FOXY BABE with abs that could crush nuts (ballstothewallnuts are a special favorite) not only whipped the pace setter ironman's ass, she is a Proven Brood Mare as well. Woo hoo!
During another race year I am running across the bridge toward the kayaks and this stupid yahoo ("a Young Male" for the Stupid Impaired reading this story) who had practically wrecked a bunch of us on the bike portion and sucked wheel but couldn't pull us worth shit is directly in front of me. He throws (literally) his bike at the volunteers and starts running yelling "Heads Up! Coming Through! Heads Up!" and is actually shoving people anywhere near him. I am incensed. So I run right behind him yelling as loudly (which is Very Loud...look it up in the dictionary. Right there by the word "very loud" is my picture.) as I can possibly bellow "Heads Up! Asshole Coming Through! Heads Up! Asshole Coming Through!" I was very disappointed that he seemed to not hear what I was saying. I was ready for him to turn on me and just try to pound me. Like that could ever happen. I had that whole fucking crowd on my side, believe you me. He woulda gone down. Even Better....here he is in his 20s and yet I, the Oldest And Still Most Manned Up Woman on Earth (don't you ever forget that) am right fucking behind him!? Puhleeeze.
Then there was the year I won my ironwoman division. In a red bikini and knee-length white lace tights and the usual 4-5 pounds of jewelry and hair ornamentations. I am standing at the time boards where the official finish times are being posted. There are 5 men in front of me all yakking about their finish times and they are looking for their friend's finish time. She was evidently also an ironwoman. One man says "Hey, did you see that stupid clown in the bikini and tights?" Another says "Yeh, what a jerk." Two others are laughing along but the FIFTH man has turned to look around and sees me standing close enough we can practically smell each other's breath. He pales but then smiles because I am smiling and turns to his friends "Well, before you say anything more you might want to know she is standing directly behind you. Right now." The other 4 all laugh him off and say "Sure." But cannot resist looking anyway. And there I am, in my clown outfit, wearing my number which IS the number on the board as the winner ironwoman. I have never heard so much back pedaling, stammering, apologizing, etc. I rip them a buncha new ones for awhile but in my Best Pansy Manner and so of course we end up friends. I then challenged them for the next year. I beat them all except one who DNF. You know how it is with competitive men. They would rather drop out with a "cramp" than ever admit defeat to some clown in a goofsuit. Especially when that clown is The Most Manned Up Woman Ever. hahhahahahahhaa. 2008 will be my 22nd consecutive year in TGR.
#3 -- Pansy Walks Into A Bar And...
There I was, in a bar/pizza joint in Downieville, CA, at high noon....seconds from death by bar fight. It was during a bicycle tour Mr. Pansy and I were on. I don't recall where Mr. Pansy was, I don't recall why I was somehow in charge of the sag van, I don't recall why I was with the Tour Leader's (TL) 14 year old son. The town whistle had just blown, announcing it was NOON/feeding time. The lumberjacks had swarmed from their secret hidey-holes and were congregating in the beer/pizza joint. TL's son and I were hungry so pizza sounded great. It had been a hot, dusty 45 miles so far. TL's son, at 14, was one monster Baby Huey: several inches over 6 feet tall, several dozen pounds over 200 and HE was afraid to go into the beer/pizza place without me. Like I'm gonna be much help if things went weird. Oh, I forget! Even TL's son at his tender young age knew I am the Most Manned Up Woman Ever. And he knew with me things always go weird. I bet he was just going to point at me and blurt "She said it, not me!" and run for cover. Just like his daddy always does.
I was dressed in a skull patterned do-rag; my waist-length red hair was braided in 100 skinny braids all over my head (which I pulled through the vents of my bicycle helmet); I'm wearing 2" skullhead earrings with shiny red eyes; black fishnet bodysuit; feathered bra over the bodysuit; fake spider web tattoos affixed to body parts; leopard fur print miniskirt; black fishnet stockings; red leather scrunch boots. TL son and I walk into the bar. The place becomes very quiet with a few murmurs. Finally, Lumberjack Enormo-saurus steps forward and as spokesperson for the hairybacked hordes asked me:
Lumberjack Enormo-saurus: So, do they light up?
Sweet Pansy: Does what light up?
LE: The skull earrings. Do they light up?
SP: Heehee. No, they are just shiny.
LE: Why are you dressed like that for?
SP: Well, the bicyclists I am with...we are all on vacation and are riding our bicycles from Oregon back down toward Sacramento. I am wearing this silly outfit so that cars and trucks will hopefully see me and not crash into me.
LE: [real suspicious-like] What's with the feathers?
SP: Oh! I found these baby Spotted Owls on the side of the road this morning. I felt so sorry for them that I picked them up and I am nursing them back to health.
Scary, deathly-long silence falls over the bar, the town, the entire county. Tick, tick, tick....then Lumberjack Enormo-saurus begins to shudder, his face gets mottled, his eyes become all squinted up and he finally lets loose with a huge bellow of laughter. Ohmigawd! He liked my joke! They all really, really liked my joke! Hilarity ensues, pitchers of beer are purchased and quaffed, we all eat pizza. Lunch lasts ForEver with lots o' photo opportunities.
At that point in California history lumberjacks and Spotted Owls were a flashpoint topic over which the lumberjacks definitely were inclined to impose a painful death penalty on any suspected tree-huggers. For those of you who think one has to have been actually alive when historical events happen it is NOT true that Pansy is Horrifically Old since she knows LOTS of historical things. There is that thing called "common knowledge" which can be acquired if you pay attention in skool.
For the next 2 days it took us to ride completely out of that area, every logging truck that went by would honk and honk at me as I rode along. I think it's because I have new friends. Lord knows what THEY were thinking.
I was dressed in a skull patterned do-rag; my waist-length red hair was braided in 100 skinny braids all over my head (which I pulled through the vents of my bicycle helmet); I'm wearing 2" skullhead earrings with shiny red eyes; black fishnet bodysuit; feathered bra over the bodysuit; fake spider web tattoos affixed to body parts; leopard fur print miniskirt; black fishnet stockings; red leather scrunch boots. TL son and I walk into the bar. The place becomes very quiet with a few murmurs. Finally, Lumberjack Enormo-saurus steps forward and as spokesperson for the hairybacked hordes asked me:
Lumberjack Enormo-saurus: So, do they light up?
Sweet Pansy: Does what light up?
LE: The skull earrings. Do they light up?
SP: Heehee. No, they are just shiny.
LE: Why are you dressed like that for?
SP: Well, the bicyclists I am with...we are all on vacation and are riding our bicycles from Oregon back down toward Sacramento. I am wearing this silly outfit so that cars and trucks will hopefully see me and not crash into me.
LE: [real suspicious-like] What's with the feathers?
SP: Oh! I found these baby Spotted Owls on the side of the road this morning. I felt so sorry for them that I picked them up and I am nursing them back to health.
Scary, deathly-long silence falls over the bar, the town, the entire county. Tick, tick, tick....then Lumberjack Enormo-saurus begins to shudder, his face gets mottled, his eyes become all squinted up and he finally lets loose with a huge bellow of laughter. Ohmigawd! He liked my joke! They all really, really liked my joke! Hilarity ensues, pitchers of beer are purchased and quaffed, we all eat pizza. Lunch lasts ForEver with lots o' photo opportunities.
At that point in California history lumberjacks and Spotted Owls were a flashpoint topic over which the lumberjacks definitely were inclined to impose a painful death penalty on any suspected tree-huggers. For those of you who think one has to have been actually alive when historical events happen it is NOT true that Pansy is Horrifically Old since she knows LOTS of historical things. There is that thing called "common knowledge" which can be acquired if you pay attention in skool.
For the next 2 days it took us to ride completely out of that area, every logging truck that went by would honk and honk at me as I rode along. I think it's because I have new friends. Lord knows what THEY were thinking.
#2 -- Pansy Walks Into A Bar And...
Once upon a time, long, long ago:
It's Pansy's FIRST DAY out of her leg cast, which she had been wearing for 4 months. When Pansy breaks a leg she does a Very Good Job of breaking the leg. [Remember that, those of you who foolishly incur the Wrath of Pansy.] So, now she's been set free and it's the statewide Harley Rally Weekend up in Redding, CA. Oh, boy! Off a bunch of us head for a weekend of fun. We take over the hotel we were staying at (we were about 75% of the hotel's guests that weekend). We drink, cavort, yell and make loud mayhem all day long in the parking lot up to 10pm, when the hotel owner told us he was sorry but we had to quiet down now. Even though he, and the rest of the clientele, had been greatly enjoying the show we were putting on.
Being the Safe and Sane drinkers that we were AND Pre-Planners, our crowd then walked on down the street to a nearby bar that we had discovered earlier in the day. Walk to the bar, walk back to the hotel. Brilliant! Except for that part about we didn't know what kind of bar it was. It was a "hat" bar: all cowboy, all the time. And very, very redneck. Which apparently includes/requires a Deep and Abiding Hatred of Bikers.
We stagger up to the front door and the Bouncer/Maitre'D guy looks panicked, did some kind of hand signal/high sign toward the inside of the building and asks "How many of you are there?" I am in front of the pack and say "Oh! THIS many." and hold up all 10 of my fingers and proceed to open and close my hands many times. By now the rest of the bouncers are all at the front door and they look at me in stunned silence for a few seconds. Then they laughed and let us all in for only ONE cover charge but herded us over to a particular corner of the bar, up front to the left of the live band. Plus, one of the bigger bouncers then stands nearby for the entire night. Turns out he was there to protect us from the regular patrons.
We, in our innocence, have no clue for a long time that we are in a "hat" bar and we proceed to drink more, laugh, yowl and try to line dance. We wanted some rock and roll tunes but that was not part of the band's deal--they said they were afraid they would get in trouble. So they said. Ppfffttt!! Everyone has their price, you know, so we proceeded to give the band $20 every once in awhile whereupon they defied death and would play two rock and roll songs. Which really did send the rest of the crowd into seizures of anger and dismay and they would all sit and pout and glare at us while we danced to the rock and roll tunes. I don't know why. I mean, after all, we would dance with THEM on the country tunes. Can't we all just get along?
One cowboy came over determined to pick a fight....with Big Guy. And we didn't call him Big Guy for nothing. It was laughable. Shrimp/Cowboy mincingly grabs Big Guy with a finger and thumb on Big Guy's sleeve and snarls "You knocked my beer over. Buy me a new one." Of course that had not happened, and for some reason we think he is joking so we all laugh and continue with our partying. You cain't laugh in the face of a cowboy! Shrimp/Cowboy then pleads with the bouncer to get rid of the "troublemaker." Which bouncer obliged by kicking Shrimp/Cowboy out of the bar. Fortunately, that seemed to convey the message to the rest of the crowd: chill. Which they did. Some even came nearby to look at us up close.
That's when I discovered the Barber Chair. I was very afraid of it. But the cowboys (not the cowgirls for some reason) seemed to survive it so I began to make whiny noises about could I try it? The cowboys looked askance, my crew said they'd buy the drink, so of course we know this is all going to end badly. You (me) get in the barber chair, order the shot you want, the bartendress slams the chair backwards so you are flat on your back, she pours the liquor straight from the bottle into your mouth, you close your mouth, bartendress spins the chair around a few times, then slams you up into an upright position which supposedly makes/helps the shot go straight down. Well, that was pretty danged fun--especially if you scream before/after the shot! Kind of like a weird roller-coaster. I demand MORE shots. I lost count at 14 of them. And that's why it did not go badly after all. The cowboys loved it. Apparently none of them had seen 14+ shots happen before. I finally stopped....because the cheap ass friends we were with ran out of MONEY! Even the cowboys had chipped in on a couple of the shots. Plus, I was, after all, hogging (Harley Pun!) the chair. Off I go for more dancing, yelling, drinking, etc. Then it's time to go back to the hotel. We walk out of the bar yelling goodbye to all our new friends and I trip over a low concrete "curb" in the parking lot (the kind that are at the head of individual parking spots) and am headed down---fast and face first.
As I am falling at an incredible rate of speed it dawns on me that if Someone doesn't do Something NOW there will be serious facial damage and possibly an ambulance ride, etc. In a totally amazing display of reaction time and miraculously choosing the Correct Reaction, I place my hands, palm down, at my armpits so when I hit the ground I am in a perfect Military PushUp position. I proceed to do a pushup and upon realizing what I have done I do about 10 more pushups. Just to prove, of course, that I "meant to do that." Now the cowboys are really impressed. They were at the bar the next night, too, and things were much friendlier that evening right from the start.
Of course, I have already mentioned in earlier stories that I AM the Most Manned Up Woman On Earth. Well, now the Redding Cowboys know so, too. I am grateful that I did indeed save myself from terrible damage and probably some pain. On second thought, I'll bet I would have felt nothing. And it is Totally True: Pansy CAN hold her booze. She has NEVER had a headache, hangover, thrown up, been too "sick" to work, nothing. Worse, she doesn't even change personality! The only down side is she yells until she loses her voice. Some bastards claim that is the only UP side to Pansy Full O' Booze.
It's Pansy's FIRST DAY out of her leg cast, which she had been wearing for 4 months. When Pansy breaks a leg she does a Very Good Job of breaking the leg. [Remember that, those of you who foolishly incur the Wrath of Pansy.] So, now she's been set free and it's the statewide Harley Rally Weekend up in Redding, CA. Oh, boy! Off a bunch of us head for a weekend of fun. We take over the hotel we were staying at (we were about 75% of the hotel's guests that weekend). We drink, cavort, yell and make loud mayhem all day long in the parking lot up to 10pm, when the hotel owner told us he was sorry but we had to quiet down now. Even though he, and the rest of the clientele, had been greatly enjoying the show we were putting on.
Being the Safe and Sane drinkers that we were AND Pre-Planners, our crowd then walked on down the street to a nearby bar that we had discovered earlier in the day. Walk to the bar, walk back to the hotel. Brilliant! Except for that part about we didn't know what kind of bar it was. It was a "hat" bar: all cowboy, all the time. And very, very redneck. Which apparently includes/requires a Deep and Abiding Hatred of Bikers.
We stagger up to the front door and the Bouncer/Maitre'D guy looks panicked, did some kind of hand signal/high sign toward the inside of the building and asks "How many of you are there?" I am in front of the pack and say "Oh! THIS many." and hold up all 10 of my fingers and proceed to open and close my hands many times. By now the rest of the bouncers are all at the front door and they look at me in stunned silence for a few seconds. Then they laughed and let us all in for only ONE cover charge but herded us over to a particular corner of the bar, up front to the left of the live band. Plus, one of the bigger bouncers then stands nearby for the entire night. Turns out he was there to protect us from the regular patrons.
We, in our innocence, have no clue for a long time that we are in a "hat" bar and we proceed to drink more, laugh, yowl and try to line dance. We wanted some rock and roll tunes but that was not part of the band's deal--they said they were afraid they would get in trouble. So they said. Ppfffttt!! Everyone has their price, you know, so we proceeded to give the band $20 every once in awhile whereupon they defied death and would play two rock and roll songs. Which really did send the rest of the crowd into seizures of anger and dismay and they would all sit and pout and glare at us while we danced to the rock and roll tunes. I don't know why. I mean, after all, we would dance with THEM on the country tunes. Can't we all just get along?
One cowboy came over determined to pick a fight....with Big Guy. And we didn't call him Big Guy for nothing. It was laughable. Shrimp/Cowboy mincingly grabs Big Guy with a finger and thumb on Big Guy's sleeve and snarls "You knocked my beer over. Buy me a new one." Of course that had not happened, and for some reason we think he is joking so we all laugh and continue with our partying. You cain't laugh in the face of a cowboy! Shrimp/Cowboy then pleads with the bouncer to get rid of the "troublemaker." Which bouncer obliged by kicking Shrimp/Cowboy out of the bar. Fortunately, that seemed to convey the message to the rest of the crowd: chill. Which they did. Some even came nearby to look at us up close.
That's when I discovered the Barber Chair. I was very afraid of it. But the cowboys (not the cowgirls for some reason) seemed to survive it so I began to make whiny noises about could I try it? The cowboys looked askance, my crew said they'd buy the drink, so of course we know this is all going to end badly. You (me) get in the barber chair, order the shot you want, the bartendress slams the chair backwards so you are flat on your back, she pours the liquor straight from the bottle into your mouth, you close your mouth, bartendress spins the chair around a few times, then slams you up into an upright position which supposedly makes/helps the shot go straight down. Well, that was pretty danged fun--especially if you scream before/after the shot! Kind of like a weird roller-coaster. I demand MORE shots. I lost count at 14 of them. And that's why it did not go badly after all. The cowboys loved it. Apparently none of them had seen 14+ shots happen before. I finally stopped....because the cheap ass friends we were with ran out of MONEY! Even the cowboys had chipped in on a couple of the shots. Plus, I was, after all, hogging (Harley Pun!) the chair. Off I go for more dancing, yelling, drinking, etc. Then it's time to go back to the hotel. We walk out of the bar yelling goodbye to all our new friends and I trip over a low concrete "curb" in the parking lot (the kind that are at the head of individual parking spots) and am headed down---fast and face first.
As I am falling at an incredible rate of speed it dawns on me that if Someone doesn't do Something NOW there will be serious facial damage and possibly an ambulance ride, etc. In a totally amazing display of reaction time and miraculously choosing the Correct Reaction, I place my hands, palm down, at my armpits so when I hit the ground I am in a perfect Military PushUp position. I proceed to do a pushup and upon realizing what I have done I do about 10 more pushups. Just to prove, of course, that I "meant to do that." Now the cowboys are really impressed. They were at the bar the next night, too, and things were much friendlier that evening right from the start.
Of course, I have already mentioned in earlier stories that I AM the Most Manned Up Woman On Earth. Well, now the Redding Cowboys know so, too. I am grateful that I did indeed save myself from terrible damage and probably some pain. On second thought, I'll bet I would have felt nothing. And it is Totally True: Pansy CAN hold her booze. She has NEVER had a headache, hangover, thrown up, been too "sick" to work, nothing. Worse, she doesn't even change personality! The only down side is she yells until she loses her voice. Some bastards claim that is the only UP side to Pansy Full O' Booze.
#1 -- Pansy Walks Into A Bar And...
Once upon a time, long, long ago:
Pansy, Mr. Pansy, Pansy's Stupid Elderly Baby Sister (SEBS) and SEBS's Hubby went to a local, very small capacity bar to hear Willie Dixon LIVE!!! We, being completely cheap assed Pansys, got there hours and hours early to avoid the cover charge. We ate some really crappy bar food and it was hot in there. So Pansy had to drink adult beverages for hours and hours. Willie Dixon was hot, hot, hot and totally worth it, of course.
At evening's end, upon leaving the bar, Pansy heads straight for the car across the street, momentarily forgetting that the wooden Old Tyme sidewalk is raised above the street. Instead of walking to the left or right to go down the steps she walks off the sidewalk which at that location is about 24 inches above street level. Down goes her foot which collapses upon contact with the street and she is now down onto her right knee. Along comes her left foot which also collapses onto her left knee but is a step "ahead" of her right foot/leg. Because she was very focused on walking toward the car, the next step with her right leg Pansy is back up onto her foot and she moves it forward, ahead of her still downed left knee. Then the same with her left leg...straight back up onto her left foot so now she is standing again and walking forward. This would have been all fine and good except then she randomly kept doing the walk on her feet a couple steps/down on her knees for a couple "steps"/walk on her feet thing--again and again and again--in her attempt to suavely get to the car. The problem was SEBS's Hubby kept shouting various words of encouragement such as:
"Touchdown!"
"She's Safe!"
"In the hole!"
"Gooooaaaalllllll!!"
This only encouraged the crowd to cheer and yell for "More!" I politely told them all to fuck off and said I'd like to see THEM walk any better with these stupid high heels someone had sneaked onto my feet and the road was obviously defective, hazardous and pothole-filled. They showed their sympathy with louder laughter and asking Pansy to "do that again." They were just jealous of Pansy's Incredible Coordination And Rockin' Reflexes. She never even had to put a hand down to keep her balance. Now, yes, this is a short and not very intricate story but it is presented here as Proof Positive that Pansy is Scary Coordinated no matter what. Sort of. Not even too many scuffs on her knees when it was finally all over.
Pansy, Mr. Pansy, Pansy's Stupid Elderly Baby Sister (SEBS) and SEBS's Hubby went to a local, very small capacity bar to hear Willie Dixon LIVE!!! We, being completely cheap assed Pansys, got there hours and hours early to avoid the cover charge. We ate some really crappy bar food and it was hot in there. So Pansy had to drink adult beverages for hours and hours. Willie Dixon was hot, hot, hot and totally worth it, of course.
At evening's end, upon leaving the bar, Pansy heads straight for the car across the street, momentarily forgetting that the wooden Old Tyme sidewalk is raised above the street. Instead of walking to the left or right to go down the steps she walks off the sidewalk which at that location is about 24 inches above street level. Down goes her foot which collapses upon contact with the street and she is now down onto her right knee. Along comes her left foot which also collapses onto her left knee but is a step "ahead" of her right foot/leg. Because she was very focused on walking toward the car, the next step with her right leg Pansy is back up onto her foot and she moves it forward, ahead of her still downed left knee. Then the same with her left leg...straight back up onto her left foot so now she is standing again and walking forward. This would have been all fine and good except then she randomly kept doing the walk on her feet a couple steps/down on her knees for a couple "steps"/walk on her feet thing--again and again and again--in her attempt to suavely get to the car. The problem was SEBS's Hubby kept shouting various words of encouragement such as:
"Touchdown!"
"She's Safe!"
"In the hole!"
"Gooooaaaalllllll!!"
This only encouraged the crowd to cheer and yell for "More!" I politely told them all to fuck off and said I'd like to see THEM walk any better with these stupid high heels someone had sneaked onto my feet and the road was obviously defective, hazardous and pothole-filled. They showed their sympathy with louder laughter and asking Pansy to "do that again." They were just jealous of Pansy's Incredible Coordination And Rockin' Reflexes. She never even had to put a hand down to keep her balance. Now, yes, this is a short and not very intricate story but it is presented here as Proof Positive that Pansy is Scary Coordinated no matter what. Sort of. Not even too many scuffs on her knees when it was finally all over.
Friday, January 25, 2008
PANSY LOVES AMERICAN RED ROSES
Once upon a time, long, long ago:
I have always been quite the feminist despite my Exceptionally Large and Manly Muttonchops, Heavy Mustache and other manly etceteras. At the Heights of my Feminist-ism, one day, on the very same day in fact, I saw a print ad and a television ad for a new tampon. All of the FULL CAPS used below were present in the original print ad:
New, Improved, Fresh-Scented, Extra Absorbent, Tampons That Customize Themselves To YOU, TODAY'S AMERICAN WOMAN. Because, YOU, TODAY'S AMERICAN WOMAN, deserve the very best in feminine protection, comfort, fresh-scentedness and reliability. And that's where [please insert (omg! Tampon pun!) name of brand] Tampons are Unique...just like YOU, TODAY'S AMERICAN WOMAN.
The print ad went into extreme detail about this particular tampon's uniqueness. The ad carefully explained that YOU, TODAY'S AMERICAN WOMAN are as precious and special as an AMERICAN RED ROSE. And, like an AMERICAN RED ROSE, YOU, TODAY'S AMERICAN WOMAN have an "inside flower". [brand name]tampons are uniquely designed, when in use, to open up much like an AMERICAN RED ROSE and "fill every inside inch of YOU, TODAY'S AMERICAN WOMAN." YOU, TODAY'S AMERICAN WOMAN need never worry again about protection, comfort, fresh-scentedness and reliability with [brand name] tampons.
I FUCKING KID YOU NOT.
And the television ad!!! Oh, it was the Greatest! It showed AN AMERICAN WOMAN, with a large vase of AMERICAN RED ROSES in the background demonstrating how this wonderful new tampon worked. AMERICAN WOMEN, by the way, are extremely blonde, white, blue eyes and dress Very Perky in the style of Picadilly Circus which was super "in" at that time--even though Picadilly Circus is in London. But fuck geographic details and facts. The television AMERICAN WOMAN dipped an ordinary, nasty, worthless tampon into a glass of water. It just got all waterlogged, stayed in its same thin, hot dog shape and DROOPED when lifted out of the glass of water...AND left a dribble trail to the nearby saucer (said in a dismissive tone of voice). Well! All of us AMERICAN WOMEN can sure relate to THAT scenario and I ain't talking tampons here. BUT! No need for despair, because then the AMERICAN WOMAN demonstrated the wondorous, new and unique tampon. IT, when placed in the glass of water, did in fucking fact "bloom" into a kind of AMERICAN RED ROSE shape and it did NOT DROOP or DRIBBLE when moved from glass to saucer. In my excitement I do believe I got all wet and droopy and possibly even dribbled a little bit.
This was just too much for me. I raced to the store, bought a supply of this great new invention for ME, AN AMERICAN WOMAN. I tried to convince all my girlfriends to do the same. They would not. What was wrong with those stupid bitches?
And because they would NOT help me out, it took me months to acquire enough supplies but finally I was ready. I bought various items from a florist and I made just the most beautiful AMERICAN RED ROSE bouquet out of the used tampons--which had quite satisfyingly filled every inside inch of me. I arranged the faux roses in a foam holder in a plastic vase, packed the whole thing up and shipped the bouquet to the company's main office--at a not incidental cost to me considering I made all of $1.35 an hour at the time--with a wonderful essay enclosed about how I treasured their product so much I wanted to present them with this unique and relevant AMERICAN WOMEN LOVE AMERICAN RED ROSES "award".
I still have never heard back from them. Rude, inconsiderate corporate pigs.
I have never heard any human, woman or man, anywhere, use "flower" in that context EXCEPT that whack-case Oprah. SHE, on television, has referred to "her flower". I cannot express how much thinking of Her and her fucking "flower" just gives me the heaves. And the heebie-jeebies. And full body spasms and I ain't talking good spasms here. I have repeatedly advised others in her circumstance: get a damn light installed in your closet and turn it on. So you can see the doorknob and come out. The stupid bitch just really needs to fucking get it fucking over with already. And it would save her all that damn hush money she pays Steadman. Maybe she would even send just SOME of that hush money to me as her consultant. I would be satisfied with 50%.
I have always been quite the feminist despite my Exceptionally Large and Manly Muttonchops, Heavy Mustache and other manly etceteras. At the Heights of my Feminist-ism, one day, on the very same day in fact, I saw a print ad and a television ad for a new tampon. All of the FULL CAPS used below were present in the original print ad:
New, Improved, Fresh-Scented, Extra Absorbent, Tampons That Customize Themselves To YOU, TODAY'S AMERICAN WOMAN. Because, YOU, TODAY'S AMERICAN WOMAN, deserve the very best in feminine protection, comfort, fresh-scentedness and reliability. And that's where [please insert (omg! Tampon pun!) name of brand] Tampons are Unique...just like YOU, TODAY'S AMERICAN WOMAN.
The print ad went into extreme detail about this particular tampon's uniqueness. The ad carefully explained that YOU, TODAY'S AMERICAN WOMAN are as precious and special as an AMERICAN RED ROSE. And, like an AMERICAN RED ROSE, YOU, TODAY'S AMERICAN WOMAN have an "inside flower". [brand name]tampons are uniquely designed, when in use, to open up much like an AMERICAN RED ROSE and "fill every inside inch of YOU, TODAY'S AMERICAN WOMAN." YOU, TODAY'S AMERICAN WOMAN need never worry again about protection, comfort, fresh-scentedness and reliability with [brand name] tampons.
I FUCKING KID YOU NOT.
And the television ad!!! Oh, it was the Greatest! It showed AN AMERICAN WOMAN, with a large vase of AMERICAN RED ROSES in the background demonstrating how this wonderful new tampon worked. AMERICAN WOMEN, by the way, are extremely blonde, white, blue eyes and dress Very Perky in the style of Picadilly Circus which was super "in" at that time--even though Picadilly Circus is in London. But fuck geographic details and facts. The television AMERICAN WOMAN dipped an ordinary, nasty, worthless tampon into a glass of water. It just got all waterlogged, stayed in its same thin, hot dog shape and DROOPED when lifted out of the glass of water...AND left a dribble trail to the nearby saucer (said in a dismissive tone of voice). Well! All of us AMERICAN WOMEN can sure relate to THAT scenario and I ain't talking tampons here. BUT! No need for despair, because then the AMERICAN WOMAN demonstrated the wondorous, new and unique tampon. IT, when placed in the glass of water, did in fucking fact "bloom" into a kind of AMERICAN RED ROSE shape and it did NOT DROOP or DRIBBLE when moved from glass to saucer. In my excitement I do believe I got all wet and droopy and possibly even dribbled a little bit.
This was just too much for me. I raced to the store, bought a supply of this great new invention for ME, AN AMERICAN WOMAN. I tried to convince all my girlfriends to do the same. They would not. What was wrong with those stupid bitches?
And because they would NOT help me out, it took me months to acquire enough supplies but finally I was ready. I bought various items from a florist and I made just the most beautiful AMERICAN RED ROSE bouquet out of the used tampons--which had quite satisfyingly filled every inside inch of me. I arranged the faux roses in a foam holder in a plastic vase, packed the whole thing up and shipped the bouquet to the company's main office--at a not incidental cost to me considering I made all of $1.35 an hour at the time--with a wonderful essay enclosed about how I treasured their product so much I wanted to present them with this unique and relevant AMERICAN WOMEN LOVE AMERICAN RED ROSES "award".
I still have never heard back from them. Rude, inconsiderate corporate pigs.
I have never heard any human, woman or man, anywhere, use "flower" in that context EXCEPT that whack-case Oprah. SHE, on television, has referred to "her flower". I cannot express how much thinking of Her and her fucking "flower" just gives me the heaves. And the heebie-jeebies. And full body spasms and I ain't talking good spasms here. I have repeatedly advised others in her circumstance: get a damn light installed in your closet and turn it on. So you can see the doorknob and come out. The stupid bitch just really needs to fucking get it fucking over with already. And it would save her all that damn hush money she pays Steadman. Maybe she would even send just SOME of that hush money to me as her consultant. I would be satisfied with 50%.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Payback Is A Bitch Named Pansy
So. Pansy has this best friend that Pansy has known SINCE LONG BEFORE first time ever Pansy saw Mr. Pansy's face. Don't be frightened by the visual you just conjured up as to how old, wrinkled, haggard and used up said best friend has got to be. Nevertheless, La Bella Pansy still allows said horribly antiqued, haggy friend to be seen in public with Pansy on the occasional occasion.
When first ever they met, Pansy referred to friend as "that B-word"; as our relationship escalated Pansy started referring to friend as "that C-word". However, Pansy confesses [hangs head in shame here] that Pansy has been wrong about disgustingly dusty, creased, elderly friend from the start. This friend should be referred to as "that DoubleG-word" at minimum. Pansy would Sooo DO DoubleG so fast, so much and so long if ever given the opportunity, even though neither Pansy nor DoubleG are Lesbanese. Because DoubleG is a fucking babe. Like Pansy is a babe, although Pansy is a More Politely Sized BigD fucking babe. SPECIAL EDIT FOR THE STUPID IMPAIRED: DoubleG is indeed a direct reference to friend's BOOB SIZE. Sure, it's not quite accurate. She won't let me get "close" enough to really find out. What a fucking prude that bitch can pretend to be.
Four of us friends are trying to make a lunch date and always one of them other bitches had a "conflict". Pansy never lets anything conflict with her feeding trough time. Tiring of the email merry-go-round crap, I just SET the damn lunch date already, tell them all to fuck off and finally it's a done deal. God, I really would so do DoubleG. Anyways, everyone agrees to the lunch date, but DoubleG's response email includes this question: "Okay, but who is [name of most major cahuna in the law firm I work for] and why is he coming to the lunch?"
I almost died. I cannot believe it. Somehow I had accidentally cc'd this Boss of the Bosses attorney into this gruesomely (yet wondorously) profane e-mail! I freaking actually sweated the proverbial bullets for 24 hours before I found out that the "cc" was a joke on me perpetrated by DoubleG! I was vulnerable to the trick since I have nerve damage in my hands from chemo and I often hit many odd keystroke combinations resulting in weird computer mess ups which I spend a lot of time correcting. Things that I don't even know how I made happen.
Now it is ON. That bitch DoubleG fucking punked ME! Pansy Punk Queen Palmetto! I must needs kill her back, but good. And that DoubleG does have ever the most hot humpity-humpable Back, too. Mmm, mmm, mmm! Most of all I am amazed, horrified, mortified and really feeling highly vindictive that I fell for this e-mail trick of hers so totally hook, line and sinker. But I am worried because I am not immediately coming up with any ideas. I am in such shock that my normally quite reliable Brain Worms have been equally stunned. I can NOT visualize any payback schemes! Oh, how I fret and gnash my fangs and wring my claws. I shed bitter, scaly tears. The days quickly go by and now it is The Day Of The Luncheon.
What to do? What to do? Suddenly(!), on the way in to work, the Brain Worms burst out of their coma and it's EUREKA TIME! Oh, bless you, Brain Worms, bless you! I stopped at the office of a doctor. I do not know this doctor or anyone there, but I pop in, tell the staff "No, I do not fucking have an appointment here", snag a business card and continue on to work. Oh, I am hardly able to endure the wait for this lunch now, I tell you! I inform no one else attending the lunch of my Grand Plan since they can then add to the impact by truly being innocently taken in as much as that fucking, back stabbing DoubleG bitch so-called best friend of mine.
Once at lunch, I excused myself to go wash my hands which almost gave me away since they all know I usually just meticulously lick my hands spanking clean before meals. How I'd like to spank some o' that DoubleG! Spank her all pink and sweaty! I find the bar waitress and asked her to deliver an orange juice to my friend with the doctor's business card as if the drink came from a secret admirer. Waitress was a bit reluctant but I swore (and not even in foul language!) to her I was a friend of DoubleG and this was just a payback. After I got back to the table, a bit later the waitress comes over with the orange juice and she says "compliments from a gentleman admirer at the bar". She hands the drink to DoubleG who gets all flushed, batting her eyelashes and giggly. On the card I had written: "Call me! I can repair your prior work!" and a big smiley face with hearts for eyes. The card is for a plastic surgeon.
Well guess who fucking totally fell for it? HAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHA! YESSSS!! That STOOPID Double-Fucking-G whore! With her totally natural DoubleG-ness she has spent her lifetime being annoyed by stoopid assholes making inappropriate remarks. She makes Carol Doda look like a pre-teen. I know her "weaknesses" as well as she knows mine! DoubleG just about went ballistic as she looked the card over and over, unable to believe the fucking nerve of the message. She even turned around to find the beast to give him a piece of her mind. How providential that two completely innocent business men were sitting at the bar at that moment! DoubleG began to really get mad and in a quite firm tone of voice demanded of the waitress to point out exactly who had sent this fucking drink and card to her. The waitress, in an Oscar-worthy performance, looked at the card and feigned great shock herself. I am sing-songing "DoubleG has a boyyyy...friend" and the others are asking "What does the card say?" because they did not know. They also then get all incensed. DoubleG is also becoming mortified at the thought that some man has decided that not only has she had implants but that they need fucking fixing! I finally cannot prevent my laughing.
It took DoubleG awhile to really believe I had pulled this punk on her. She was a bit worried that a surgeon really had sent her the juice/card and that I was merely pretending I had done a punk on her.
Now it is EVEN MORE FUCKING ON! Neither of us will be safe for quite some time, I fear. Don't start something with Pansy what you don't have the strength to finish to the death. Of one of us.
p.s. Pansy is DisPleased. Some piece of shit, loser slow-brained fucker thinks Pansy is running some kind of fucking "request blog" here and asked for this particular story. Dear Mr. Slow who is now going to be even more slow: Pansy was going to relate this story ANYWAYS so do not think you have been granted your "request." Know this, Mr. Most Slow: when Pansy finally tracks you down--and, oh, she most certainly shall no matter how far you run, how deep you burrow in your futile efforts to escape Her Wrath--Pansy is going to tear you so many new assholes and so thoroughly remove all your undersized, unused, useless equipment your new name will be "Swiss Miss".
And, furthermore......[passes out in apoplectic seizure from rant against Slow Man]
Brain Worm #1: Sheesh! Is she out?
Brain Worm #2: Yes.
Brain Worm #1: Okay. Hey, people, go ahead. Ask Pansy for a story. Even if you don't know her, just toss out a topic. We Brain Worms can gare-rawn-teee Pansy has a story. Mebbe she'll even make one up. Not that she has time to do that....she has too many Real Life Adventure stories still to spew.
Brain Worm #2: Ssshhhh! She's coming to.
Pansy awakens, groans, look around. "Now. Where was I? Oh! Yeh. And then there was the time......"
When first ever they met, Pansy referred to friend as "that B-word"; as our relationship escalated Pansy started referring to friend as "that C-word". However, Pansy confesses [hangs head in shame here] that Pansy has been wrong about disgustingly dusty, creased, elderly friend from the start. This friend should be referred to as "that DoubleG-word" at minimum. Pansy would Sooo DO DoubleG so fast, so much and so long if ever given the opportunity, even though neither Pansy nor DoubleG are Lesbanese. Because DoubleG is a fucking babe. Like Pansy is a babe, although Pansy is a More Politely Sized BigD fucking babe. SPECIAL EDIT FOR THE STUPID IMPAIRED: DoubleG is indeed a direct reference to friend's BOOB SIZE. Sure, it's not quite accurate. She won't let me get "close" enough to really find out. What a fucking prude that bitch can pretend to be.
Four of us friends are trying to make a lunch date and always one of them other bitches had a "conflict". Pansy never lets anything conflict with her feeding trough time. Tiring of the email merry-go-round crap, I just SET the damn lunch date already, tell them all to fuck off and finally it's a done deal. God, I really would so do DoubleG. Anyways, everyone agrees to the lunch date, but DoubleG's response email includes this question: "Okay, but who is [name of most major cahuna in the law firm I work for] and why is he coming to the lunch?"
I almost died. I cannot believe it. Somehow I had accidentally cc'd this Boss of the Bosses attorney into this gruesomely (yet wondorously) profane e-mail! I freaking actually sweated the proverbial bullets for 24 hours before I found out that the "cc" was a joke on me perpetrated by DoubleG! I was vulnerable to the trick since I have nerve damage in my hands from chemo and I often hit many odd keystroke combinations resulting in weird computer mess ups which I spend a lot of time correcting. Things that I don't even know how I made happen.
Now it is ON. That bitch DoubleG fucking punked ME! Pansy Punk Queen Palmetto! I must needs kill her back, but good. And that DoubleG does have ever the most hot humpity-humpable Back, too. Mmm, mmm, mmm! Most of all I am amazed, horrified, mortified and really feeling highly vindictive that I fell for this e-mail trick of hers so totally hook, line and sinker. But I am worried because I am not immediately coming up with any ideas. I am in such shock that my normally quite reliable Brain Worms have been equally stunned. I can NOT visualize any payback schemes! Oh, how I fret and gnash my fangs and wring my claws. I shed bitter, scaly tears. The days quickly go by and now it is The Day Of The Luncheon.
What to do? What to do? Suddenly(!), on the way in to work, the Brain Worms burst out of their coma and it's EUREKA TIME! Oh, bless you, Brain Worms, bless you! I stopped at the office of a doctor. I do not know this doctor or anyone there, but I pop in, tell the staff "No, I do not fucking have an appointment here", snag a business card and continue on to work. Oh, I am hardly able to endure the wait for this lunch now, I tell you! I inform no one else attending the lunch of my Grand Plan since they can then add to the impact by truly being innocently taken in as much as that fucking, back stabbing DoubleG bitch so-called best friend of mine.
Once at lunch, I excused myself to go wash my hands which almost gave me away since they all know I usually just meticulously lick my hands spanking clean before meals. How I'd like to spank some o' that DoubleG! Spank her all pink and sweaty! I find the bar waitress and asked her to deliver an orange juice to my friend with the doctor's business card as if the drink came from a secret admirer. Waitress was a bit reluctant but I swore (and not even in foul language!) to her I was a friend of DoubleG and this was just a payback. After I got back to the table, a bit later the waitress comes over with the orange juice and she says "compliments from a gentleman admirer at the bar". She hands the drink to DoubleG who gets all flushed, batting her eyelashes and giggly. On the card I had written: "Call me! I can repair your prior work!" and a big smiley face with hearts for eyes. The card is for a plastic surgeon.
Well guess who fucking totally fell for it? HAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHA! YESSSS!! That STOOPID Double-Fucking-G whore! With her totally natural DoubleG-ness she has spent her lifetime being annoyed by stoopid assholes making inappropriate remarks. She makes Carol Doda look like a pre-teen. I know her "weaknesses" as well as she knows mine! DoubleG just about went ballistic as she looked the card over and over, unable to believe the fucking nerve of the message. She even turned around to find the beast to give him a piece of her mind. How providential that two completely innocent business men were sitting at the bar at that moment! DoubleG began to really get mad and in a quite firm tone of voice demanded of the waitress to point out exactly who had sent this fucking drink and card to her. The waitress, in an Oscar-worthy performance, looked at the card and feigned great shock herself. I am sing-songing "DoubleG has a boyyyy...friend" and the others are asking "What does the card say?" because they did not know. They also then get all incensed. DoubleG is also becoming mortified at the thought that some man has decided that not only has she had implants but that they need fucking fixing! I finally cannot prevent my laughing.
It took DoubleG awhile to really believe I had pulled this punk on her. She was a bit worried that a surgeon really had sent her the juice/card and that I was merely pretending I had done a punk on her.
Now it is EVEN MORE FUCKING ON! Neither of us will be safe for quite some time, I fear. Don't start something with Pansy what you don't have the strength to finish to the death. Of one of us.
p.s. Pansy is DisPleased. Some piece of shit, loser slow-brained fucker thinks Pansy is running some kind of fucking "request blog" here and asked for this particular story. Dear Mr. Slow who is now going to be even more slow: Pansy was going to relate this story ANYWAYS so do not think you have been granted your "request." Know this, Mr. Most Slow: when Pansy finally tracks you down--and, oh, she most certainly shall no matter how far you run, how deep you burrow in your futile efforts to escape Her Wrath--Pansy is going to tear you so many new assholes and so thoroughly remove all your undersized, unused, useless equipment your new name will be "Swiss Miss".
And, furthermore......[passes out in apoplectic seizure from rant against Slow Man]
Brain Worm #1: Sheesh! Is she out?
Brain Worm #2: Yes.
Brain Worm #1: Okay. Hey, people, go ahead. Ask Pansy for a story. Even if you don't know her, just toss out a topic. We Brain Worms can gare-rawn-teee Pansy has a story. Mebbe she'll even make one up. Not that she has time to do that....she has too many Real Life Adventure stories still to spew.
Brain Worm #2: Ssshhhh! She's coming to.
Pansy awakens, groans, look around. "Now. Where was I? Oh! Yeh. And then there was the time......"
Monday, January 21, 2008
Was That A Masked Donkey?
Mr. Pansy saw a kid on a bike ride (I did not see said kid since I was busy studying the stripes on the road as I pedaled along) wearing a Mexican Wrestling full-face mask. Mr. Pansy now strongly desires to get such a mask for ME. He feeds the Pansy Monster even as he disdains and mocks it.
Then he laughs because he just "knows" I will pick the worst possible mask, hopefully the one representing the most-hated wrestler. And then when I wear said bad choice mask over to my daughter Sexy Mexican's house, I will be beseiged by whatever other 2 dozen Mexicans happen to be at her house (because Mexicans always have hordes of people in their house at all hours) and get stabbed, shot, stripped down, tied up, raped in all ways, injected with multiple bad drugs, have my head and camel toe shaved (or re-shaved as the location may warrant), dragged through the streets by my heels behind a donkey.......and this is where Mr. Pansy runs out of descriptive events.
He asks me if he left anything out. I said "Well, how about I get dragged through the streets after the donkey has his way with me too?" Mr. Pansy, amazed that he had not thought of THAT, says, "OK, that should do it." I love it that Mr. Pansy and I can share our thoughts and feelings.
So, about a week after the First Donkey Conversation, as we are walking into the grocery store, I tell Mr. Pansy: "Hey! You forgot all about the fact that the horde of Mexicans would also carve their initials in my flesh, give me huge tattoos in Olde Englishe Thugge Scripte (hopefully across my abdomen) AND a few brands." Mr. Pansy smiles and agrees that does sound plausible but then threw a monkey wrench in the works by expressing doubts that Branding is a traditional Mexican heritage thing. We move on to the produce department.
Plus, he wants the donkey to have nipple piercings! Well, I say there is no way MY donkey would have nipple piercings. I mean, donkeys don't even have enough nipples to make that kind of piercing very extraordinary. And their nipples are located in a somewhat unobservable part of the donkey's anatomy. Do male donkeys even HAVE nipples? Besides, MY donkey should have Prince Albert piercings. Several in fact. I find my favorite pickles, which that fucking grocery store is ALWAYS out of, so I picked up several jars.
Now Mr. Pansy says I cannot get the mask at just a costume store. It has to be a "REAL" mask which means a foray into The Bad Part Of Town where a stray bullet will hit our car or something. And even though I have found the Perfect Mexican Wrestling full-face mask on the internet, I still do not possess one. Because Mr. Pansy is not comfortable with ordering stuff from the internet.
We are currently at a Mexican Stand Off in our negotiations.
Then he laughs because he just "knows" I will pick the worst possible mask, hopefully the one representing the most-hated wrestler. And then when I wear said bad choice mask over to my daughter Sexy Mexican's house, I will be beseiged by whatever other 2 dozen Mexicans happen to be at her house (because Mexicans always have hordes of people in their house at all hours) and get stabbed, shot, stripped down, tied up, raped in all ways, injected with multiple bad drugs, have my head and camel toe shaved (or re-shaved as the location may warrant), dragged through the streets by my heels behind a donkey.......and this is where Mr. Pansy runs out of descriptive events.
He asks me if he left anything out. I said "Well, how about I get dragged through the streets after the donkey has his way with me too?" Mr. Pansy, amazed that he had not thought of THAT, says, "OK, that should do it." I love it that Mr. Pansy and I can share our thoughts and feelings.
So, about a week after the First Donkey Conversation, as we are walking into the grocery store, I tell Mr. Pansy: "Hey! You forgot all about the fact that the horde of Mexicans would also carve their initials in my flesh, give me huge tattoos in Olde Englishe Thugge Scripte (hopefully across my abdomen) AND a few brands." Mr. Pansy smiles and agrees that does sound plausible but then threw a monkey wrench in the works by expressing doubts that Branding is a traditional Mexican heritage thing. We move on to the produce department.
Plus, he wants the donkey to have nipple piercings! Well, I say there is no way MY donkey would have nipple piercings. I mean, donkeys don't even have enough nipples to make that kind of piercing very extraordinary. And their nipples are located in a somewhat unobservable part of the donkey's anatomy. Do male donkeys even HAVE nipples? Besides, MY donkey should have Prince Albert piercings. Several in fact. I find my favorite pickles, which that fucking grocery store is ALWAYS out of, so I picked up several jars.
Now Mr. Pansy says I cannot get the mask at just a costume store. It has to be a "REAL" mask which means a foray into The Bad Part Of Town where a stray bullet will hit our car or something. And even though I have found the Perfect Mexican Wrestling full-face mask on the internet, I still do not possess one. Because Mr. Pansy is not comfortable with ordering stuff from the internet.
We are currently at a Mexican Stand Off in our negotiations.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Mr. Pansy Chainsaw Massacre Stories Nos. 3, 4, 5
Story No. 3:
Mr. Pansy and I had been in the backyard perpetrating general mayhem with the chainsaw. In the requisite short shorts, sandals, with the ubiquitous cans o' beer. Productively chainsawing all day long and now......Dum da Dum Dum Dum(b)!.....it was coming up on dusk. Which we STILL had not learned was a very bad thing when combined with us, a chainsaw and the ubiquitous cans o' beer.
This time, I confess, it was MY FAULT. We had been removing an old, rotty fence but had left a post standing since it marked where a faucet pipe with hose bib was sticking up from underground. I decided that the remaining post was just a bit too tall and directed Mr. Pansy to cut it down to the same height as the faucet pipe. He swigs down a couple swallows of beer (chainsawing is thirsty work) and says "Sure!" Because now he gets to Start Up the chainsaw AGAIN! Woo hoo! He goes after the fencepost with gusto. Halfway through the post seems there was a nail, which nail caught the chain of the chainsaw, snapping the chain right off the saw....which chain then whipped through the air toward Mr. Pansy's thigh. Cut clean through the shorts he was wearing and wrapped itself around his leg. The stinging pain was immediate and frightening since now one of us was going to have to actually look at his leg to determine if he had sawed off his leg and was simply standing there until he toppled off the leg and fell to the ground. With great trepidation and beery tears welling up in my eyes, I volunteer to check his leg for him. The carnage was beyond belief. There was a 2" swath completely around his leg where the hair, every fucking follicle of it, was totally fucking gone. No blood drawn, just some "razor burn". And the brand fucking new shorts were fucking ruined. $23 down the drain that we'll never see again. Stupid, wasteful Mr. Pansy. We hand-sawed the rest of the post off and quickly scurried to bed and pulled the covers over our heads.
Story No. 4:
Mr. Pansy is trimming tree branches, all day long in short shorts, sandals and with the ubiquitous can o' beer, all the way up to that goddamm fucking DUSK when he agreed to trim one last branch that I had determined just ruined the entire symmetry of our whole yard. Up the ladder he trots, starts up the chainsaw, trims off the Deeply Offending Branch.....which reveals to Eagle Eye Pansy yet another fucking ugly, symmetry-ruining branch. Mr. Pansy leans over to get the twig. Well, you can lean all you want and when you do did you know you will fucking topple off the ladder and fall (in incredibly slow motion) for 10, no make that 12, feet!!?? He landed on his back, holding the running chainsaw out at full arm's length the entire time. I am yelling at him to throw the chainsaw away so it won't do something "bad". Mr. Pansy can't immediately answer me because he's knocked the wind out of himself which took so long to recover from we feared he had collapsed his lungs. He claims afterward that he was not about to throw the chainsaw because he feared it would definitely take a bad bounce and kill me. Yeh. Right. In his dreams.
Story No. 5:
Finally some payback for Mr. Pansy! Again with the chainsaw, short shorts, sandals, ubiquitous can o' beer, backyard all day long, dusk coming on. He's up at the top of a really tall ladder (probably 20 feet in the air) and cutting away at a very large branch that had broken off another tree and was caught in the next tree. He has to scientifically determine where to cut so that the pieces of the broken branch fall somewhat predictably where he wants them to fall. I am standing on the bottom rung on the left of the ladder to offset his standing on the top rung on the right of the ladder. It's not that I weigh SO much but I do have a goodly amount of ballast to offer in these kinds of circumstances. The scientific decision is made and works like gangbusters.......except for that part where half of the large broken tree branch comes crashing down into my face. The portion that hit me was as large as my thigh so you can imagine how fucking huge that branch was. No, you have not imagined it large enough yet. Somehow this distraction makes me momentarily forget where I am supposed to stand and I kind of topple backwards off the ladder which creates a domino effect up the ladder to Mr. Pansy with the still-running chainsaw and he, chainsaw, and ladder all go (in that same freaky slow motion kinda way that people say happens when their lives begin flashing before their eyes) gracefully down to earth. When they (Mr. Pansy, the chainsaw and the ladder) landed on the ground the ladder had the nerve to toss up a dirt/sod divot into my face! Evidently some angels decided to soften Mr. Pansy's landing and even I got off scott-free, kind of. No damage to my Indescribably Beautiful Visage, just broken glasses. So this round only cost Mr. Pansy $400-ish for my new really stylin' RED glasses. They are so CUTE! Red/black tiger stripes on the outside of the temples with solid red on the inside of the temples, black on the inside of the lens portion with GLITTER RED on the outside of the lens portion. Oh, I am so adorable and hot looking in these new glasses. But I suppose that wasn't the goal/point of our chainsaw adventure that day.
Mr. Pansy and I had been in the backyard perpetrating general mayhem with the chainsaw. In the requisite short shorts, sandals, with the ubiquitous cans o' beer. Productively chainsawing all day long and now......Dum da Dum Dum Dum(b)!.....it was coming up on dusk. Which we STILL had not learned was a very bad thing when combined with us, a chainsaw and the ubiquitous cans o' beer.
This time, I confess, it was MY FAULT. We had been removing an old, rotty fence but had left a post standing since it marked where a faucet pipe with hose bib was sticking up from underground. I decided that the remaining post was just a bit too tall and directed Mr. Pansy to cut it down to the same height as the faucet pipe. He swigs down a couple swallows of beer (chainsawing is thirsty work) and says "Sure!" Because now he gets to Start Up the chainsaw AGAIN! Woo hoo! He goes after the fencepost with gusto. Halfway through the post seems there was a nail, which nail caught the chain of the chainsaw, snapping the chain right off the saw....which chain then whipped through the air toward Mr. Pansy's thigh. Cut clean through the shorts he was wearing and wrapped itself around his leg. The stinging pain was immediate and frightening since now one of us was going to have to actually look at his leg to determine if he had sawed off his leg and was simply standing there until he toppled off the leg and fell to the ground. With great trepidation and beery tears welling up in my eyes, I volunteer to check his leg for him. The carnage was beyond belief. There was a 2" swath completely around his leg where the hair, every fucking follicle of it, was totally fucking gone. No blood drawn, just some "razor burn". And the brand fucking new shorts were fucking ruined. $23 down the drain that we'll never see again. Stupid, wasteful Mr. Pansy. We hand-sawed the rest of the post off and quickly scurried to bed and pulled the covers over our heads.
Story No. 4:
Mr. Pansy is trimming tree branches, all day long in short shorts, sandals and with the ubiquitous can o' beer, all the way up to that goddamm fucking DUSK when he agreed to trim one last branch that I had determined just ruined the entire symmetry of our whole yard. Up the ladder he trots, starts up the chainsaw, trims off the Deeply Offending Branch.....which reveals to Eagle Eye Pansy yet another fucking ugly, symmetry-ruining branch. Mr. Pansy leans over to get the twig. Well, you can lean all you want and when you do did you know you will fucking topple off the ladder and fall (in incredibly slow motion) for 10, no make that 12, feet!!?? He landed on his back, holding the running chainsaw out at full arm's length the entire time. I am yelling at him to throw the chainsaw away so it won't do something "bad". Mr. Pansy can't immediately answer me because he's knocked the wind out of himself which took so long to recover from we feared he had collapsed his lungs. He claims afterward that he was not about to throw the chainsaw because he feared it would definitely take a bad bounce and kill me. Yeh. Right. In his dreams.
Story No. 5:
Finally some payback for Mr. Pansy! Again with the chainsaw, short shorts, sandals, ubiquitous can o' beer, backyard all day long, dusk coming on. He's up at the top of a really tall ladder (probably 20 feet in the air) and cutting away at a very large branch that had broken off another tree and was caught in the next tree. He has to scientifically determine where to cut so that the pieces of the broken branch fall somewhat predictably where he wants them to fall. I am standing on the bottom rung on the left of the ladder to offset his standing on the top rung on the right of the ladder. It's not that I weigh SO much but I do have a goodly amount of ballast to offer in these kinds of circumstances. The scientific decision is made and works like gangbusters.......except for that part where half of the large broken tree branch comes crashing down into my face. The portion that hit me was as large as my thigh so you can imagine how fucking huge that branch was. No, you have not imagined it large enough yet. Somehow this distraction makes me momentarily forget where I am supposed to stand and I kind of topple backwards off the ladder which creates a domino effect up the ladder to Mr. Pansy with the still-running chainsaw and he, chainsaw, and ladder all go (in that same freaky slow motion kinda way that people say happens when their lives begin flashing before their eyes) gracefully down to earth. When they (Mr. Pansy, the chainsaw and the ladder) landed on the ground the ladder had the nerve to toss up a dirt/sod divot into my face! Evidently some angels decided to soften Mr. Pansy's landing and even I got off scott-free, kind of. No damage to my Indescribably Beautiful Visage, just broken glasses. So this round only cost Mr. Pansy $400-ish for my new really stylin' RED glasses. They are so CUTE! Red/black tiger stripes on the outside of the temples with solid red on the inside of the temples, black on the inside of the lens portion with GLITTER RED on the outside of the lens portion. Oh, I am so adorable and hot looking in these new glasses. But I suppose that wasn't the goal/point of our chainsaw adventure that day.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Pomeranians and Pussies
Our Pomeranian is incredibly likeable. He will let anyone pet, hug, hold him. Even 1-year old feral humans. Even pet-hater Mr. Pansy likes him. When pet-hater Mr. Pansy is not bitching about him. The little guy has "some issues", starting with being "the dog who has no name but it doesn't matter because he would never consider coming to you when you call him anyway and if you call him it might make him pee." He started out with Daughter #2 and her then-boyfriend and she named him Mr. Bumbles. Then, they break up and Daughter #2 moves back home with Mr. Bumbles who (I am so proud of him) upon seeing the ex-boyfriend 30 days later commenced to bark and shriek and totally go ballistic at ex-boyfriend. I truly suspect ex-boyfriend may have treated Mr. Bumbles not nicely since doggie still has issues about men and, thus, about pet-hater Mr. Pansy. But only if the men come near me when I am on my couch. Doggie missed some critical moments in his youth:
does not come when called
not quite house trained in the potty department
That is all I require of my pets. He will probably never come when called. But then he has no name so what can I expect? He is "better" about the house training. In that he no longer submissively pees, or excitedly pees, or just plain old pees when indoors. That was 2 years in the making. He loves to "sit" and so if I need to catch him I just yell "sit" at him no matter how far away he is and he gladly sits. And then I can go pick him up....and wipe his pee off of him, off of me, and off of the place where he sat in all his submissive, excited, plain old peeing glory.
He regressed this summer since Daughter #1 spoiled the holyheck out of him by PETTING him daily during my absences. What was she thinking? He certainly still prefers me but has this all attitudey thing going on now about peeing where he wishes to. So back to the "do you want to go out?" which, if he does, he signals his agreement by running 300mph around the room and then prancing in the doorways as I wearily creak my way off the couch and out the back door. I randomly "reward" him by saying "I'll go with you" which makes him insane with glee. Can't go out with him every time or he will expect it. I'm the Alpha Bitch around here. When I let him outside I always tell him "now go potty." And he runs around the yard at 300mph for several laps. Finally he pees/poops and I say "good potty! good boy!" and immediately let him back into the house. Instant, relevant rewards (praise, back indoors). Or so I think.
Sometimes he has to potty every 20 minutes, other times not for weeks. It's hard to guess. But at least he uses the newspaper in the laundry room and nowhere else. Except for when he goes behind the kitchen table. Or misses the paper. Or.....well, like I said, he has potty issues. But he does "go" only on the non-carpeted areas now. A major improvement.
Daughter #1 calls him "little boy" and pet-hater Mr. Pansy called him "Mr. Piddles" which has morphed into "little guy." I have morphed him from Mr. Bumbles to Mr. Cuddles to Cuddles to Cubbles to Cubby and it's just getting stupid now. So I'll go with "little guy".
He is always smiling, very sweet natured, a lap cuddler and all around tough guy. He will defend me to his death, which will come all too soon during his defense of me since he only weighs about 6-7 pounds (haven't weighed him since his fat days of 8 pounds). He thinks pet-hater Mr. Pansy has no right to come near me---but only and specifically when I am on the couch. Seriously. So that doesn't make pet-hater Mr. Pansy like Little Guy very much during those moments.
"One bite and you're going flying across the room, you little rat." hisses pet-hater Mr. Pansy.
"Bark, bark, bark (die, filthy infidel, die---can I have a snack now, Nana?)" shrieks the Little Guy.
Our cats are wonderful. Both of them are fancy pedigreed "Domestic Short Hair Tabbies Found In A Barn Felines".
The boy, Speedo, is a "classic whorled tabbie"/part Bad Mating Between an Anaconda and a Jungle Jaguar (JungleAnna) with fancy white gloves, white spats, and white ascot. Plus bright pink lips and bright pink nipples, which we don't discuss in public.
The girl, DeeDee (Devil in Disguise), is a skinny, mangy "herring patterned tabbie"/part Bad Mating Between a Squirrel and a Raccoon (SquirrCoon) with black paw points.
They are brilliant. They act just like the best dogs that ever lived. Follow us around the house and purr and play and lay either on our laps or nearby. And only, only, only scratch on their scratching post. Totally Freaking Brilliant. Mr. Pansy and I have both become scary Cat Ladies over these two. Plus, they like the Pomeranian enough to let him jump them whenever he sees them and gnaw on their heads/ears as they meow in "protest." He is so small they each outweigh him by over 4 pounds and if they would just get up and walk off when he is chewing on them he would look like a bearskin rug on their backs.
Speedo lost his leg when he disappeared for about 5 weeks as a 2 year old. We had decided he was gone forever and the very next night I heard him meowing in the backyard. I went out and found him up on the patio table where we keep a bowl of cat food. I bring him inside and as I am carrying him realize he is bone thin. He weighs 12 pounds and that night he was only 4 pounds. Then in the light I saw his front leg was all messed up.
We wait until the next day and took him to an emergency vet (OMG pet-hater Mr. Pansy approved a Sunday Emergency Vet level of expenses for a free cat!) where they declared his leg was all messed up and maybe $1800 would fix it. But not likely. So I bring Speedo home and tell pet-hater Mr. Pansy the status. Pet-hater Mr. Pansy clutches Speedo to his chest and boldly declares "I will throw more money down a hole before we give up on Speedo. Take him to his "real doctor" tomorrow." Speedo is amazingly not complaining, just eating voraciously. Speedo's "real doctor" declares his leg was all messed up and maybe $1300 would fix it. But not likely.
So, they bring in the "death shot" and I burst into tears and say "isn't there anything we can do?" They non-chalantly said "Well, sure. We can just do salvage surgery." I scratch their eyes out in my fury that they hadn't mentioned it sooner and so we work out the money on that. I offer to take his "removed leg" to dispose of it (to possibly save some money) and they laughed at me. I think they knew I really wanted to make it into a Lucky Cat Paw key chain. The "disposal" fee turned out to be all of 34 cents. For what? A postage stamp to the dump or something?
Speedo came home looking like a stitched up Frankenstein but never fussed, ate voraciously, and was only tweaking in the mornings before his pain pill kicked in. What a trooper. He climbed over 2 six-foot fences to get home with a broken-to-bits front leg. Of course we had to try to save him. He has adapted well to indoor living and if you have to lose a leg, make it a front one since the hind ones are the power legs.
Dog: 4 years old
Cats: 7 years old
Enough pet talk.
does not come when called
not quite house trained in the potty department
That is all I require of my pets. He will probably never come when called. But then he has no name so what can I expect? He is "better" about the house training. In that he no longer submissively pees, or excitedly pees, or just plain old pees when indoors. That was 2 years in the making. He loves to "sit" and so if I need to catch him I just yell "sit" at him no matter how far away he is and he gladly sits. And then I can go pick him up....and wipe his pee off of him, off of me, and off of the place where he sat in all his submissive, excited, plain old peeing glory.
He regressed this summer since Daughter #1 spoiled the holyheck out of him by PETTING him daily during my absences. What was she thinking? He certainly still prefers me but has this all attitudey thing going on now about peeing where he wishes to. So back to the "do you want to go out?" which, if he does, he signals his agreement by running 300mph around the room and then prancing in the doorways as I wearily creak my way off the couch and out the back door. I randomly "reward" him by saying "I'll go with you" which makes him insane with glee. Can't go out with him every time or he will expect it. I'm the Alpha Bitch around here. When I let him outside I always tell him "now go potty." And he runs around the yard at 300mph for several laps. Finally he pees/poops and I say "good potty! good boy!" and immediately let him back into the house. Instant, relevant rewards (praise, back indoors). Or so I think.
Sometimes he has to potty every 20 minutes, other times not for weeks. It's hard to guess. But at least he uses the newspaper in the laundry room and nowhere else. Except for when he goes behind the kitchen table. Or misses the paper. Or.....well, like I said, he has potty issues. But he does "go" only on the non-carpeted areas now. A major improvement.
Daughter #1 calls him "little boy" and pet-hater Mr. Pansy called him "Mr. Piddles" which has morphed into "little guy." I have morphed him from Mr. Bumbles to Mr. Cuddles to Cuddles to Cubbles to Cubby and it's just getting stupid now. So I'll go with "little guy".
He is always smiling, very sweet natured, a lap cuddler and all around tough guy. He will defend me to his death, which will come all too soon during his defense of me since he only weighs about 6-7 pounds (haven't weighed him since his fat days of 8 pounds). He thinks pet-hater Mr. Pansy has no right to come near me---but only and specifically when I am on the couch. Seriously. So that doesn't make pet-hater Mr. Pansy like Little Guy very much during those moments.
"One bite and you're going flying across the room, you little rat." hisses pet-hater Mr. Pansy.
"Bark, bark, bark (die, filthy infidel, die---can I have a snack now, Nana?)" shrieks the Little Guy.
Our cats are wonderful. Both of them are fancy pedigreed "Domestic Short Hair Tabbies Found In A Barn Felines".
The boy, Speedo, is a "classic whorled tabbie"/part Bad Mating Between an Anaconda and a Jungle Jaguar (JungleAnna) with fancy white gloves, white spats, and white ascot. Plus bright pink lips and bright pink nipples, which we don't discuss in public.
The girl, DeeDee (Devil in Disguise), is a skinny, mangy "herring patterned tabbie"/part Bad Mating Between a Squirrel and a Raccoon (SquirrCoon) with black paw points.
They are brilliant. They act just like the best dogs that ever lived. Follow us around the house and purr and play and lay either on our laps or nearby. And only, only, only scratch on their scratching post. Totally Freaking Brilliant. Mr. Pansy and I have both become scary Cat Ladies over these two. Plus, they like the Pomeranian enough to let him jump them whenever he sees them and gnaw on their heads/ears as they meow in "protest." He is so small they each outweigh him by over 4 pounds and if they would just get up and walk off when he is chewing on them he would look like a bearskin rug on their backs.
Speedo lost his leg when he disappeared for about 5 weeks as a 2 year old. We had decided he was gone forever and the very next night I heard him meowing in the backyard. I went out and found him up on the patio table where we keep a bowl of cat food. I bring him inside and as I am carrying him realize he is bone thin. He weighs 12 pounds and that night he was only 4 pounds. Then in the light I saw his front leg was all messed up.
We wait until the next day and took him to an emergency vet (OMG pet-hater Mr. Pansy approved a Sunday Emergency Vet level of expenses for a free cat!) where they declared his leg was all messed up and maybe $1800 would fix it. But not likely. So I bring Speedo home and tell pet-hater Mr. Pansy the status. Pet-hater Mr. Pansy clutches Speedo to his chest and boldly declares "I will throw more money down a hole before we give up on Speedo. Take him to his "real doctor" tomorrow." Speedo is amazingly not complaining, just eating voraciously. Speedo's "real doctor" declares his leg was all messed up and maybe $1300 would fix it. But not likely.
So, they bring in the "death shot" and I burst into tears and say "isn't there anything we can do?" They non-chalantly said "Well, sure. We can just do salvage surgery." I scratch their eyes out in my fury that they hadn't mentioned it sooner and so we work out the money on that. I offer to take his "removed leg" to dispose of it (to possibly save some money) and they laughed at me. I think they knew I really wanted to make it into a Lucky Cat Paw key chain. The "disposal" fee turned out to be all of 34 cents. For what? A postage stamp to the dump or something?
Speedo came home looking like a stitched up Frankenstein but never fussed, ate voraciously, and was only tweaking in the mornings before his pain pill kicked in. What a trooper. He climbed over 2 six-foot fences to get home with a broken-to-bits front leg. Of course we had to try to save him. He has adapted well to indoor living and if you have to lose a leg, make it a front one since the hind ones are the power legs.
Dog: 4 years old
Cats: 7 years old
Enough pet talk.
You Just Think YOUR Ass Hurts!
So, Mr. Pansy finally went to the doctor to get his ass checked out. Apparently ME checking it out was not enough affirmation for him. Turns out he had all the kinds of hemorrhoids that are possible to have. And they had bad attitudes, too. Surgery is scheduled. "But, first, let's just take these 3 out with rubber bands." Rubber bands are installed in the doctor's office. Well, they were installed in Mr. Pansy's ass while his ass was in the doctor's office. WHO invented that horrific "treatment" is what I still want an answer for. Somehow, Mr. Pansy skittered sideways out of the office and drove himself home. Where he proceeded to whine and feel sorry for himself for at least 48 hours. And bleed from the ass and generally feel like he has been kicked by a cruel donkey in very tender places. Well, at least we know he'll be unconscious for the REAL surgery so we go ahead with THAT plan. The surgery took longer than planned, Mr. Pansy is all ruined afterwards and not allowed to leave until he can pee under his own power. Somehow, closing in on the time limit (I think 7 hours), he manages to pass the pee test and I get to take him home. He is completely bombed on drugs, I get the prescriptions filled and find it curious that there is 1 for pain and 1 for Valium. Why would anyone need Valium for post-surgery?
I inspect Mr. Pansy's ass and learn for the first time in my life that when doctors have you unconscious they are not even remotely polite or gentle with you. Mr. Pansy seriously had the biggest, blackest bruise I have ever seen anywhere. It looked like the doctors had taken a.....no, make that TWO Louisville sluggers and rammed them into Mr. Pansy's tiny "outlet" which all sane people know should never be an "inlet". OMG. I still have nightmares recalling that bruise.
So, Mr. Pansy is on cruise control (drugs) and feeling just fine but tired. We accidentally fall asleep and miss the first round of pain/valium pills. I wake up to see Mr. Pansy completely short-circuiting. Faster than I can type or say these words he was: lying on his stomach on the bed, rolling to his side on the bed, hanging his head off the bed, back up on the bed on his other side, rolling to his back on the bed, hanging his legs off the bed, getting off the bed and on his knees with his torso on the bed, crumpled on the floor in a fetal position, back to half on/half off the bed and doing this over and over and over. And pretty much incoherent and unable to communicate. Completely and utterly like a short-circuited robot in extreme pain. I shove the pain pill and the Valium down him and we sweat out the next 20 minutes before they finally kick in. Then we fell asleep again and overslept the next Valium update. Same freakish short-circuiting behavior. Lesson Learned: you can skip the pain pill but do not EVER skip the Valium. I set alarm clocks everywhere and wore my triathlon watch after that.
So, now we are into Day After Surgery and Mr. Pansy, being carefully kept on schedule with his pills, is feeling no pain. Day Two After Surgery....same happy happy. Day Three After Surgery Mr. Pansy finally has to poop. He is still drugged out of his head but somewhat communicative and I find him on the toilet pretty much distraught. He can't make himself push and yet he has the great urge to push. I play midwife and we do Lamaze breathing and ice chips and everything. No pushing. I call the doctor and they say "Oh, yeh. He's gonna have a terrible time but he has to go. If he can't, bring him down here and we'll give him an enema. You can do the enema if you want and save the trouble of coming down here." Well, it would have been fucking NICE to know 3 days earlier so that we could have made an enema purchase. I have to leave Mr. Pansy to go to the pharmacy and he is in bed and so weepy you would not believe. I hold his face between my hands and am 2 inches from his face and telling him "I will go to the store. I will come back." He is all broken down with "don't leave me...don't leave me." I point to the clock and say "when the clock says 2:10 I will be back home. Don't worry." And then I just have to leave him......like leaving a toddler at preschool. I gave him one of my fuzzy sweaters to hold onto and smell while I was gone. I am not kidding. I get back and now I have to coax him to get out of bed. He can hardly believe I actually did go to the store because in his head I had just left the room. He was pretty freaked out. I double check that I have not botched his Valium pills.
He still can't poop on his own and we realize he certainly can't give himself his own Fleet enema. I soothe him and work my way back there but just even coming within an inch of the outer edges of his bruise made him howl and shy away like a wounded animal. I am getting all sweaty now and so is he and I finally pull out my command voice and tell him: "Mr. Pansy! I am going to put your head into the corner of the bathroom so you can't get away from me and then I am going to give you the enema and I know it is going to hurt. But you know I have to do this. If you can't let me do it I have to take you to the hospital and they are not going to be nice to you about giving you an enema. Now let's do this." And I do mean my command voice. hahahahahhaha! Oh, it was awful! The howls of the enema insertion are still audible in the darkest hours of the night in the Haunted Pansy House. And the excretion howls were just about as awful. I made him special treats and petted him and only left him for a few minutes every once in awhile. He was easily panicked for about 5 days. I did figure out that if I just knelt by the bed where he could see me that I could sneak away when he fell asleep since any movement on the bed would awaken him instantly and in a panic.
I truly do not know what happens to a person who has hemorrhoid surgery and Mr. Pansy is no wuss but Good God I have never seen such a mental breakdown. I think it is that certain areas of the body have way too many nerves involved and the level of pain must be quite beyond human capacity. Seriously. At any rate, after Enema #1 all future bathroom events went quite uneventfully. This all happened back around 1990? To this day Mr. Pansy has truly absolutely no memory of the 14 days after surgery.
I think all men should have hemorrhoid surgery if only to amuse the hell out of their wives with the level of Zero Ego that the man hits. And the doctors should prescribe enough Valium for Everyone in the house. Truly, Mr. Pansy would have died if he had not had Full Time German Nurse Pansy on duty. He was a zombie. He really owes me on this one.
I inspect Mr. Pansy's ass and learn for the first time in my life that when doctors have you unconscious they are not even remotely polite or gentle with you. Mr. Pansy seriously had the biggest, blackest bruise I have ever seen anywhere. It looked like the doctors had taken a.....no, make that TWO Louisville sluggers and rammed them into Mr. Pansy's tiny "outlet" which all sane people know should never be an "inlet". OMG. I still have nightmares recalling that bruise.
So, Mr. Pansy is on cruise control (drugs) and feeling just fine but tired. We accidentally fall asleep and miss the first round of pain/valium pills. I wake up to see Mr. Pansy completely short-circuiting. Faster than I can type or say these words he was: lying on his stomach on the bed, rolling to his side on the bed, hanging his head off the bed, back up on the bed on his other side, rolling to his back on the bed, hanging his legs off the bed, getting off the bed and on his knees with his torso on the bed, crumpled on the floor in a fetal position, back to half on/half off the bed and doing this over and over and over. And pretty much incoherent and unable to communicate. Completely and utterly like a short-circuited robot in extreme pain. I shove the pain pill and the Valium down him and we sweat out the next 20 minutes before they finally kick in. Then we fell asleep again and overslept the next Valium update. Same freakish short-circuiting behavior. Lesson Learned: you can skip the pain pill but do not EVER skip the Valium. I set alarm clocks everywhere and wore my triathlon watch after that.
So, now we are into Day After Surgery and Mr. Pansy, being carefully kept on schedule with his pills, is feeling no pain. Day Two After Surgery....same happy happy. Day Three After Surgery Mr. Pansy finally has to poop. He is still drugged out of his head but somewhat communicative and I find him on the toilet pretty much distraught. He can't make himself push and yet he has the great urge to push. I play midwife and we do Lamaze breathing and ice chips and everything. No pushing. I call the doctor and they say "Oh, yeh. He's gonna have a terrible time but he has to go. If he can't, bring him down here and we'll give him an enema. You can do the enema if you want and save the trouble of coming down here." Well, it would have been fucking NICE to know 3 days earlier so that we could have made an enema purchase. I have to leave Mr. Pansy to go to the pharmacy and he is in bed and so weepy you would not believe. I hold his face between my hands and am 2 inches from his face and telling him "I will go to the store. I will come back." He is all broken down with "don't leave me...don't leave me." I point to the clock and say "when the clock says 2:10 I will be back home. Don't worry." And then I just have to leave him......like leaving a toddler at preschool. I gave him one of my fuzzy sweaters to hold onto and smell while I was gone. I am not kidding. I get back and now I have to coax him to get out of bed. He can hardly believe I actually did go to the store because in his head I had just left the room. He was pretty freaked out. I double check that I have not botched his Valium pills.
He still can't poop on his own and we realize he certainly can't give himself his own Fleet enema. I soothe him and work my way back there but just even coming within an inch of the outer edges of his bruise made him howl and shy away like a wounded animal. I am getting all sweaty now and so is he and I finally pull out my command voice and tell him: "Mr. Pansy! I am going to put your head into the corner of the bathroom so you can't get away from me and then I am going to give you the enema and I know it is going to hurt. But you know I have to do this. If you can't let me do it I have to take you to the hospital and they are not going to be nice to you about giving you an enema. Now let's do this." And I do mean my command voice. hahahahahhaha! Oh, it was awful! The howls of the enema insertion are still audible in the darkest hours of the night in the Haunted Pansy House. And the excretion howls were just about as awful. I made him special treats and petted him and only left him for a few minutes every once in awhile. He was easily panicked for about 5 days. I did figure out that if I just knelt by the bed where he could see me that I could sneak away when he fell asleep since any movement on the bed would awaken him instantly and in a panic.
I truly do not know what happens to a person who has hemorrhoid surgery and Mr. Pansy is no wuss but Good God I have never seen such a mental breakdown. I think it is that certain areas of the body have way too many nerves involved and the level of pain must be quite beyond human capacity. Seriously. At any rate, after Enema #1 all future bathroom events went quite uneventfully. This all happened back around 1990? To this day Mr. Pansy has truly absolutely no memory of the 14 days after surgery.
I think all men should have hemorrhoid surgery if only to amuse the hell out of their wives with the level of Zero Ego that the man hits. And the doctors should prescribe enough Valium for Everyone in the house. Truly, Mr. Pansy would have died if he had not had Full Time German Nurse Pansy on duty. He was a zombie. He really owes me on this one.
MO' WAX!!! Dear Gawd, We Gonna Need MO' WAX!!
We have been to Jamaica 6 times. The resort we go to is Hedonism II and is referred to by all the locals as "The Zoo" because the people that go there are freaks. Not us, of course! We sit at the Perfectly Normal People's Table. We just observe them. In actuality, it's not as nasty as it sounds and everyone is simply there for their version of a vacation. One year a woman was there by herself. Every day she is on the clothing optional beach tanning and reading. Never went in the ocean, the pool, the hot tub. About day 6 she has acquired herself a Jamaican man/boy. He is taller than her and quite the handsome manwhore. They swam out to one of the two floating fiberglass square docks anchored not too far offshore. On the square dock they proceeded to engage in every possible sexual act and possibly several impossible acts. Every orifice was explored by all digits or extensions of bodily parts----both hers and his. They inserted and sucked each and every one of each others' toes and fingers. After it is all over, which went on for a good hour or more so I suspect some blue pill drugs were involved, the guy (who is in his 20s) is sitting on the edge of the dock with his feet dangling in the water and staring down. We decided he was trying to recover from the horror of what he had just been paid NOT NEARLY ENOUGH to do.
She gracefully swam away back to shore, resumed her place on her beach chair and continued reading. He eventually stopped puking and swam to shore, landing far down the beach from HER and went away. She was quite tall and not too largely built except her butt was nearing ginormous porportions with lots of dumplings implanted thereabouts and her face/hair was a total computerized duplicate of JANET RENO for god's sake. With a big, dangerous overbite. She had pubic hair that was so matted small creatures undoubtedly lived in there as well as insects of every kind. The triangular briarpatch went up to her navel and a bit above. And to the outer reaches of her hip bones. I am thinking in square feet here. And then, the piece de resistance: matching armpits. You have NOT imagined how hairy she was. Noo! MORE hairy than even THAT! Seriously. Aughh. Plus, it was patchy salt-n-peppery (and NOT in a good Spice Girls kinda way). More like a creepy Australian Shepherd.
They had gone to the dock that was "closest" to shore since the other dock was already occupied by 2 couples who were also having their ways with each other in every combination but NOT the two men together. The two women got together, sure. And each woman with each man. But those men were MANLY men. So manly, that when one needed some more lube and asked his buddy to pass it over, the buddy didn't just stick out his own greased-up hand and rub some off on friend's hand. He didn't even just hand over the tube of lube. He threw the tube overhand up into the air and buddy had to lunge to catch it, slipping out of his woman (who was actually the wife of the other guy) and the tube almost hit the water. Oh, they all had a hearty laugh together! Such good friends.
That night at the disco I am standing around waiting for Mr. Pansy to bring me a drink when suddenly I feel him licking me from my collarbone to the top of my ear. I giggle and turn to smooch him to find that fine Jamaican man/boy whore who says to me in that exotic accent that is used to hypnotize susceptible Hopelessly White Women "You are very pretty lady." I politely thanked him as I desperately disinfected myself and said "that's all good and fine but I am here with just my husband." To which he says "I will love you like I am your husband." Just as the negotiations were getting down to some serious bidness that fucking Mr. Pansy showed up and spoiled my Enchanted Jamaican Evening plans. Mr. Jamaican man/boy whore politely said to Mr. Pansy "all respect, mon" and smoothly glided away. I suppose it's refreshing to know I look like I might have enough money to pay for a man whore. And evidently NEED to pay to get a man. Hmmmmm. That didn't come out right.
She gracefully swam away back to shore, resumed her place on her beach chair and continued reading. He eventually stopped puking and swam to shore, landing far down the beach from HER and went away. She was quite tall and not too largely built except her butt was nearing ginormous porportions with lots of dumplings implanted thereabouts and her face/hair was a total computerized duplicate of JANET RENO for god's sake. With a big, dangerous overbite. She had pubic hair that was so matted small creatures undoubtedly lived in there as well as insects of every kind. The triangular briarpatch went up to her navel and a bit above. And to the outer reaches of her hip bones. I am thinking in square feet here. And then, the piece de resistance: matching armpits. You have NOT imagined how hairy she was. Noo! MORE hairy than even THAT! Seriously. Aughh. Plus, it was patchy salt-n-peppery (and NOT in a good Spice Girls kinda way). More like a creepy Australian Shepherd.
They had gone to the dock that was "closest" to shore since the other dock was already occupied by 2 couples who were also having their ways with each other in every combination but NOT the two men together. The two women got together, sure. And each woman with each man. But those men were MANLY men. So manly, that when one needed some more lube and asked his buddy to pass it over, the buddy didn't just stick out his own greased-up hand and rub some off on friend's hand. He didn't even just hand over the tube of lube. He threw the tube overhand up into the air and buddy had to lunge to catch it, slipping out of his woman (who was actually the wife of the other guy) and the tube almost hit the water. Oh, they all had a hearty laugh together! Such good friends.
That night at the disco I am standing around waiting for Mr. Pansy to bring me a drink when suddenly I feel him licking me from my collarbone to the top of my ear. I giggle and turn to smooch him to find that fine Jamaican man/boy whore who says to me in that exotic accent that is used to hypnotize susceptible Hopelessly White Women "You are very pretty lady." I politely thanked him as I desperately disinfected myself and said "that's all good and fine but I am here with just my husband." To which he says "I will love you like I am your husband." Just as the negotiations were getting down to some serious bidness that fucking Mr. Pansy showed up and spoiled my Enchanted Jamaican Evening plans. Mr. Jamaican man/boy whore politely said to Mr. Pansy "all respect, mon" and smoothly glided away. I suppose it's refreshing to know I look like I might have enough money to pay for a man whore. And evidently NEED to pay to get a man. Hmmmmm. That didn't come out right.
Ghetto Talkin' Hip Hopper Pansy
It all started long, long ago....
I am driving to the courthouse with our office's newest employee: 18 year old Sexy Mexican. We have only met each other 4 hours earlier. It is her first day on the job and I am going to show her how to file papers at the court.
Suddenly a beat-to-shit tiny Toyota truck races by with "bling bling" written with duct tape across its cracked back window. Well, with my Incredible Instincts For Fine Pieces of Nonsense, I immediately know that "bling bling" means something, but being Hopelessly White I don't know WHAT it means. I'm still stuck back in the "bitchin" and "far out" era. I demand Sexy Mexican explain the phrase to me. She is for some reason horrified, embarrassed, whatever, but haltingly explains it to me. I laugh with gusto and then demand more of these foreign language lessons. Thus, began my relationship with my best friend who is also evidently my daughter by another mother.
She has spent years now learnin' me the street lingo. It all rolls SO fresh and effortlessly off my tongue. But I keep trying despite her rude laughing in my face and calling in people to "Listen to this! Okay, Pansy, say it!"
My first phrase was: "Peep this home chick, what's crackalacking."
Which works except for I keep enunciating too fucking clearly because I am Hopelessly White and I always mix the words up more like so:
"Keep...ummm...Crackalacking [yes!]....you, [rushing too fast and blurring the words together] peephome!"
Of course, it would help if these lessons didn't come at inopportune times like when we're halfway through that third pitcher of margaritas. Last night I learned: "Don't half-step it." Which I used on her husband because he was trying to shortchange me on the margaritas. But then the lesson got diverted when we (the husband and I) got sidetracked with me wanting to see his latest tattoos. The conversation went like this:
Pansy: Do you have any tattoos on your back?
Mr. Sexy Mexican: Just the one on my ass cheek that says Property Of Pansy.
Pansy: Yeh? So where's the red lips smoochie tattoo?
Him: It's on my ass crack, one lip on each side, so that when I fart your lips flap in the wind like they always are doing.
Pansy Shouts: What good does that do you? I know for a fucking fact my lips cannot be seen if you don't get that hairball ass waxed.
Him: This is not a good conversation.
Pansy: Well, it would go a lot fucking better if you wouldn't half-step me. Now give me the goddamm margarita, punk.
Meanwhile, way back when, at the courthouse that first day, Sexy Mexican and I are at the yellow line---behind which you MUST remain until you are called to the counter by the clerk.
Sexy Mexi: So, do they call you by name?
Pansy: Yes. They call me by name.
Sexy Mexi: Well, how do they know what to call me?
Pansy: You? They'll just say "hey bitch. over here."
Sexy Mexi: Dies of embarrassment because everyone hears this conversation.
Over the years the court clerks came to eventually call her: Hey, hella skinny support staff bitch. Over here. Now. Ya ho.
But I DO know every lyric to every rap song ever, ever, ever. Seriously. Here you go, free of charge:
fuckfuckfuckfuckmuthafuckerfuckfuckfuck
hofuck!ho. [long pause] FUCK!
I am driving to the courthouse with our office's newest employee: 18 year old Sexy Mexican. We have only met each other 4 hours earlier. It is her first day on the job and I am going to show her how to file papers at the court.
Suddenly a beat-to-shit tiny Toyota truck races by with "bling bling" written with duct tape across its cracked back window. Well, with my Incredible Instincts For Fine Pieces of Nonsense, I immediately know that "bling bling" means something, but being Hopelessly White I don't know WHAT it means. I'm still stuck back in the "bitchin" and "far out" era. I demand Sexy Mexican explain the phrase to me. She is for some reason horrified, embarrassed, whatever, but haltingly explains it to me. I laugh with gusto and then demand more of these foreign language lessons. Thus, began my relationship with my best friend who is also evidently my daughter by another mother.
She has spent years now learnin' me the street lingo. It all rolls SO fresh and effortlessly off my tongue. But I keep trying despite her rude laughing in my face and calling in people to "Listen to this! Okay, Pansy, say it!"
My first phrase was: "Peep this home chick, what's crackalacking."
Which works except for I keep enunciating too fucking clearly because I am Hopelessly White and I always mix the words up more like so:
"Keep...ummm...Crackalacking [yes!]....you, [rushing too fast and blurring the words together] peephome!"
Of course, it would help if these lessons didn't come at inopportune times like when we're halfway through that third pitcher of margaritas. Last night I learned: "Don't half-step it." Which I used on her husband because he was trying to shortchange me on the margaritas. But then the lesson got diverted when we (the husband and I) got sidetracked with me wanting to see his latest tattoos. The conversation went like this:
Pansy: Do you have any tattoos on your back?
Mr. Sexy Mexican: Just the one on my ass cheek that says Property Of Pansy.
Pansy: Yeh? So where's the red lips smoochie tattoo?
Him: It's on my ass crack, one lip on each side, so that when I fart your lips flap in the wind like they always are doing.
Pansy Shouts: What good does that do you? I know for a fucking fact my lips cannot be seen if you don't get that hairball ass waxed.
Him: This is not a good conversation.
Pansy: Well, it would go a lot fucking better if you wouldn't half-step me. Now give me the goddamm margarita, punk.
Meanwhile, way back when, at the courthouse that first day, Sexy Mexican and I are at the yellow line---behind which you MUST remain until you are called to the counter by the clerk.
Sexy Mexi: So, do they call you by name?
Pansy: Yes. They call me by name.
Sexy Mexi: Well, how do they know what to call me?
Pansy: You? They'll just say "hey bitch. over here."
Sexy Mexi: Dies of embarrassment because everyone hears this conversation.
Over the years the court clerks came to eventually call her: Hey, hella skinny support staff bitch. Over here. Now. Ya ho.
But I DO know every lyric to every rap song ever, ever, ever. Seriously. Here you go, free of charge:
fuckfuckfuckfuckmuthafuckerfuckfuckfuck
hofuck!ho. [long pause] FUCK!
Mr. Pansy Chainsaw Massacre Story No. 2
It all began long, long ago:
The Pansys and 4 friends were up in the mountains getting firewood. It's legal to do so if you only take "downed" trees. So we're chainsawing stuff all day long, with the very occasional adult liquid beverage (that pricey Old Milwaukee stuff), dusk is upon us and things have been going Just Swell Until..... And you know, I think it was Mr. Pansy's idea so, really, the rest of us are not to be blamed for this turn of events. Certainly not I! Because everything in life is, after all, about who can be stuck with the blame.
Eventually there were no conveniently located downed trees but there was this one, lone, very dead but still standing tree Right There. The rest of us stand back as Mr. Pansy The Lumberjack scientifically makes precise cuts to properly fell the tree so it will land Over There. All goes well as it topples downhill. The height of this particular still standing dead tree, unfortunately, had not been scientifically determined and the top of the dead, falling tree hit a stand of live trees further down the hill. The impact caused the dead tree to explode into several larger-than-human-torso pieces, which the live trees, acting like surreal slingshots, then "threw" back up the fucking hill! We all run and scatter sideways.....except for Mr. Pansy who ran straight uphill. A chunk of flying tree could be seen, by the rest of us, zeroing in on Mr. Pansy like a heat-seeking Sidewinder missile inexorably locked in on its doomed target. It was eerie seeing this certain-death event unfold. The tree missile makes contact and Mr. Pansy is slammed down into the ground, completely covered by the tree which then began vigorously humping him. Okay, I made that humping part up. But it would make for a funny cartoon if that had happened. As it was, the ground was very loose decomposing pine needles, loose dirt, etc. so he was shoved face down by the tree into what could be properly described in a crime scene report as an "instantaneously created shallow grave".
All became very still and quiet. There is no movement from Mr. Pansy, the tree has stopped humping him, we are all frozen in place. At first it was a very faint but definitely discernable twitch of Mr. Pansy's fingers, then a foot, then the other foot. Which hand and feet are all that can be seen of Mr. Pansy. He's NOT DEAD! He was not only NOT DEAD but he was fucking suffocating, thank you fucking very much you fucking stupid assed fucking bystanders, under the weight of the tree which was pressing him into what was actually becoming his shallow grave. We race to the tree and quickly roll it off of Mr. Pansy. Well, except for that "short" delay where half of us wanted to roll the tree off This Way but the other half wanted to roll it off That Way. That fucking Old Milwaukee stuff can really screw with not only your judgment concerning deciding to make illegal firewood gathering but your rescue decision making skills, you know.
Mr. Pansy is really fucked up. He is totally covered in this loamy weird dirt except for his eyeballs and one hand. We all burst into, yes, the most sympathetic, heart-rending, soul searing LAUGHING OUT LOUD for at least one hour. We could not stop laughing. Ummm...because we had been so upset? You know how sometimes people get those funeral giggles. This was funeral guffawing that we could no more control than we could control our bladders. We laughed till we peed our pants. We laughed till we cried. We laughed as we drank more Old Milwaukee to calm us down. We laughed sitting down. We laughed laying down. We laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed.
Not Mr. Pansy, though. Nooooo! He has to get like all "I hurt everywhere" "I want to go home" "I can't see, could someone help me rinse out my eyeballs" Me, me, me, me! Geezzusfuckingkryeest! We try to clean him up, there are no broken bones or even abrasions (three huzzahs for SOFT dirt shallow graves!) and I drag his sorry assed carcass home.
The next day I took Mr. Pansy to the doctor since he, upon awakening, could not move his arms above bending them at waist level. I think he pretty much couldn't walk either. I did a very poor job of subduing my giggling as I took him to the doctor. There was no actual damage to his body. Just sore from being hit by essentially a bark-covered locomotive. There was an area of his body that was the sorest. He would let me know when it would swell (usually a couple times each day) and it could only be relieved by my tender Pansy Mercies. Which also conveniently helped to stifle my ongoing giggle fits.
The Pansys and 4 friends were up in the mountains getting firewood. It's legal to do so if you only take "downed" trees. So we're chainsawing stuff all day long, with the very occasional adult liquid beverage (that pricey Old Milwaukee stuff), dusk is upon us and things have been going Just Swell Until..... And you know, I think it was Mr. Pansy's idea so, really, the rest of us are not to be blamed for this turn of events. Certainly not I! Because everything in life is, after all, about who can be stuck with the blame.
Eventually there were no conveniently located downed trees but there was this one, lone, very dead but still standing tree Right There. The rest of us stand back as Mr. Pansy The Lumberjack scientifically makes precise cuts to properly fell the tree so it will land Over There. All goes well as it topples downhill. The height of this particular still standing dead tree, unfortunately, had not been scientifically determined and the top of the dead, falling tree hit a stand of live trees further down the hill. The impact caused the dead tree to explode into several larger-than-human-torso pieces, which the live trees, acting like surreal slingshots, then "threw" back up the fucking hill! We all run and scatter sideways.....except for Mr. Pansy who ran straight uphill. A chunk of flying tree could be seen, by the rest of us, zeroing in on Mr. Pansy like a heat-seeking Sidewinder missile inexorably locked in on its doomed target. It was eerie seeing this certain-death event unfold. The tree missile makes contact and Mr. Pansy is slammed down into the ground, completely covered by the tree which then began vigorously humping him. Okay, I made that humping part up. But it would make for a funny cartoon if that had happened. As it was, the ground was very loose decomposing pine needles, loose dirt, etc. so he was shoved face down by the tree into what could be properly described in a crime scene report as an "instantaneously created shallow grave".
All became very still and quiet. There is no movement from Mr. Pansy, the tree has stopped humping him, we are all frozen in place. At first it was a very faint but definitely discernable twitch of Mr. Pansy's fingers, then a foot, then the other foot. Which hand and feet are all that can be seen of Mr. Pansy. He's NOT DEAD! He was not only NOT DEAD but he was fucking suffocating, thank you fucking very much you fucking stupid assed fucking bystanders, under the weight of the tree which was pressing him into what was actually becoming his shallow grave. We race to the tree and quickly roll it off of Mr. Pansy. Well, except for that "short" delay where half of us wanted to roll the tree off This Way but the other half wanted to roll it off That Way. That fucking Old Milwaukee stuff can really screw with not only your judgment concerning deciding to make illegal firewood gathering but your rescue decision making skills, you know.
Mr. Pansy is really fucked up. He is totally covered in this loamy weird dirt except for his eyeballs and one hand. We all burst into, yes, the most sympathetic, heart-rending, soul searing LAUGHING OUT LOUD for at least one hour. We could not stop laughing. Ummm...because we had been so upset? You know how sometimes people get those funeral giggles. This was funeral guffawing that we could no more control than we could control our bladders. We laughed till we peed our pants. We laughed till we cried. We laughed as we drank more Old Milwaukee to calm us down. We laughed sitting down. We laughed laying down. We laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed.
Not Mr. Pansy, though. Nooooo! He has to get like all "I hurt everywhere" "I want to go home" "I can't see, could someone help me rinse out my eyeballs" Me, me, me, me! Geezzusfuckingkryeest! We try to clean him up, there are no broken bones or even abrasions (three huzzahs for SOFT dirt shallow graves!) and I drag his sorry assed carcass home.
The next day I took Mr. Pansy to the doctor since he, upon awakening, could not move his arms above bending them at waist level. I think he pretty much couldn't walk either. I did a very poor job of subduing my giggling as I took him to the doctor. There was no actual damage to his body. Just sore from being hit by essentially a bark-covered locomotive. There was an area of his body that was the sorest. He would let me know when it would swell (usually a couple times each day) and it could only be relieved by my tender Pansy Mercies. Which also conveniently helped to stifle my ongoing giggle fits.
How Pansy Got Her 9 Tattoos
It is a long one, so settle back with food and drink. Why do none of Pansy's stories have a short cut? My tattoo sojourn began a long, long time ago:
I met my very best friend BigD (although all of my friends are my very best friends) at my new, Country-Girl-Goes-To-The-Big-City to be a secretary at the High-Rise Lawyer Firm. Two weeks after I have landed on Mars, BigD says to her cubiclemate "oh, my pictures from Jamaica have arrived." I, Miss Bat Ears With Super Sophisticated Echolocation Sonar Hearing, scamper over saying "Show me, too!" BigD (not knowing me) later confessed she felt quite shy about doing so but it was too late. Plus, she is a Cocker Spaniel and could/would never say "no". I, on the other hand, am a Chihuahua (imagine that). Her shyness stemmed from the fact that she and her husband, BiggerD, went to a resort in Jamaica that has a clothing optional beach. And she wasn't sure how I felt about such things. I look and look and look at the photos but finally confess that I do not see BigD in any of the pictures. She carefully explains she is the one with her hair in a ponytail on the top of her head. BigD looks remarkably different with her hair up instead of down. But, I see which female in the pictures is her and spent the rest of the photo viewing saying "Oh! There they are. I mean, YOU are." "There they are again. I mean YOU again." I still could not recognize her with her hair up. But her boobs. Well, they are as distinctive as markings on whales. Which I dutifully pointed out to her. We became very good friends almost immediately because she is a Cocker Spaniel with a great sense of humor. Then she tells me all about Jamaica and how wonderful it is and how she and her husband always tell people about it but no one they know ever goes. Even though the others profess great interest in going. I tell her to be careful for what she wishes.
The day of the picture viewing I race home and tell Mr. Pansy all about BigD and Jamaica and the resort.....Hedonism II. He immediately blanches and says "That place!?" I look askance and ask "what are you talking about? Have you heard of it?" He retorts "Yes! In sophisticated publications like Hustler." I pale and say "But BigD seems so nice." He contorts his face with disgust and says "Yeh, sure." and asks me to tell him more about her boobs. I falter and get a case of the vapors. He clutches me to his broad and manly chest and has his way with.......oh, please excuse me. Got mixed up and started to tell you ANOTHER story. hahahhahaha.
The fact is, I have to agree with Mr. Pansy that if HE had come home with the story I came home with about some "nice guy" at his work and seeing pictures of Nice Guy's private parts we would never have gone to Jamaica. But, since "Pansy Knows All" was the instigator, of course there is no reason to avoid BigD and BiggerD like the plague. We couldn't get our act/money/trip to Jamaica put together until two years later.
Then the horrific mishap at the airport. All 4 of us arrive at midnight, everyone else is cleared to go, I step up to the counter and the nice ladies tell me "This is not a birth certificate. Do you have a passport?" They were serious. I truly almost fainted dead away. I thought I had ruined our non-refundable vacation, that the money was down the tubes and it was all over. Mr. Pansy thought he had a way out of our marriage. We watch BigD and BiggerD fly away. Mr. Pansy, to his everlasting credit, actually did not get on the plane with them and say "see ya when ya get there, honey." I most certainly would have done that if the situation had been reversed. That's because not only am I a Chihuahua, I am a Bitch Chihuahua at that! hahahahaha. I really did get desperate and was ready to run around the corner, bite the paper I thought was my birth certificate to "emboss" it, and try to palm it off on the nice ladies. But I realized in time that would not work. So as I stood there like a stunned cow, they sweetly lied to me and said "this happens all the time. Just call your birth state people and get a birth certificate." I numbly/dumbly shake my head back and forth in the universal gesture that means: "I dunno how to do dat." They gave me the phone number in Texas and told us to keep coming back each night at midnight to the airport until I got the birth certificate. It is Groundhog Day! For Reals! If we showed up each night they could just postpone our flight for another 24 hours and we would not lose the tickets. Who knew that!? What nice ladies they really were.
I won't even go into how I actually called my elderly parents (at midnight!) and asked them if they had a birth certificate for me. They pretended I had not awakened them, pretended to look around, and actually came out and gave us a ride home. What a pair of noobs! Us, not my parents. Well, they are noobs too. For god's sake they gave me this stupid piece of paper eons ago claiming it was my birth certificate. I have used it for getting my driver's license, getting married (Mr. Pansy thought he had Yet Another Shot at getting out of the marriage over this), etc. It is, in fact, a stupid letter from stupid Texas saying my stupid parents had a stupid baby girl. It even has a paragraph stating that if a real birth certificate is needed, please send 50 cents. So now I am also some punk phat/fat rapper's bitch, as well?! hahahahha. Get it? Get it? fiddycent's booty call ho. [Get back on topic, please, Pansy. Back? Pansy's Got Back, Too! hahahahhaha.]
Mr. Pansy and I get home, totally freaked out. He reacts as usual by going to bed and promptly falling asleep. After all, he isn't the unpapered illegal alien. Sidenote: I had left the employment at the high-rise law firm and was now working for the most wonderful attorney ever (he surely is Mr. Rogers' brother). I go to the office when it is time for Texas to open. I call and speak with Yolanda Wilson, my absolute forever best friend. I tell her I am Pansy Palmetto and I am in a world of hurt. And explain my situation. She says "Oh, my" and we hammer out what needs to happen. My request for the birth certificate has to be received in writing in her office. We waltz around how to get the written request to her ASAP and how many hundreds of dollars per day are going to be lost from my vacation when suddenly:
Yolanda says: "You could fax the written request." We both squeal with delight but then she whispers (really) into the phone: "But I can't give you the fax number. It's against the rules."
I ask her if she is whispering because a supervisor is nearby.
Yolanda: "Yes."
Me: "If she were not nearby could you give me the fax number and I could send in my written request now?"
Yo: "Yes."
Me: "So, let's wait a bit and see if she needs to go get coffee or something. After all, you guys just opened up.
Yo: Okay.
Pause
Yo: She's leaving (whispering excitedly).
I can actually hear high heels click clacking out of the room.
Yo: Here's the fax number.
Me: I am faxing it as we speak, Yolanda! But let me get this straight. You can't give out the fax number but if a written request magically appears on the fax machine that's ok?
Yo: Go figure!
We laugh evilly.
Yo: Got it! Oh, no!
Me: What?
Yo: I can't process this without the $11.50 fee.
Me: I'll fax a check to you right now.
We both get real quiet and then burst into hysterical laughter. I gasp out "Well, how about if I fax you CASH instead?" and we laugh into tears again.
Yo: Pansy, if I pay this fee for you will you reimburse me?
Me: My god, Yolanda, you will own my ass for life on this one. Of course I will pay you back...double and with extra on top of that.
So she pays my fee and then we have to get the Real Birth Certificate Fed Exed to me. Yolanda has never done a Fed Ex thing in her life but she calls the Fed Ex people and we are all on a conference call wherein I say to the Fed Ex guy "I am Pansy Palmetto and I am in a world of hurt" and explain my situation. He says "Oh, my!" And says he'll help Yolanda when he gets there to pick up my birth certificate package.
While waiting for the FedEx guy to show up, I fax a filled-out Fed Ex form to Yolanda and train her on how to do it. Then the FedEx guy shows up at Yolanda's office with all the forms and a Fed Ex envelope but he cannot fill out the form himself (against the rules). So he gets on the phone with me and Yolanda and supervises everything and takes off with my birth certificate package. Meanwhile, before he got to Yolanda, the FedEx man on his own volition called and caught the pilot of the only FedEx plane on earth going from Dallas to my airport that day and tells him to hold up because of "Pansy Palmetto who is in a world of hurt" and explained my situation to the pilot who said "Oh, my."
All in all, I was on the phone nonstop (sometimes on hold) with Yolanda from 6am to 8:00am when the FedEx man took off to the airport. We had been on the phone so long we weren't sure it was really over and were fearful to hang up. So I gave her all my phone numbers and fax number and she gave me all her phone numbers, cell included so she could find out how this saga ended. By now, some of my office coworkers are showing up and look at me like they are seeing a ghost and we all have a hearty laugh about stupid Pansy. I have nothing else to do, so I go to the high school where I was parent assistant to the cheerleader coach and all of them look at me like I am a ghost. Even Baby Pansy momentarily had a brain meltdown and wanted to know why I had come back early from Jamaica. Then I went to the tanning place for one last tan session (don't go to Jamaica naturally white or you will die). While there, I decide to call Mr. Pansy and see if he is awake and tell him what's up.
Then I go back to work to finish up a few things. I call the travel agent about my world of hurt and she says "Oh, my." She calls Hedonism II and tells them about my world of hurt and they say "Oh, my." And it all gets arranged down to the last detail that when we finally arrive in Jamaica everything will be treated as if that day is Day One. So we still have a full vacation coming at no extra cost or fees on the part of any of the players involved. Un-fucking-believable.
I don't expect the FedEx package until the next day at best. About 2pm Mr. Pansy calls me and says "I just got a FedEx package. Shall I open it?" Yes, yes, for god's sake YES! He opens it s-l-o-w-l-y because he is meticulous always and says "Well! There's a piece of paper here and it says "Please remit $11.50 and we will send you the birth certificate." I totally fall for it and am gasping and having a seizure. Mr. Pansy never cries "wolf" or pulls too many practical jokes so he knew I'd go for this like a ton of bricks. When he does do practical jokes they are incredibly vicious and deadly. I think he was hoping my death would be, finally, a way out of the marriage for him. Not with my Voo-Doo Powers. Anyway, all the people from Texas to California actually joined together in a human chain of kindness and got that package to me 7 hours after I began my marathon phone call with Yolanda. That was really a miracle.
Only 24 hours after seeing BigD and BiggerD fly away, Mr. Pansy and I tromp back into the airport in the same travel clothes to the same nice ladies at the counter and By God and with A Real Birth Certificate For Idiot Pansy we get on that plane! After a layover/plane change in Dallas and again in Miami, we arrive umpteen hours later in Jamaica, ride on the 2-hour bus trip (and I do mean "trip" with live goats, ganja weed blowing in the wind, and screaming babies) to Hedonism II. Where BigD and BiggerD greet us with Dirty Bananas (the very best drink in the universe).
Yes, this tale is rather sideways and long-winded. hahhaha! Well, it's the Story that counts....not the ending! And it's Jamaica that is responsible for all of my tattoos, thus the need for the background.
We have finally arrived in Jamaica, get into bathing suits and start to walk over to the nude beach. You must be "dressed" in other parts of the resort even though simply wearing a decorative scarf around your neck counts as "dressed". We make it about 150 feet and the beach ladies (vendors allowed on the grounds) demand to braid my hair. It was hip length so 3 hours and countless Dirty Bananas, Humming Birds, Flaming Bob Marleys, etc. later, my hair is braided and Mr. Pansy, Pansy and the beach ladies are all bombed. Which makes it totally even easier to go to the nude beach. Along the way I see a man wearing a speedo (those wacky Europeans!) that is in the same fabric as my bikini. It is a very unique and neon pattern. What are the odds of that? So we have a very friendly picture taken together. Then we finally get to the nude beach, undress, grab another drink and Mr. Pansy dopily stares at me with a big old goofy grin on his face and says "Isn't this GREAT?" I am still stunned over the birth certificate business and say "Well, I don't know. We have only been here 5 hours." Island Fever hit me about 2 hours later and I turn and dopily stare at Mr. Pansy with a big old goofy grin on my face and say "HEY! This IS great!"
Mr. Pansy, BigD and BiggerD are kind of wallflowers but greatly enjoy observing. I go totally berserk all week necessitating daily visits to the Nurse's Station for increasingly serious albeit minor wounds. I am in the lunchtime spin (silly participatory games) every day; I am on the water slides, I am at the disco, I am snorkeling nude, I am on the trampoline, I am All Over that trapeze. It was very scary. I had to climb up 35 feet on this nasty, painful, salt encrusted rope ladder and then lean way out off the platform and do all kinds of horrible high-in-the-air stuff. But the secret for me was: (1) my youngest daughter had dared me before we left for Jamaica and (2) no glasses or contact lenses allowed so I am up there blind as a bat and that really helped. I was good enough they were going to put me in the Friday night Circus Show but then I did a bad dismount and when I hit the net (standing instead of sitting like you are supposed to) I bounced forward and scuffed the front of my left ankle. And twisted some torso muscles. And I was kinda tired anyway from all the swinging (trapeze swinging!!) so it was just as well. This happened on Day 5. Then during the Day 6 lunchtime spin game of musical chairs where the women circle around the men who are the "chairs", another woman and I both leaped onto the one remaining man chair. For some reason, the weakling cannot hold both of us and we all fall down. I landed on the back of my head and split it wide open. But I am feeling no pain. As I go back to my table people become a tad upset about the river of blood coming out of my scalp. 4 medical people check me out. 2 are vacationing American doctors and 2 are the Jamaican nurses. They are 50/50 on whether I need stitches or not but 100% in agreement that I should not get stitches in Jamaica under any circumstances. And since I was leaving within 24 hours, no problem, mon. Plus my braids helped a lot in keeping the wound pulled together.
We finally come home. Not very burned (that is a seriously hot sunshiney place) but I look like I should be put in a body bag. I bruise very readily and massively and the backs of my legs were a wreck of black and blue from the trapeze. My palms and the bottoms of my feet are equally ruined and peeling from the trapeze. My scalp wound is doing quite well but is pretty obvious. And my ankle wound is looking creepy. Our daughters are horrified and cannot believe that I think I have had a great time. I call the doctor and get in that day. He laughs at my condition and calls in the nurses to take a look. He won't even go near my ankle just says "It's gone dirty. Here, take some antibiotics." And throws the prescription paper at me from across the room. AND gave me a booster tetanus shot as extry punishment for having too much fun.
The ankle wound finally heals and the scar. THE SCAR!!! I swear to God, hand on the Bible, the scar is in the shape of the island of Jamaica. Now is that a tattoo crying out for a home or what!? BigD and BiggerD beg me and beg me to get a tattoo. Mr. Pansy thinks it is hilarious but declares I may not have a tattoo between my head hairline and my feet. So I am left with only my feet and a thin strip of ankle area to get tattooed. It takes me two years to build up the nerve and even then I only agreed to the tattoo when BigD finally broke down and said she would pay for it as a birthday gift to me.
I am here today to testify: There is no such thing as a *Free* tattoo. Those suckers hurt like the dickens. Especially on the ankles/feet or wherever there are lots of nerves and bony areas. My so-called 9 tattoos are a lovely, typical suburban white housewife's ankle "bracelet". I foolishly got them all done at once so it took a couple hours because every so often I would yell my code word "kick". I discussed it with the artist before she started and told her I would have to have breaks during the process. Which feels a lot like a very dull jackhammer slamming into your flesh. "Kick" meant the tattoo lady was to back off and I would kick my leg around to calm down. A few deep "cleansing breaths" later, we'd go at it again.
I have three tattoos that are words in thug Classique Olde English script of Mr. Pansy's name and my two daughters' names. And then their astrological signs after each name. The signs look like Chinese characters and are for: Aries, Gemini, Pisces
That makes 6 tattoos. Then I have: a life-size red Betta fish (Siamese fighting fish) to represent me.
On the inside of my heel, below the big ankle bone, there is a: 1-inch red "crown"
It really is the capital initials MM, with an underline. Within the MM is a purple heart with 3 cracks in it. One "MM" stands for my best friend who got me through the pregnancy with Daughter #1 and all the mental illness that goes with being a pregnant legal secretary. The other "MM" stands for my best friend, The Portugese Washer Woman, who got me through the teenage terror years with Daughter #1 and all the mental illness that goes with being a legal secretary menopausal mom with her first teenage child. So it's my Crown of Creation with the purple heart to represent the wounds that only the people nearest and dearest to me could perpetrate upon me and still live. Because I love the bastard/bitches so.
Last, but not least, and the reason for it all: The island of Jamaica is above the "bracelet" on the front of my leg above Mr. Pansy's name. It is colored yellow, black and green and is over the scar itself.
So, it is possible to have 9 tattoos and they really aren't All That. Except for mine, of course. They are addicting, too. Oh, how I want more tattoos. But I won't. Sometimes the pining for something is more fun than the actual having so while I am not quite a tattoed lady I am still a Circus Freak.
The Portugese Washer Woman is the one who branded me as "that woman with 9 tattoos." She loves to tease me about my "horrific" quantity of tattoos since my first conscious memory of this most wonderful person in my life is: I had been working at the "Mr. Rogers' Brother" law firm for 2 weeks already so it's not like I didn't know her name. Regardless, I vividly recall going back to my desk one day and thinking "That receptionist certainly has a LARGE tattoo on her leg!" With a bit of shock, twinge of possible disgust, etc.
"That receptionist"???!! That is as bad as Clinton's infamous "That Woman".
I met my very best friend BigD (although all of my friends are my very best friends) at my new, Country-Girl-Goes-To-The-Big-City to be a secretary at the High-Rise Lawyer Firm. Two weeks after I have landed on Mars, BigD says to her cubiclemate "oh, my pictures from Jamaica have arrived." I, Miss Bat Ears With Super Sophisticated Echolocation Sonar Hearing, scamper over saying "Show me, too!" BigD (not knowing me) later confessed she felt quite shy about doing so but it was too late. Plus, she is a Cocker Spaniel and could/would never say "no". I, on the other hand, am a Chihuahua (imagine that). Her shyness stemmed from the fact that she and her husband, BiggerD, went to a resort in Jamaica that has a clothing optional beach. And she wasn't sure how I felt about such things. I look and look and look at the photos but finally confess that I do not see BigD in any of the pictures. She carefully explains she is the one with her hair in a ponytail on the top of her head. BigD looks remarkably different with her hair up instead of down. But, I see which female in the pictures is her and spent the rest of the photo viewing saying "Oh! There they are. I mean, YOU are." "There they are again. I mean YOU again." I still could not recognize her with her hair up. But her boobs. Well, they are as distinctive as markings on whales. Which I dutifully pointed out to her. We became very good friends almost immediately because she is a Cocker Spaniel with a great sense of humor. Then she tells me all about Jamaica and how wonderful it is and how she and her husband always tell people about it but no one they know ever goes. Even though the others profess great interest in going. I tell her to be careful for what she wishes.
The day of the picture viewing I race home and tell Mr. Pansy all about BigD and Jamaica and the resort.....Hedonism II. He immediately blanches and says "That place!?" I look askance and ask "what are you talking about? Have you heard of it?" He retorts "Yes! In sophisticated publications like Hustler." I pale and say "But BigD seems so nice." He contorts his face with disgust and says "Yeh, sure." and asks me to tell him more about her boobs. I falter and get a case of the vapors. He clutches me to his broad and manly chest and has his way with.......oh, please excuse me. Got mixed up and started to tell you ANOTHER story. hahahhahaha.
The fact is, I have to agree with Mr. Pansy that if HE had come home with the story I came home with about some "nice guy" at his work and seeing pictures of Nice Guy's private parts we would never have gone to Jamaica. But, since "Pansy Knows All" was the instigator, of course there is no reason to avoid BigD and BiggerD like the plague. We couldn't get our act/money/trip to Jamaica put together until two years later.
Then the horrific mishap at the airport. All 4 of us arrive at midnight, everyone else is cleared to go, I step up to the counter and the nice ladies tell me "This is not a birth certificate. Do you have a passport?" They were serious. I truly almost fainted dead away. I thought I had ruined our non-refundable vacation, that the money was down the tubes and it was all over. Mr. Pansy thought he had a way out of our marriage. We watch BigD and BiggerD fly away. Mr. Pansy, to his everlasting credit, actually did not get on the plane with them and say "see ya when ya get there, honey." I most certainly would have done that if the situation had been reversed. That's because not only am I a Chihuahua, I am a Bitch Chihuahua at that! hahahahaha. I really did get desperate and was ready to run around the corner, bite the paper I thought was my birth certificate to "emboss" it, and try to palm it off on the nice ladies. But I realized in time that would not work. So as I stood there like a stunned cow, they sweetly lied to me and said "this happens all the time. Just call your birth state people and get a birth certificate." I numbly/dumbly shake my head back and forth in the universal gesture that means: "I dunno how to do dat." They gave me the phone number in Texas and told us to keep coming back each night at midnight to the airport until I got the birth certificate. It is Groundhog Day! For Reals! If we showed up each night they could just postpone our flight for another 24 hours and we would not lose the tickets. Who knew that!? What nice ladies they really were.
I won't even go into how I actually called my elderly parents (at midnight!) and asked them if they had a birth certificate for me. They pretended I had not awakened them, pretended to look around, and actually came out and gave us a ride home. What a pair of noobs! Us, not my parents. Well, they are noobs too. For god's sake they gave me this stupid piece of paper eons ago claiming it was my birth certificate. I have used it for getting my driver's license, getting married (Mr. Pansy thought he had Yet Another Shot at getting out of the marriage over this), etc. It is, in fact, a stupid letter from stupid Texas saying my stupid parents had a stupid baby girl. It even has a paragraph stating that if a real birth certificate is needed, please send 50 cents. So now I am also some punk phat/fat rapper's bitch, as well?! hahahahha. Get it? Get it? fiddycent's booty call ho. [Get back on topic, please, Pansy. Back? Pansy's Got Back, Too! hahahahhaha.]
Mr. Pansy and I get home, totally freaked out. He reacts as usual by going to bed and promptly falling asleep. After all, he isn't the unpapered illegal alien. Sidenote: I had left the employment at the high-rise law firm and was now working for the most wonderful attorney ever (he surely is Mr. Rogers' brother). I go to the office when it is time for Texas to open. I call and speak with Yolanda Wilson, my absolute forever best friend. I tell her I am Pansy Palmetto and I am in a world of hurt. And explain my situation. She says "Oh, my" and we hammer out what needs to happen. My request for the birth certificate has to be received in writing in her office. We waltz around how to get the written request to her ASAP and how many hundreds of dollars per day are going to be lost from my vacation when suddenly:
Yolanda says: "You could fax the written request." We both squeal with delight but then she whispers (really) into the phone: "But I can't give you the fax number. It's against the rules."
I ask her if she is whispering because a supervisor is nearby.
Yolanda: "Yes."
Me: "If she were not nearby could you give me the fax number and I could send in my written request now?"
Yo: "Yes."
Me: "So, let's wait a bit and see if she needs to go get coffee or something. After all, you guys just opened up.
Yo: Okay.
Pause
Yo: She's leaving (whispering excitedly).
I can actually hear high heels click clacking out of the room.
Yo: Here's the fax number.
Me: I am faxing it as we speak, Yolanda! But let me get this straight. You can't give out the fax number but if a written request magically appears on the fax machine that's ok?
Yo: Go figure!
We laugh evilly.
Yo: Got it! Oh, no!
Me: What?
Yo: I can't process this without the $11.50 fee.
Me: I'll fax a check to you right now.
We both get real quiet and then burst into hysterical laughter. I gasp out "Well, how about if I fax you CASH instead?" and we laugh into tears again.
Yo: Pansy, if I pay this fee for you will you reimburse me?
Me: My god, Yolanda, you will own my ass for life on this one. Of course I will pay you back...double and with extra on top of that.
So she pays my fee and then we have to get the Real Birth Certificate Fed Exed to me. Yolanda has never done a Fed Ex thing in her life but she calls the Fed Ex people and we are all on a conference call wherein I say to the Fed Ex guy "I am Pansy Palmetto and I am in a world of hurt" and explain my situation. He says "Oh, my!" And says he'll help Yolanda when he gets there to pick up my birth certificate package.
While waiting for the FedEx guy to show up, I fax a filled-out Fed Ex form to Yolanda and train her on how to do it. Then the FedEx guy shows up at Yolanda's office with all the forms and a Fed Ex envelope but he cannot fill out the form himself (against the rules). So he gets on the phone with me and Yolanda and supervises everything and takes off with my birth certificate package. Meanwhile, before he got to Yolanda, the FedEx man on his own volition called and caught the pilot of the only FedEx plane on earth going from Dallas to my airport that day and tells him to hold up because of "Pansy Palmetto who is in a world of hurt" and explained my situation to the pilot who said "Oh, my."
All in all, I was on the phone nonstop (sometimes on hold) with Yolanda from 6am to 8:00am when the FedEx man took off to the airport. We had been on the phone so long we weren't sure it was really over and were fearful to hang up. So I gave her all my phone numbers and fax number and she gave me all her phone numbers, cell included so she could find out how this saga ended. By now, some of my office coworkers are showing up and look at me like they are seeing a ghost and we all have a hearty laugh about stupid Pansy. I have nothing else to do, so I go to the high school where I was parent assistant to the cheerleader coach and all of them look at me like I am a ghost. Even Baby Pansy momentarily had a brain meltdown and wanted to know why I had come back early from Jamaica. Then I went to the tanning place for one last tan session (don't go to Jamaica naturally white or you will die). While there, I decide to call Mr. Pansy and see if he is awake and tell him what's up.
Then I go back to work to finish up a few things. I call the travel agent about my world of hurt and she says "Oh, my." She calls Hedonism II and tells them about my world of hurt and they say "Oh, my." And it all gets arranged down to the last detail that when we finally arrive in Jamaica everything will be treated as if that day is Day One. So we still have a full vacation coming at no extra cost or fees on the part of any of the players involved. Un-fucking-believable.
I don't expect the FedEx package until the next day at best. About 2pm Mr. Pansy calls me and says "I just got a FedEx package. Shall I open it?" Yes, yes, for god's sake YES! He opens it s-l-o-w-l-y because he is meticulous always and says "Well! There's a piece of paper here and it says "Please remit $11.50 and we will send you the birth certificate." I totally fall for it and am gasping and having a seizure. Mr. Pansy never cries "wolf" or pulls too many practical jokes so he knew I'd go for this like a ton of bricks. When he does do practical jokes they are incredibly vicious and deadly. I think he was hoping my death would be, finally, a way out of the marriage for him. Not with my Voo-Doo Powers. Anyway, all the people from Texas to California actually joined together in a human chain of kindness and got that package to me 7 hours after I began my marathon phone call with Yolanda. That was really a miracle.
Only 24 hours after seeing BigD and BiggerD fly away, Mr. Pansy and I tromp back into the airport in the same travel clothes to the same nice ladies at the counter and By God and with A Real Birth Certificate For Idiot Pansy we get on that plane! After a layover/plane change in Dallas and again in Miami, we arrive umpteen hours later in Jamaica, ride on the 2-hour bus trip (and I do mean "trip" with live goats, ganja weed blowing in the wind, and screaming babies) to Hedonism II. Where BigD and BiggerD greet us with Dirty Bananas (the very best drink in the universe).
Yes, this tale is rather sideways and long-winded. hahhaha! Well, it's the Story that counts....not the ending! And it's Jamaica that is responsible for all of my tattoos, thus the need for the background.
We have finally arrived in Jamaica, get into bathing suits and start to walk over to the nude beach. You must be "dressed" in other parts of the resort even though simply wearing a decorative scarf around your neck counts as "dressed". We make it about 150 feet and the beach ladies (vendors allowed on the grounds) demand to braid my hair. It was hip length so 3 hours and countless Dirty Bananas, Humming Birds, Flaming Bob Marleys, etc. later, my hair is braided and Mr. Pansy, Pansy and the beach ladies are all bombed. Which makes it totally even easier to go to the nude beach. Along the way I see a man wearing a speedo (those wacky Europeans!) that is in the same fabric as my bikini. It is a very unique and neon pattern. What are the odds of that? So we have a very friendly picture taken together. Then we finally get to the nude beach, undress, grab another drink and Mr. Pansy dopily stares at me with a big old goofy grin on his face and says "Isn't this GREAT?" I am still stunned over the birth certificate business and say "Well, I don't know. We have only been here 5 hours." Island Fever hit me about 2 hours later and I turn and dopily stare at Mr. Pansy with a big old goofy grin on my face and say "HEY! This IS great!"
Mr. Pansy, BigD and BiggerD are kind of wallflowers but greatly enjoy observing. I go totally berserk all week necessitating daily visits to the Nurse's Station for increasingly serious albeit minor wounds. I am in the lunchtime spin (silly participatory games) every day; I am on the water slides, I am at the disco, I am snorkeling nude, I am on the trampoline, I am All Over that trapeze. It was very scary. I had to climb up 35 feet on this nasty, painful, salt encrusted rope ladder and then lean way out off the platform and do all kinds of horrible high-in-the-air stuff. But the secret for me was: (1) my youngest daughter had dared me before we left for Jamaica and (2) no glasses or contact lenses allowed so I am up there blind as a bat and that really helped. I was good enough they were going to put me in the Friday night Circus Show but then I did a bad dismount and when I hit the net (standing instead of sitting like you are supposed to) I bounced forward and scuffed the front of my left ankle. And twisted some torso muscles. And I was kinda tired anyway from all the swinging (trapeze swinging!!) so it was just as well. This happened on Day 5. Then during the Day 6 lunchtime spin game of musical chairs where the women circle around the men who are the "chairs", another woman and I both leaped onto the one remaining man chair. For some reason, the weakling cannot hold both of us and we all fall down. I landed on the back of my head and split it wide open. But I am feeling no pain. As I go back to my table people become a tad upset about the river of blood coming out of my scalp. 4 medical people check me out. 2 are vacationing American doctors and 2 are the Jamaican nurses. They are 50/50 on whether I need stitches or not but 100% in agreement that I should not get stitches in Jamaica under any circumstances. And since I was leaving within 24 hours, no problem, mon. Plus my braids helped a lot in keeping the wound pulled together.
We finally come home. Not very burned (that is a seriously hot sunshiney place) but I look like I should be put in a body bag. I bruise very readily and massively and the backs of my legs were a wreck of black and blue from the trapeze. My palms and the bottoms of my feet are equally ruined and peeling from the trapeze. My scalp wound is doing quite well but is pretty obvious. And my ankle wound is looking creepy. Our daughters are horrified and cannot believe that I think I have had a great time. I call the doctor and get in that day. He laughs at my condition and calls in the nurses to take a look. He won't even go near my ankle just says "It's gone dirty. Here, take some antibiotics." And throws the prescription paper at me from across the room. AND gave me a booster tetanus shot as extry punishment for having too much fun.
The ankle wound finally heals and the scar. THE SCAR!!! I swear to God, hand on the Bible, the scar is in the shape of the island of Jamaica. Now is that a tattoo crying out for a home or what!? BigD and BiggerD beg me and beg me to get a tattoo. Mr. Pansy thinks it is hilarious but declares I may not have a tattoo between my head hairline and my feet. So I am left with only my feet and a thin strip of ankle area to get tattooed. It takes me two years to build up the nerve and even then I only agreed to the tattoo when BigD finally broke down and said she would pay for it as a birthday gift to me.
I am here today to testify: There is no such thing as a *Free* tattoo. Those suckers hurt like the dickens. Especially on the ankles/feet or wherever there are lots of nerves and bony areas. My so-called 9 tattoos are a lovely, typical suburban white housewife's ankle "bracelet". I foolishly got them all done at once so it took a couple hours because every so often I would yell my code word "kick". I discussed it with the artist before she started and told her I would have to have breaks during the process. Which feels a lot like a very dull jackhammer slamming into your flesh. "Kick" meant the tattoo lady was to back off and I would kick my leg around to calm down. A few deep "cleansing breaths" later, we'd go at it again.
I have three tattoos that are words in thug Classique Olde English script of Mr. Pansy's name and my two daughters' names. And then their astrological signs after each name. The signs look like Chinese characters and are for: Aries, Gemini, Pisces
That makes 6 tattoos. Then I have: a life-size red Betta fish (Siamese fighting fish) to represent me.
On the inside of my heel, below the big ankle bone, there is a: 1-inch red "crown"
It really is the capital initials MM, with an underline. Within the MM is a purple heart with 3 cracks in it. One "MM" stands for my best friend who got me through the pregnancy with Daughter #1 and all the mental illness that goes with being a pregnant legal secretary. The other "MM" stands for my best friend, The Portugese Washer Woman, who got me through the teenage terror years with Daughter #1 and all the mental illness that goes with being a legal secretary menopausal mom with her first teenage child. So it's my Crown of Creation with the purple heart to represent the wounds that only the people nearest and dearest to me could perpetrate upon me and still live. Because I love the bastard/bitches so.
Last, but not least, and the reason for it all: The island of Jamaica is above the "bracelet" on the front of my leg above Mr. Pansy's name. It is colored yellow, black and green and is over the scar itself.
So, it is possible to have 9 tattoos and they really aren't All That. Except for mine, of course. They are addicting, too. Oh, how I want more tattoos. But I won't. Sometimes the pining for something is more fun than the actual having so while I am not quite a tattoed lady I am still a Circus Freak.
The Portugese Washer Woman is the one who branded me as "that woman with 9 tattoos." She loves to tease me about my "horrific" quantity of tattoos since my first conscious memory of this most wonderful person in my life is: I had been working at the "Mr. Rogers' Brother" law firm for 2 weeks already so it's not like I didn't know her name. Regardless, I vividly recall going back to my desk one day and thinking "That receptionist certainly has a LARGE tattoo on her leg!" With a bit of shock, twinge of possible disgust, etc.
"That receptionist"???!! That is as bad as Clinton's infamous "That Woman".
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