Pansy Talks, Talks, Talks...Always With The Talking

Salvation? Hell? Oh, HellaYes! HELL!! PLEASE!!

2010-02-25T00:07:00.000-08:00

It was Pansy’s Dream Come True. Her household appliances had a meeting and conspired to create a flood, thereby ruining the vinyl flooring in the kitchen/laundry/half bath areas….but no damage to anything else. Pansy has long wanted to replace that vinyl flooring and get the subfloor squeaking repaired, but could only afford to do so via her homeowner’s insurance deductible route. Good appliances! Good, good appliances! [Promises to sneak them some treats but stoopid appliances don’t know there is no such thing as a “treat” for an appliance. Double Win for Pansy!]

When will Pansy learn to beware what she wishes for? The Pansys are successfully pursuing their unbroken record of being magnets to the worst sorts of "worker people". This event would be no exception. We had a washing machine flood a couple months ago. The washing machine was not broken, the water simply hit a root clog in the pipes outside, did a U-turn and came back into the house through the 1/2 bath toilet. Not sewage water; just a nice big load of hot, soapy wash water to give the vinyl flooring one last scrubbing.

We have no explanation for why we put up with the Bizzaro Flooring Dude (BFD) and everyone we know (because they weren't caught in the vortex of crazy) said we should have marched down to the flooring store and demanded their "A" team within the first day. But, nooooo. We got F Troop’s leader. A glacier moves faster than he did. TEN GODDAMN (yes, I said DAMN) DAYS to do a 3-day job.

BFD is a 56 year old who “got with my Lord when I was 28" guy who works with his tinny, static-riddled radio on full blast, set to a Christian Soft Rock station, he works alone, evangelizing the whole fucking damn (yes, I said DAMN) time; and mumbled a lot. To himself? God? I don’t know. But he didn’t mumble so low that I couldn't hear him as he shared: he and his buddies burglarized and vandalized many schools in this area and he named them....all 2 dozen plus. But he's glad he got caught before they moved on to stores. He dropped out of high school. He joined the Marines, but got out after 3 years (even Pansy knows something is wrong with THAT math); he just had his 4-year sober anniversary (I guess the Lord wasn't all THAT close with him for a number of the earlier years); he's divorced (gee, really?); his grown son is currently living with him "trying out California over Arkansas"; it's lonely in his apartment; "is that a surround sound system you have there?"; "where is your Harley?" (from a photo on the refrigerator); he brought in a piece of paper with ink blots on it for us to "stare at the four dots and then at a blank wall and what do you see?" I refused to do it but Nice Guy Mr. Pansy did and of course it's the classic "Jesus" portrait. Ho the fuck hum, WHAT a surprise! BFD was practically peeing his pants in anticipation of our imminent salvation upon viewing this amazing magical piece of paper. Which reminds me, he also peed 40 times a day and each time he peed he would make a mark on a Post-It while he tried to discuss his fucking damn (yes, I said DAMN) prostate with me! Which HE pronounced “prostrate” and I am so proud to know that his kidneys just don’t hold like they used to. [screech] He tells me my daughter no way looks 28 years old; my husband seems to have a mellow vibe (oh, he changed THAT tune very soon); I don't look old enough to have children that old; blah/blah/blechhh.

And I know all this and so much more about BFD??? Because the Bible, I mean, HE told me so! Aaaarrggghh! I begged God to PLEASE save me. From this jerk. We googled him up and waddayaknow......he is listed under "felonspy/dot/com”. I am thinking that to make THAT list involves more than mere misdemeanors. Plus, Cubbie Darling AND his Combover hated BFD with a vehement violent deep-abiding passion. Not a good sign at all! I made sure I was on the phone with someone at all times; the doors and curtains were kept wide open; even the garage door was open so that I could at least try to make a run for it to the street where he would catch me and end my life in the gutter. Actually, I was not too worried. I take comfort in knowing that he would have asked Jesus to bless me as he killed me.

Every day he would finally show up around 10:30 with his vanilla latte grande cappuccino mocha espresso cafe au lait half-decaf/half-nonfat sweetened with Splenda coffee from the corner gas station. He would then spend hours doing nothing; he left for hours on end at random times; and, of course, he hung around way too much on our time at night, exhausting us all half to death with just trying to breathe calmly while he putzed around. I am pretty certain he hoped we’d turn into good Christians and ask him to have dinner with us. I would sooner throw the food into the garbage disposer. Oh, yeh. He had his work cut out for him when it came to saving US.

The Very Worst of all this? The BFD actually did a beautiful job on the actual flooring installation! Really. Oh, he screwed the ever-lovin fucking holy crap out of all the details. But the floor and the vinyl came out PERFECT. Which only shows how incredibly obsessive/compulsive he is. He did such a beautiful, meticulous job of installing the plywood underlayment that the animals thought he was done and promptly reclaimed their territory. The pomeranian peed by the dishwasher; the outdoor cat pooped by the oven, the indoor cat looked at the other two animals with utter disgust as he carried around mouthfuls of food and dribbled them everywhere, creating greasy stains. I don't know art, but I know what I like and this was "performance art" at its most basic, profound, in yo’ face muthafucka flooring guy level. I praised the pets and gave them extra treats.

BFD molested my brand new dark and handsome dishwasher, Eduardo. It took hours of expensive therapy to get Eduardo back to his old virginal self. BFD beheaded the dryer vent. We are still waiting for the surgeon to come out and tell us the operation was successful. BFD “didn’t like” how each doorway transition had been done before and butchered them into oblivion. The coup de grace? Mr. FelonSpy ALSO “didn’t like” how our front door worked and dismantled the LOCK and doorknob…..destroying the integrity of the fucking door frame in the process. Even the 3-legged cat can knock that door in now, with his remaining paw behind his back. Ooh, THAT recorded call to the flooring company will be used to convict Pansy The Lipstick Wearing Pit Bull because we are seriously wondering which will happen first:

Will the flooring details be repaired/completed or will I be taken into custody as a person of interest in a missing flooring man case? “Oh we found him .... floating down the Sacramento River, with a 4 ft piece of flooring shoved up his ass.”

I am quite certain that BFD spent 90% of his time here praying to Jesus in 5 minute intervals:

“Please, Jesus. Make the demon voices go away for even just 5 minutes. So that I won’t have to listen to them telling me to kill that woman over there.” He’d get his 5 minutes and then have to pray all over again. I would not be surprised if he showed up late and left at random times because of his prior commitments to AA meetings; his parole officer; drug tests; tent revivals, shock treatments, etc. He is undoubtedly struggling mightily just to get through each 5 minutes of every day and night. And you know what? I DON'T FUCKING CARE! ~sob~

Of course, what HE doesn’t know is that while he was praying to Jesus? Pansy was also praying. To God:

“Please, God. Keep my hands busy for 5 more minutes. So that I won’t grab those scissors that are Right Here and run screaming into the kitchen and stab that man over and over and over again.” I’d get my 5 minutes and then have to pray all over again.

But God trumps Jesus (being His Father and all). So God granted MY prayers, sent Jesus to His room without The Last Supper and those demons that talk to BFD? God granted BFD half his prayers: BFD still has to listen to the demons but now they sing to him. They sing every horrible head-banging, heavy metal, sinful rock and roll song PLUS filthy rap lyrics thrown in for good measure. Because I had to listen to the blaring Christian Soft Rock music for 10 fucking damn (yes, I said DAMN) days!

[note to self: remember this rant when I get held to account for my personal Tote Board of Reasons I Should Go To Hell.]

Crossing The Line In The Sand

2010-02-24T20:25:00.000-08:00

It happened so suddenly. And unexpectedly. At first I was so amazed I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I have never had very high hopes of being able to go through this rite of passage. I experimented. Stand up. Yes. Sit down. Yep. Twist left; twist right. Yes and yes. Why me? Why now?

What is Pansy talking about? Well, she went international. Actually, it was more like intercontinental. Hmm...not quite the right word. In-Country? Too military sounding. Ahh, of course! IN-CONTINENT. Oh. My. God. Pansy would not kid about THAT. Because she was majorly pissed off. Figuratively and Literally.

I decided it had to be that new blood pressure drug. But I checked with my doctors to explore any other possible explanation. They ran a few lab tests. Negative on any UTI issues. Good. Still, they mocked Pansy's self-diagnosis. But I knew I was right. Because when that drug dosage was cut back (due to side effects not self-diagnosis), Pansy got her groove back. Stoopid do-NOT-know-it-all doctors.

The new drug's major side effects are: dry mouth; constipation. Ha! How about Drier Than The Sahara Desert? Even my snot was turned into dry flakes from nostril constipation. All my mucous membrane tissues went d-r-y. Speaking of tissues, I went through rolls of toilet tissue like no woman ever has before. Because I was drinking excessive quantities of liquids, trying desperately, futilely, to overcome a drug-induced systemic drought. And when you overfill the tub, the waters will flow. Every few minutes. Around the clock. For any damn reason and for no dam reason.

I could only laugh about this (oops, there goes another wet pair of panties) since crying (dry eyes, ya know) was not a viable option. Everything was very dry, except the panties, sofa, chairs, bed, Mr. Pansy, the puppy, the pussy, etc., and "irritated". Especially my mood if anyone thought I was going to allow this to be my future NOW. Hell, the doctor actually said "most women your age are already in diapers." He is just about well enough to be released from the ICU because Pansy is NOT "most women" and never will be.

So....beware! You, too, could become in-continent. With no warning. Just pray you have a drug you can blame for it. On the other hand, I don't know many people who can mark their calendars with such conviction as to the exact day their personal waters involuntarily parted. Mine was January 22. I am petitioning Congress to wipe that date forevermore from all calendars. Unless they will make it a 3-day National Piss Your Panties Holiday.

[Suddenly remembers: some people will PAY for that "treat". Job Opportunity! See? A "golden" lining is possible even for rain clouds.]

Liver Surgery, Round Two

2009-10-29T15:54:00.000-07:00

So, on 10/21/09 I once again got the ever popular (not) fabulous (yes) RadioFrequency Ablation (RFA) surgery done on a new "enlarging" tumor on my liver. The surgeon and I both tell the anesthesiologist to drug me to holy hell (and back, please) so that maybe I will be able to stay ahead of the pain curve this time around. [Please see 2008 surgery post "Fuck Diamonds--Cancer Treatments Are A Girl's BFF"]

I wake up. So far, so good. Not in pain? EXCELLENT! But kinda nauseated. Nurse gives me a pill. A rilly nice pill. Generic name: Pain, I Will Kick Yore Ass To Last Tuesday.

This time around I have learned that just because a procedure is called "outpatient" that does not mean you will not be bedridden. You just get to be bedridden at home instead of in a hospital. I got home around 3:30pm; ate food like a truck driver until I collapsed into bed at 7:00pm. I woke up the next morning at 9:00am. Throwing up because, unfortunately, more samples of that rilly nice pain pill did NOT come home to bed with me. I threw up for 36 hours until the doctor came up with (puke pun!) THE PLAN.

THE PLAN encompassed making several dreams come true! I got to stop throwing up, which facilitated being able to take pain pills that would stay inside of me so they could do their job (half-assed compared to that rilly nice pill ~sad face~), which meant I was somewhat more comfortable, which was all made possible solely due to Mr. Pansy's skill and extreme interest/desire to implement THE PLAN. The doctor prescribed another kind of anti-nausea medication for me. Who knew that Mr. Pansy's dream job as he was growing up was that if he studied hard, stayed out of trouble, and tried his best, maybe...JUST maybe...he could become one of the few, the proud: A Suppository Installer. Have I mentioned he is a very demented person? Which goes a long way toward explaining why I like Mr. Pansy a whole (suppository pun!) lot. giggle.

Still, only 5 days in bed. Thrashing between 22 minute bouts of sleep with a 102 fever. Not too much to fuss over about that, compared to last year's incredible level of misery. On Day 6 I got up and had my usual Monday Luncheon with my Very Most Christian Friend who quite resembles a Very Pretty Queen Camilla of England. And went straight home back to bed. But on Day 7 I got up again and got my nails done. I think. I do clearly recall I went straight back home to bed again. And on the Eighth Day she got her usual chemo. After doing her best to get assurances it was not a Bad Plan. Sadistic oncologists.

I woke up at 3am on the Ninth Day and proceeded to beat the holy hell out of this stupid computer. I cleaned its disc; I defragged it; I bought a Registry Cleaner online (it was on sale, it was 4:30am, I had a credit card, no one could have stopped me). The Registry Cleaner found 700+ "problems" that the free Registry program I had just downloaded had left behind. It is impossible to get good help these days, I swear. Which you will have noticed by now I have NOT been swearing at all in this post. What the fuck is up with THAT? Then, after jillions of aborted tries, I finally successfully downloaded: THE FLASHPLAYER. Now Mr. Pansy can once again continue his pursuit of his Other Dream Job: Volunteer Citizen Monitor of Free Porn Sites. Because SOMEBODY has to make sure those places are pornly. There is internet fraud everywhere, you know. But first, after he heard what all I had done to the computer........he wants me to do all that to HIM! giggle.

(I vow to find out what the rilly nice pill's real name is and when I find out I will also tell YOU its real name. It was THAT good.)

HOLD THE "MAYO"

2009-10-01T17:46:00.000-07:00

"No."
More precisely: "Don't call us; we'll call you."

My onco called the Mayo Clinic on 9/18 to refer me for evaluation for a liver transplant. After a lengthy conversation with them, my onco called me at home around 11am. Well, Baby Pansy and I were out getting emergency hoof repairs for her wedding on 9/19. Mr. Pansy alleges he spoke with the onco for a long time. Don't try to fool PANSY! Mr. Pansy doesn't even talk to ME that much. Mr. Pansy is well known as "Chatty Cathy" for his verbosity. That means we mock him because he is the original "very quiet" person. But he took notes and this is what I understand is the situation:

The Mayo people are agog about me; they still would love to have me come be evaluated (if I wish); but I am not within their current protocol for bile duct cancer liver transplant candidacy.

Well.
Shit.
And "whew".

I was/am very conflicted about a transplant but only because it sure sounds scary, etc. The bottom line is, if I could have a transplant I would go for it. I know from personal experience that side effects can be mitigated and lived with. It took 3 years to dial in controlling my side effects from my ongoing chemo and even THOSE 3 years were well worth the annoyances involved! haha! But what a shocker to actually have to consider "choosing" a transplant. Now I don't even have that choice. Which is where I was before, so...okay.

Science has come along far enough to actually diagnose me 6 years after the fact; and in that same 6 years it has only recently become possible for bile duct cancer people to even have a limited shot at a transplant. So who is to say that science won't/can't come through for me (or any of YOU!!) "in time"?

What if I should get "sick" before science comes through for me re a transplant? Well, hell......Been There, DOING That! hahhahaha! Best of all: I am Patient #[fill in random series of digits until your hand cramps] Yay! The Mayo Clinic itself has joined The Legions Of Those Who Know My Name!

Pansy [punching cancer]: What's my name?
Cancer: Ow! Pansy is your name.

Pansy [punching cancer harder]: WHAT'S my name?
Cancer: OwOwOw! Pansy! It's Pansy!

Pansy [now pounding the shit out of cancer]: WHAT'S MY NAME!??
Cancer: You are Pansy, The Most Manned Up Woman In The Universe!
Pansy [gives hard vag kick* to cancer]: That's Right! And don't you ever forget it!

*"vag kick" is not meant to imply my cancer has a vagina. It's just a fight move we like to bust over on my internet cancer group. Actually, I see myself giving cancer more of a "vag stomp" with some heavy, steel-toed boots.

And, by my Pansy Math calculations, it appears that between those two phone calls my onco did not help One Singular Patient for TWO HOURS! He'd better not try pulling that stunt with me during our next appointment.

This is an excellent scientific speech about cancer and its cure:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vy67kwA6Xm4

HAS PANSY'S SHIP "COME IN" or "SAILED" ??

2009-09-15T13:39:00.000-07:00

I guess the answer is: a bit of both. And you should know right now that I am seriously breaking "Pansy Protocol" with this post. I NEVER put anything "out there" until it is a Completely Finished Big Picture and I always hang it up with at least a dozen sturdy railroad spikes. Now I am flinging out a bunch of out of focus, poorly framed snapshots on pins and needles. I am a wreck.

What is wrong with me? Who, with "inoperable, incurable, unknown primary cancer", would not pay Cash American Dollars (hell, I'd even throw in some Fake Australian Pesos if that would help) to be told they had an 80% chance of being cured? I have actually lived long enough to have science come through for me. What the fuck are THOSE odds?

My oncologist called me on the phone last week and said he knew what kind of cancer I have and that I now have a chance at a CURE. I have "nonresectable bile duct cancer" and I can have a liver transplant. I gasped and shouted at him "WHAT? You could not be scaring me more or shocking me more if you tried." I am certain he put his phone on "mute" after that first of many more shrieks out of me during our conversation.

There was a real disconnect between my doctor thinking he was telling me good news and me hearing words that instantly made me want to run and hide under my bed. Some big ass (turns out it was mine) prevented me from getting completely under that bed and as much as I struggled and yelled "no no no no no", he deteminedly pulled on my legs. Good thing I had just shaved them. And, worse, he was not "pulling my leg." Then I spent the next 72 hours like a wild animal feverishly trying to chew off my leg to free myself from this trap I suddenly felt I was in.

For once in my head-in-the-sand approach to my cancer, I went all internetty. And inner-nutty, too. When I hung up the phone after talking with my doctor I was alone in my house. Good thing, because I scared not only myself but all the pets with the primal howl that came out of me and I was close to hysterical: crying and incoherent. Mr. Pansy happened to call me and I sounded like I needed an ambulance.

Even when I went on the internet and found "good" information, STILL I have continued to mope around in a puddle of tears and flop-sweat.

PROS:
--We now know I have bile duct cancer. All this time it has been "undiagnosed primary".
--It does not matter if we had known this 6 years ago. Or even sooner. So no angry "why didn't/couldn't you find this out sooner?"
--Because until fairly recently a liver transplant for bile duct cancer patients was NOT an option. Why waste a liver on someone whose cancer might come back?
--We know my cancer's name because my doctor HAD to do a liver biopsy a couple weeks ago. (more on this later)
--Bile duct cancer liver transplants have an 80% success rate (live for 5 years)
--I can have a live donor and don't have to wait for a dead donor. [looking at YOU to go get tested. har!]

CONS:
--if it doesn't work I am dead on the spot. I will lose what time I would have had left if I had not done the transplant.
--if it does work I would need to take immunosuppressive drugs forever. And they "can" cause high blood pressure (already got that); high cholestrol (who cares); diabetes Type 2 (that's a biggie but.......).

I just want so much to keep on with my cancer life "as usual": the weekly chemos, routine CT scans, occasional port replacement surgery, the new addition of occasional rogue tumor removal via RFA (radio frequency ablation). I truly feel so Perfectly Healthy. I can do anything I want and those things I no longer can do I am okay with not doing them.

And what's with my onco doctor? He is my Second Husband. Why is he trying to "divorce" me? haha.

Why do I have to make a "Pansy's Sophie Choice" of throwing away everything on a risky transplant?

Dammit, I really do know that my doctor IS giving me good...fuck, make that: GREAT NEWS. I can have a liver transplant. It is considered a cure. But now I know Just How Easy it is to hate that dreadful "5 years" timer overhead.

I am surgery-phobic. I could never get that rockin' set of boobs no matter if they were free. I could never do a face lift or tummy tuck or any kind of cosmetic surgery. I don't know why. Just not on any lists of mine.

In fact, the ONLY list I have ever had is my "TO DO" list. Of men. AFTER Mr. Pansy dies, so you can just go slap down that tent in your pants now, boys. Stupid horndongs. (nice typo/pun there, Pansy) Sheesh!

THIS ONE IS THE BIGGIE:

I truly cannot keep my "current cancer life as is." That ship has already long sailed away. And I didn't even really know it until right now.

At the beginning my doctor told me that if they knew that I had, say, liver cancer (since that is where the tumors are) they would have just done a liver transplant and we would have all gone on our merry ways. But with an "undiagnosed primary" all they could do was try chemo and see what happened. As we all know, I totally snuck under that limbo stick.

He also declined over the years to do another biopsy because a biopsy leaves a slight trail of loose cells which could rile things up and make the cancer go "boom". And since everything was "working", the risk of a biopsy rocking the boat was not worth it. And everything WAS working until.........

Summer of 2008 a singular tumor went rogue. But it was a tumor that had been there since Day One, so we took a chance on an RFA and, as we all know, I really snuck under that limbo stick. Sprained myself a little bit with the "post ablation syndrome" but even that was actually just another adventure.

My doctor is a wonderful guy and he really will not play "self fulfilling prophecy" games. So he does not go very much into the "what ifs" of anything. We just deal with the "what is-ers". But when that first rogue tumor happened, that is when my doctor started NOT telling me something.

Spring of 2009 another singular tumor has gone rogue. And it is a brand new tumor. Well away from all other tumors. Now my doctor had his back unwillingly shoved up against his own wall. The risks of a liver biopsy of this new tumor were outweighed by the fact that a brand new tumor is seriously bad shit news. I do not think he expected at all to learn what kind of cancer I have. That is ANOTHER medical advance that has occurred over just these past 6 years. And, now that we know, it does explain why my cancer is acting the way it is. Bile duct cancer is a very tenacious cancer that will do all it can to overcome chemo and it appears it has found a crack in my armor.

And here I thought I had just jumped into the ocean and was swimming for all I was worth. Who knew I was still tethered to that fucking cancer ship? Guess I'm gonna have to grab that tether and learn how to waterski. I already know how to "regular" waterski and even single ski. Now I have to also fucking throw in jumping tricks, probably while skiing backwards? Hmmm. What shall I wear?
[pulls on Big Girl Ruffly Rhumba Panties]

I TRY to keep remembering my deal with God so I am also upset that I am upset At All. I was supposed to not get upset ever again. Another thought that trails through my brain is this: if not for the brave patients and doctors IN RECENT TIMES going for The Brass Ring there would be no history of successful bile duct cancer transplants and I still would not have a chance. Now I have 80 chances (or some mangulation of math). Too bad that ring so closely resembles one of those Rings of Hell we all hear about. haha!

If they could step up to the plate, I really ought to at least honor them by trying to step up to my own [damn fucking piled with shit] Big, Shiny, Pretty plate. [makes forced smile]

I cannot wait to see my doctor tomorrow and hear what he has to say. [grunts for awhile] Well. I see I have lost my powers to "move the space and time continuum" so evidently I am going to HAVE to wait. hahahhahaha!

It's One Day At A Time for now. Tomorrow I say "go" to the doctor. dammit.
Hope I get time enough to buckle up.

Pansy had to get a Liver Biopsy...

2009-09-02T19:49:00.000-07:00

and all they gave her for her agony was a single, ordinary, "flesh color" band-aid. God forbid ANYONE's flesh is ever THAT color. When will they humor me and give me a big old mummy wrap to impress/scare others? [pouts]

In case you need to ever get a liver biopsy done: they are totally a non-event. Anyone who claims otherwise must be some kind of Quite High Maintenance Bitch, says Pansy The Most Manned Up Woman in the Universe.

Of course, there were some wonderful gory moments: the vein in my right arm "blew". I told the nurse to never say that word in my conscious presence again. The vein in my left arm just would not cooperate and when I finally HAD to say "ow" she apologized and stopped digging. They decided they could access my chestport at which point I demanded to see their qualifications to do so. They did a remarkably believable approximation of what the chemo nurses do to me so I let them access my chestport. Without any numbing but sometimes you have to bite the damn crochet hook needle and just do it.

The doctor was not utterly optimistic before the procedure because he had several obstacles: a very specific and relatively small tumor in a liver crowded with tumors had to be biopsied; needle biopsies can only take limited tissue and that can result in a "not enough to make any determination" sample size....necessitating a do-over or, more likely, an invasive surgical biopsy. Then he reviewed my CT scans, felt around my liver and realized the tumor is miraculously quite set apart from any others and somewhat accessible, BUT ONLY IF I HELD MY BREATH. When I held my breath my expanded lungs pushed the liver out "just enough" which meant we could do the biopsy without a live-feed CT scan. This is desireable since the less radiation I have to be subjected to, the better. He ultrasounded me, got a lock on the tumor position and we were off to the races.

We worked out a deal where I would hold my breath and he would do what he could in that time frame; then we'd take a breather (pun!) and so we continued to shampoo/rinse/repeat until he got a tissue sample. THREE tissue samples, thank you very much. The creepiest part was the lidocaine injection. The doctor, of course, cannot merely numb the skin. He has to numb all the way down and into the liver. The needle's pointy part was seriously 6 inches long. And just about all of it got pushed with emphasis into my abdomen. I fiercely closed my eyes during that part. Ick. He'd stab, inject, the stuff would burn/sting until it numbed me, he'd wait a couple more seconds, stab further, inject, burn/sting, etc. That took about 4 deeper and deeper stabbings to complete. When he hit the liver there was a "whoosh" sensation of my entire liver/right side being flooded with something. Fortunately, the numbing kicked in REAL QUICK.

Then he did the part where he stuck something inside me to snip off tissue. And when it "snipped" it did so with a very loud, echo-off-the-walls, metallic SNAP. I never saw that device because I had put Super Glue on my eyelids by then. I was also getting "mild sedation" via the chestport IV. I would advise them occasionally that I really did not feel very sedated at all. They'd laugh and buzz me up a bit. We really had a good and cooperative time. The doctor was proud of me.

Now I am not to lift anything beyond 15 pounds for the next 72 hours. Like I ever lift that much of anything except maybe a pie. No activities that might "strain" me, like running. So I am going to include bicycling for that 72 hour restriction period. But, of course, I CAN go back to work FULL TIME as soon as tomorrow if I "feel up to it". I also decided that Mr. Pansy should not "feel up to it" for 72 hours. I might get a "strain". He definitely is going to be feeling strained by the end of 72 hours of celibacy. hahahhaha!

And then, this morning, Pansy Completely Forgot about no straining and let Mr. Pansy have his way with her! Then, in the middle of it all, HE remembered and got all upset and "stopped" to ask me if I was okay. When did HE forget that if Pansy is "not okay" the whole world comes to a screeching "not okay" stop? Doofus. But he's Pansy's Doofus so that's okay.

The mildy-sedated Pansy (Oh, ~weep~ she looks SO life-like.) Actually, I rather look like a "big old mummy" all wrapped up and kindy scary. Gotta watch what I wish for. haha!

All this hoopla is because 3 months ago a new tumor showed up on my CT scan. Drat. Then, the most recent CT scan showed the new tumor has doubled in size. Double Drat. So, Pansy will be getting some gawdawful procedure to remove said new tumor in the very near future. She will be SURE to regale you with the horrors of that exciting episode on the ongoing, hopefully long-running, mini-series: "Perils of Pansy". How worried is Pansy? She is so worried the tumor removal might put her on the "temporarily disabled" list, she will not schedule it before the upcoming Baby Pansy Wedding. I want that meal we're paying the Big Bucks for. Sometime after 9/19/09 [burp] it's more "off to the races".

Side Effects "may subside"........

2009-08-30T21:04:00.001-07:00

When, exactly? Oh, how I wish!

First of all.............I have added another doctor to my medical posse: cardiologist.

1. He HATES tattoos! How does Pansy know? She beats information out of anyone who crosses her path. And he most definitely crossed Pansy with his condemnation of tattoos. I learned of his extreme personal aversion re tattoos when I asked him if he thought it would be safe to get flowers [pansies of course] and vines/leaves tattooed over my [brace yourselves, youngsters, it's gonna happen to YOU too, ya punks!] VARICOSE VEINS. He could not be swayed even when I assured him the tattoos would be tasteful and discrete---as long as I did not wear short, revealing, age-inappropriate clothing. [Yes, WE all know Pansy was lying through her stained, snaggle tooth when she told the cardiologist that huge, fucking lie, but HE doesn't know yet that Pansy Lies.] I guess he doesn't get asked THAT question very often since most of his patients are near death on tennis balls. You know. The tennis balls on their walkers. [Note to Self: add that last comment to list of Reasons Why Pansy Is Going To Hell.]

2. I told him the story behind the tattoos Pansy already has. He found that quite intriguing. Especially the parts about being naked in Jamaica. NO, you do not have to be naked in Jamaica to get tattoos. That's just how Pansy likes to get inspiration for her tattoos.

3. I was seeing the cardiologist because my blood pressure has been quite active and since June it has been scoring big time: in the neighborhood of 230/140. Evidently that is a bad, crime-filled neighborhood. How bad is this neighborhood? Pansy's savvy New Jersey sister-in-law (Long Suffering Woman) told Pansy: It's the kind of neighborhood that only has bars, tattoo parlors and barber shops where they only know 2 kinds of hairdos: "buzz cuts" and "scalp design". Which does go a long way toward explaining why Pansy is often hungover wondering where she got THAT tattoo and why is she sporting an uneven buzz cut?

4. About 2 minutes into the initial 15 minute "consultation appointment" (which is doctor code on their insurance company reimbursement rip-off claims for "do nothing but schedule another appointment"), he stopped talking, looked at me, took a breath and said "This is above my pay grade." Yessss!

I guess he's never had a patient who has had over 200 chemos and eagerly plans to have more. He then proceeded to talk with me for a solid hour. FINALLY, I got my $20 co-pay money's worth out of a doctor! As I was leaving, he said something along the lines of: "No fucking way in hell am I going to let you die while you are on my watch." He was not kidding around. He put me on an additional blood pressure drug and now I take 4 drugs for my blood pressure. That drug has been quite enjoying kicking Pansy's ass ever since.

5. Day One of Additional Drug was a Saturday. I spent it flat out on the floor with multiple side effects. They included, but were not limited to:
----dizziness; vertigo; faintness; feeling weak when sitting/standing (those sound alike but they are each separate side effects)
----nausea; flatulence, constipation, diarrhea, flushing (yes, you can have ALL of those simultaneously and NO, smartasses, the "flushing" was more than the toilet....it's hot flashes)
----headache; chest pain (like being crushed externally by a can masher); swelling of extremities; leg cramps; leg pain
---insomnia, dry mouth, runny nose

And the special side effects for ONLY all you guys out there are:
----impotence
----enlarged breasts [???!!!] WHY DO YOU GET ALL THE FUN SIDE EFFECTS????!!!!

The ONLY side effects I have not yet had the joy of experiencing are:
---bleeding gums
---transient blindness

I will bet you anything that I have had the "transient blindness". While I was asleep. Side effects can't tell time so what would they know about when to show up? Does "transient blindness" involve playing Seeing Eye Dog with Hobos? Because Pansy is tired of that game with Mr. Pansy. [Feel free to insert your own rude comment concerning teaching old dogs new tricks.] Pansy is just grateful all the above side effects are not under the category of "go to the nearest emergency room"....of which there are about 6 of those.

6. Dammitall, the drug combo is working. Within 48 hours my blood pressure readings were down by half: 140/90 and lower. No wonder I was on the floor with my stomach in my throat. With that kind of a roller coaster drop I am sure I was somewhat experiencing the equivalent of going into shock. The drug is working but it is pretty nasty. I am going to gut it out for another week or so but the foot swelling and leg pain/cramps are real close to disabling. At least the dizziness has subsided so that I am able to ride my bicycle again.

7. During these 3 visits to the cardiologist he did an EKG; a kidney ultrasound; and an echocardiogram on me. To his delight (and mine, truth be told) every result was "perfect". Not a bit of artery problems, no heart damage of any sort, 54 resting heartrate. Just amazing. The doctor was shocked since he had warned me that he expected some heart damage due to my blood pressure history. Not.

Still, he wants to see me again in 3 months and then every 6 months thereafter. Because he has the hots for Pansy. How do I know this? Because, just like all my other doctors, the cardiologist has fallen under Pansy's Spell. He would say to me at each appointment: "You look GREAT." But only in a platonic, medical way.
dammit.

25 Things I Didn't Know About Facebook

2009-07-07T13:19:00.000-07:00

Facebook has come to blight my life. I have been defriended more than a few times (what a shocker! hahahhahaha!); my computer has been attacked by all kinds of bugs and viruses; I think I might be on a "list" somewhere. In fact, I am quite certain I am on several "lists" out there. hahaha! I hope so. And having to put up with all those incessant "applications" and "quizzes" and "lists". But I get my jollies by re-formatting them. To wit:

THERE WAS THE "25 THINGS YOU DIDN'T KNOW ABOUT ME". Considering I know just about nothing about any of these people in the first place is, evidently, quite beside the point. My version was "25 THINGS ABOUT GETTING CANCER"

1. I did not collapse, scream, or cry at the doctor's office. It was already way too fucking late for those cheap theatrics.

2. Instead, I went home on that Black Friday and waited for Mr. Pansy to come home. I did not call him at work or go see him at work. Why not let him have his last 5 hours of "life is happy, happy, joy, joy" innocent ignorance?

3. When Mr. Pansy got home, I began to break things. I broke him. I broke our two children. I broke my sister, my brother, my parents. That wasn't enough. Over the next few weeks I broke every one of my friends, too.

4. When Mr. Pansy told his mother, she said these immortal words: "She is going to really manipulate you now." I hope I will never say such a cruel thing to anyone. Especially not to my child as they tell me about something that is causing them the most pain of their life. It took me some time to realize she is jealous and furious that I have topped any kind of infirmity she can ever come up with. Gotta take my wins where I can get them, you know. hahahha!

5. I knew immediately that I would do anything/take anything the doctors suggested or offered. It was "ON". I would die from the shame I would feel if I did not do everything. I will NOT have my family/friends ever be able to say "she didn't try."

6. After 43 days of getting every cancer test out there, we learned I have Secret Cancer. It refuses to even give just its name, rank or serial number. This one was gonna be a tough customer.

7. My doctors tell me that I have "unknown primary cancer metastasized to the liver, right kidney and both lungs." And that it is incurable. And inoperable. I say "Oh. And what's the bad news?" I really did say that.

8. The bad news was that Plan A involved simultaneous full strength doses of all the chemo drugs for lung cancer, ovarian cancer and breast cancer.

9. I felt horribly ashamed to be so frightened about impending chemo treatments. There was no other option, so I went to MY "Plan A": I made a deal with God. I told God that I would accept whatever came my way and that whatever happened, it would be okay with me. God said "Deal." And in that exact second, all my fears went away. Forever.

10. Plan A is implemented. I am Very Surprised. This chemo stuff truly is not nearly as awful as its reputation. Oh, it IS awful...that's a for sure fucking fact. But surely if there is one thing everyone does know about me, it is my credo: if a Pansy can do it, anyone can do it. I smile as I vomit.

11. Six chemo rounds later we learn that Secret Cancer thinks the chemo drugs are manna from heaven. It's grown leaps and bounds and is all plump and pink and cheerful. I am wilted, thin, gray-skinned and bald. And kinda pissed off. Plan A is supposed to have a 50% success rate. Well, fuck the 50% I got stuck with.

12. We go to Plan B. It is presented to me as Very Useless and perhaps I should consider going straight to Plan C (experiments out of town) since I was real close to running out of time. I want to go with Plan B, somewhat against my doctor's wishes.

13. Guess The Fuck What? Very Useless Plan B fucking worked!

This is where my list ends. I know it's not 25 things but "13" is my Lucky Number. I was born on a "13"; I work on Floor "13" (although it is called Floor 14); and my desk is even located at Space "13". No sense messing with good mojo!

BUT PANSY DON'T LIKE TO LEAVE THINGS UNFINISHED, SO SHE THOUGHT IT OVER SOME MORE AND GOT THESE:

14. I am no fence sitter. I somehow "know" which medical decisions to make. And I don't even have no medical degree!

15. I have never been intimidated by my doctors and have never doubted their guidance. Lucky for them I have approved of their decisions, so far.

16. I am astounded every waking minute over how Mr. Pansy picked up every oar in our boat and continues to look for more oars. I don't know why he isn't dead from stress or exhaustion already.

17. I lost all emotional attachment to possessions. Everything I own is merely a "thing".

18. I love that I must have chemo forever. I could not endure the "performance pressure" of a finite set of treatments.

19. Considering I cry at the drop of a hat about others, I have only cried "for myself" 3 times. I hope that means I am far less selfish than I believe I am. I'm probably wrong about that hope!

20. I had no idea I would be so ANGRY about having cancer but I don't feel sad about it. I confess I enjoy being a "hater" on things like Facebook lists and "forward to everyone" emails. And jalapeno peppers. Boy, do I ever haaate those! hahahhaha!

21. I never did and especially now do not regret one single moment of my lifelong lack of "plan for the future" genes. Those memories are worth more than any retirement plan now! hahahhaha!

22. I believe Mr. Pansy will go on without me. I wish he would believe it, too.

23. Cancer's greatest gift is that it allows a "long" goodbye. I love how cancer swept away a lot of bullshit emotional clutter between me and the family members that matter the most to me: husband, children, siblings. So many people waste years on petty issues because they think they have forever. There were not many issues for me but it's good to have a clean slate.

24. I have cancer the "best" way: no terrible financial debts, no insurance hassles, great doctors, wonderful emotional support from family, friends and my employer.

25. I am most happy that I had guaranteed renewable life insurance. At least I got to stick something to "the man" when I suddenly became uninsurable! Mr. Pansy will have 5 years worth of house payments to buy him time to make sensible decisions. He has new insurance too. I will be able to buy the most rockin' set of boobs ever. Screw "sensible"!

And one to grow on:

26. I am very un-reconciled to death. But I trust I will be given the tools I will need when I get there. Besides, cancer garners way too much attention for what we all eventually have to face. Who knew the perks of having such a "glamour diagnosis" would work so great for Lazy Narcissistic Pansy! hahahaha!

----------------------------------------------------

THE BUCKET LIST.
The object is to read the list and place an (x) by all the things you've done; do NOT place an (x) by things you have not done. Pansy HATES stupid ass things......but especially she hates a fucking "Bucket List" and all its lame, Lifetime Channel morbid death aspects. You want a fucking "Bucket List" outta me? Here ya go.

(x) waded in a mountain stream and had sex
(x) owned a VW bug and had sex
(x) visited a friend's house and had sex in their bathroom
(x) been in a sleeping bag out in the open and had sex in it in 100 degree weather
(x) Skipped school and had sex
(x ) been in an attic crawl space and had sex
(x) sat in a mountain meadow and had sex because we thought we were alone until that family walked up on us----Note to self: don't take LSD before sex, it alters your judgment re "aloneness"! hahahha!
(x) Owned a boat (canoe) and had sex
(x) Been to a lighthouse and had sex
(x) Swam in the ocean and had sex
(x) Went streaking and had sex
(x) Been to a rodeo and had sex
(x) Sang Karaoke (“Just One Look”) and had sex
(x) Laughed until a beverage came out of my nose and had sex
(x) Watched the sunrise with someone and had sex
(x) Gone to the indoor movies and had sex
(x) Gone to a drive-in movie theater and had sex
(x) Owned a convertible and had sex in it
(x) Seen a total eclipse of the sun and had sex
(x) Been to Altamont and had sex
(x) been in bathtub; shower; swimming pool...sex in all
(x) returned to work after "lunch" with dress on entirely inside out because of having sex
(x) Been to Arizona and had sex
(x) Been to California and had sex (still doing that)
(x) Been to Colorado and had sex
(x) Been to Florida and had sex
(x) Been to Georgia and had sex
(x) Been to Hawaii and had sex
(x) Been to Jamaica and had sex
(x) Been to Missouri and had sex
(x) Been to Montana and had sex
(x) Been to Nevada and had sex
(x) Been to New Jersey and had sex
(x) Been to New Mexico and had sex
(x) Been to South Carolina and had sex
(x) Been to South Dakota and had sex
(x) Been to Tennessee and had sex
(x) Been to Texas and had sex
(x) Made a boyfriend cry? Hellayes! Due to great sex!
( ) Shook the hand of a President---No, but I did shake Robert Kennedy's hand, before he was assassinated; no sex
( ) Joined the mile-high club. NO! What? You think I’m some kind of sex weirdo?
( ) Had sex in hot tub? NO! Who wants to have to skim "foam" off the surface?
(x) Woke up today and (you know what's next) HAD SEX!

It has come (PUN!) to my attention that OTHER PEOPLE's so-called "bucket lists" differ from mine. I cannot help it if they have boring lists.

And lately I have been scoring Big Time: I would last for 32 seconds in a death match against Chuck Norris; the Bad Ass Animal I would be is a Great White Shark; my superpower is "Super Ventiloquism" with really huge red lips. I think I'll go find me some more Facebook quizzes/lists.

You All Make Pansy Gag. Literally.

2009-07-07T09:59:00.000-07:00

I have always been quite the prolific vomitress. I puked every day of my pregnancies. Sometimes twice a day. All that retching was a very worthwhile downpayment for the fabulous 4 hour painless labors I got to experience. I literally could have gotten straight up from the birthing bed and plowed 40 acres.

One day in 2003 I noticed that I could not brush my teeth without excessive gagging and very nearly vomiting. Now why isn't THAT listed as an early sign of cancer? Soon thereafter came all the many chemo drugs and Pansy went pro in the sport of XPH [Xtreme Projectile Hurling]. But now it has gotten completely out of hand......or out of mouth, should I say?

I have become hyper-sensitive to gag-inducing situations. Lord save you if you are what I call a "sloppy eater." I don't even know how to describe what qualifies as a "sloppy eater"! You eat with your mouth open? I'll gladly grab out the big chunks for myself. You have food on your face? I'll lick you clean. But God Forbid and Have Mercy On Your Dead Carcass if you eat "too fast". That will set me off into a truly disgusted/disgusting retching fit. I mean MY gagging makes ME gag so it's quite the vicious cycle.

And my gagging problem has spread to other "triggers". I have been known to start gagging when first meeting someone! It is NOT COOL to be saying "Hi. Nice to [gag, retch] meet you [heave]!" AND have to actually turn away to get my gagging under control. I actually embarrass my own damn self! I also possibly am not going to be making very many new friends from now on out.

The best way I can attempt to explain it is: "Sometimes I feel like a gag, sometimes I don't." There is ONE extremely good side to all of this: Mr. Pansy now has the largest, most gag-inducing penis on this planet! And you can Just Stop Already with the fake waterworks for Mr. Pansy. He ain't missing out on anything. He has "come" to terms with the new soundtrack that now goes along with certain mouth-to-body-parts [gag, retch] activities. hahahha!

Sometimes I "Obey" My Husband..Never Again!

2009-02-19T14:28:00.000-08:00

First of all...............I AM SENILE. But that doesn't mean I don't remember things. With a vengeance and a grudge that will never fade. I probably will NEVER FORGIVE that bastard I am married to because when the Tour of California came to town, our plans were to ride our bikes from our house to downtown and spend all day in miserable weather. It was going to be barely tolerable only because it did not look like it would actually rain and I had dressed up--strictly for the potentially bad weather, you know. MR. PANSY MADE ME FUCKING CHANGE MY FUCKING CLOTHES before we left the house. If I had worn what I intended to wear I absolutely would have been on Versus and seen 'round the world. Because I am Adorably Cute.

This place is such a podunk town. And THAT JERKOFF (which is how he is going to be getting his sex for a very long time) that I continue to live with is King of the Fucking Podunks. He actually said OUT FUCKING LOUD to me: "I wish you wouldn't wear that." And THEN he fucking said this: "I know you are just dying for attention...." and his voice trailed off and he looked wistful. Perhaps frightened at what had slipped out of his flapping mouth. I thought "I will show that bastard I am totally capable of NOT wearing costumes." And I dressed down.

Even dressed down, I was quite popular with the crowds....including the pro biker boys out on the bike trail warming up and passing us in each direction as we rode toward downtown. Many people who saw me said "I love your jacket/top/furry breasts." I was wearing my silver "fur" bicycle jersey and it isn't just a costume, it is a functioning genuine bicycle jersey. What I had been wearing in addition to the fur jersey was...well, it was indescribable and NOW NO ONE WILL EVER GET TO SEE IT. Until next year when I plan to follow the Tour of California for a day or two or seven. It is not stalking if you don't carry concealed weapons.

The Tour of California cries out for a "fixture". The "devil" at the Tour de France is a fixture. WHY SHOULDN'T PANSY BE THIS RACE'S FUCKING FIXTURE? I still can't believe that chickenshit I am married to asked me to not dress up. What is wrong with him? He had better realize that kind of "obedience" will never happen again in HIS now very much shortened lifetime. But I am not pissed off forever and ever about this incident. Or bitter. Or homicidal. Noooooo. [snarl]

Highlights of playing with the biker boys: I tracked down a couple of teams during their forced P.R. appearances around town...Jelly Belly and Garmin/Chipotle. They signed free postcards/posters and gave out team water bottles. The Jelly Belly boys had a wheelspin game: each section was 2 flavors of jelly beans. Such as Watermelon/Booger; Peach/Vomit; Lime/Asparagus. Those are all REAL flavors and MY spin landed on: Buttered Popcorn/Rotten Eggs. YES!!!! And that fucker was spot on for realistically horrible flavor. There was a trash can nearby to spew into. That was a Kodak moment I should have predicted but...nope. Because of that senility thing, you know. I still think I was set up for the rotten egg just because I had been smooching on the biker boys. They were probably worried I gave them a "germ". They wish.

The Jelly Belly Boys Never Saw It Coming:

The Chipotle/Garmin Team:

Star Boy Dave Zabriskie

Signed,

If I dress up, there will be trouble
If I don't dress up, it will be double

PANSY'S ULTIMATE XXXTREME ORIGINAL BEST HOUSE CLEANING SYSTEM (Trademark and Patent Pending)

2008-11-04T15:35:00.000-08:00

I am very pleased and proud to share my "Pansy's Ultimate XXXtreme Original Best House Cleaning System". It is being offered here as a Public Service but mostly because it is part of my parole requirements:

(1) matches
(2) fire hose
(3) large drain in center of room

Pull all contents out of every orifice in room, light match, do ritualistic dancing around fire (heavy drinking allowed AND encouraged), when flames die down use fire hose to flush all ashes down the center drain. Repeat for each room of house.

This System works for Everybody! Because it is an Absolute Fact that anyone can open any cabinet/drawer/closet in their home at random and they will NEVER fucking find anything more recent than telephone books from 2003.

Fuck the sorting into "yes" "no" "maybe" baskets. Burn all the fucking baskets, too. Seriously. I am not even the packrat of the Pansy Family. Reference: "Pansy Loves Grease" which discusses among other things Mr. The Ultimate Packrat Pansy and his goddammed spark fucking plugs. But I am not still bitter.

For god's sake would someone please tell Pansy what to do with old VCR tapes? They each have about 30 minutes of some lameass TV broadcast from as long ago as when "Pong" was all the rage in video games. Pansy has a "Pong" in her attic! And I ain't just talking about the house attic if you know what I mean. How else to explain this convulsion of shit in my house?

I should definitely cut each tape so that it is rendered useless, load them all up in the car and go to the dump. I have to cut the tapes to pre-empt someone viewing all the personal porn that I undoubtedly made with god-knows-who/when/where and have forgotten about. I am talking 17 grocery bags of stupid old VCR tapes! And there are 8 shelves of shit above my computer that I still haven't culled of useless VCR tapes.

But, wait! That's not all! You say YOUR house is too messy to be cleaned just using matches? Pansy's New and Improved Ultimate XXXtreme Original Best House Cleaning System is now available with a Fully Functioning Military Grade FLAMETHROWER at no additional cost if you send Just One (1) boatload of money within the next 20 minutes!

YOUR system could be on its way to you today! Or not. Send those boatloads NOW!!! All orders placed in the next 20 minutes will be eligible for a drawing to win a Roseanne Wet Bar Ride Around Vacuum Cleaner!

UPDATE ON 11/7/2008: DO NOT BE TRICKED BY CHEAP FUCKING IMITATIONS!

Published 11/5/2008: Cleaning cobwebs with blow torch blamed for house fire in Sargent
A single-story home in Sargent was damaged by fire Wednesday morning after the homeowner accidentally set the fire while cleaning cobwebs from the eaves around the exterior of the residence with a blow torch.

Pansy has LONG been promoting her house cleaning program. Since at least the early 1970s..........way before this faker in Sargent decided to steal her Original Idea.

PANSY COMES. CLEAN, THAT IS.

2008-10-30T16:52:00.000-07:00

No wonder I felt so fucking awful while riding 70-ish miles this past Saturday! In fact, I felt SO bad that on Sunday I threw a tantrum and REFUSED to ride more than 40 miles. I was still feeling not great on Monday but I went to work anyway. Mostly because I have a lunch date every Monday with My Very Most Christian Friend Vicki at Denny's and I will fucking do ANYTHING for a free ass lunch. Including talking/listening to her.

She and I told each other long ago.... god, I think I have known her for almost 10 years? Fuck, no wonder she looks so much older and haggier now! hahahaha! Naw. In fact, she is a Dead Ringer for a (oxymoron alert!) "good looking Camilla". The Camilla that married Prince Homeliest Man Who Would Be King (but for the fact that his oldass bitch of a mom will NOT fucking die already!) in the history of inbred Englishmen. If Camilla were "prettied up"....she would look like Vicki.

Anyways, we told each other long ago that we could be friends and say anything to each other no matter what. Well, she evidently has the nerve to take me at my lying-through-my-teeth word and said this OUT LOUD:

Vicki: I voted "yes" on every proposition on the ballot just to Make Sure I did NOT mess up voting Yes on Prop. 8 (allows gay marriage in California).

Me: [choking on food and nearly passing out.] WHAT?

Vicki said (OUT LOUD again!) that Prop. 8 just could not happen because then sex will be taught to 2nd graders.

Vicki, honey, there's plenty of "sex education" going on already at the hands of priests, ministers, and second graders' own damn parents! And Pansy ain't talking about the Good Kind of sex education. But I don't tell her that. It would not change her mind about Prop. 8. Amazingly, her parents bankroll the Democratic Party so this just has to be breaking their elderly hearts to have raised such spawn of satan. hahahhahahha! Even the most insane throwback caveperson mentality knows that gay marriage isn't gonna kill anyone. Except in gay marriage domestic violence situations, I suppose. I just don't understand people who worry about gay marriage. I mean how did Vicki arrive at that side of the issue? With her parentage, she couldn't have been BORN that way, could she? hahahhahahaha! (That was a twist pun on gays being born that way. In case you didn't get it.)

Anyways....THAT is not what made Pansy feel so bad during her bike rides. Especially since the bike rides happened before the lunch with Vicki. No, what happened is I went in for chemo today and waddayaknow? I have a FEVER! I am SICK! I think it's all you internet people. I probably have an Internet Virus! hahahahahhaha! (THAT'S another twist on another pun. In case you didn't get it.) But then I ran a scan on my computer and there aren't any viruses there. So you assholes are off the hook. Hey! That's ANOTHER pun! ("Off the hook" means different things depending on your elderliness. In case you didn't get it.)

So I am left wondering "what's up" or, to better relate to you buncha punks "wassup?" I eventually figured out what happened. I filled out my absentee ballot and I VOTED FOR JOHN McCAIN AND YOU CAN'T STOP ME. But not to worry. I live in California and this state's Electoral College has already long gone loopy over Barry Obama so my vote totally does not count, makes not a bit of difference, and I am even all down with Obama being President. Even so, I VOTED FOR JOHN McCAIN.

Anyways, I have been Actually Really Trying to study and educate myself for this stupid election. In case you babies don't know: in every election EVER there has always been One Candidate who had it in the bag. And without exception That Candidate always then proceeds to do their damndest to lose the fucking bag. J0HN McCAIN, WHOM I VOTED FOR has done the Very Most Perfect Job of Fucking Blowing His Bag that Pansy has ever witnessed.

I voted sensibly and educatably (Is that a word? Looks like I need some more edumacation my own stupid self!) on the Propositions and I am generally FOR anything that involves Education or Prevention. So I supported money for junior colleges (they are the Higher Education Lifeline for people who are never going to get into Big Time Colleges) and I supported lighter sentences that included diversion programs for certain non-violent drug crimes.

Because if society does not give its marginal, slipping between the cracks people a hand in mercy they will find themselves being bitch slapped in about 5 years by a marginal person that has a gun in one hand and crack in the other. And NO junior college credits, neither!

Anyways, I know what made Pansy sick. It wasn't that PANSY VOTED FOR JOHN McCAIN. It was the stress of voting her leanings and feelings in the face of this Mass Hysteria over Obama. He is NOT the Chosen One. He is a politician.

Hey! Are we allowed to discuss politics on the internet? If not, the jury will please disregard the prior statements in this post. hahahhahahahahhahahahahahahhaha!

MY NAME IS PANSY PALMETTO AND I APPROVE THIS STREAM-OF-CONSCIOUSNESS BLATHERING.

Pansy Turns Great Tricks!

2008-10-21T11:13:00.000-07:00

Oddly enough, Pansy does not "DO Halloween" even though it is the quintessential "trick or treat" occasion. But she is waaayyyy into April 1...no matter what day of the year the calendar claims it really is.

1. Put a split loop (used to attach charms to bracelets) on nostril so it appears to have been pierced. Become annoyed by everyone at work because they don't even question that Pansy would actually DO something that. Switch loop from nostril to nostril during day. Become incredulous that NO ONE NOTICES the switcheroo-ing. Go into attorney's office to complain that the Office Manager is having a hissy fit. IF Attorney continues looking down at paperwork on desk increase the complaining with aggravated tone and say "the piercing parlor assured me this is an acceptable Business Look and now I am being told I have to remove it." Enjoy seeing attorney look up, stare, lay head facedown on desk and say "Pansy, what are we going to do with you? And, yes, you are going to have to remove that piercing." Remove piercing "forcefully" by yanking it out while squeezing opened ketchup packet cleverly pre-concealed in palm of hand. Cry out in "pain". Revive attorney.

2. Start new job (NOT because of prior "nose piercing" incident) and learn on Day 2 that the Office Holiday Party is in one week. Ask what the dress code will be for the party. It's "casual." Boldly Declare "I don't care. I am dressing up." Whole office decides that sounds nice and they are in formal wear on the Day of Party. Arrive in lovely holiday dress festooned with fish-shaped battery-powered lights and other ornaments attached all over dress. [Be careful when sitting.] When asked where the batteries for the lights are, say "Only my gynecologist knows for certain." Somehow keep job.

3. When it's really hot outside and co-workers need a refreshing drink? Fill glasses with ice cubes, a few ounces of Coca Cola, and lots of yesterday's old, room temperature, mold-filled (well, one can always hope) coffee. The Coke gives it just enough fizz to entice co-workers to take a big thirsty gulp. Run away before spewing begins.

4. Place stickers over the earpiece of telephone handsets of co-worker(s). Add layers of stickers on top of stickers until co-workers believe they are going deaf. The stickers can even be BRIGHT GREEN or YELLOW or RED but somehow are never noticed. Sometimes the co-workers will shout into the phone to see if the caller is also having difficulty hearing. Especially if you do #5:

5. Call co-worker with stickered up phone, disguise voice, shout back and forth with them......while you are in your cubicle RIGHT NEXT TO IDIOT CO-WORKER.

6. Use GREEN Sharpie Felt Pen for lipstick. It looks awful, tastes worse, and makes your teeth look like they have been soaked in week-old yellow urine. Mmmmmmm. Wear many different shades of green clothing together. Oddly, it embarrasses [bonus!] your friends/co-workers to be seen with you even if it IS St. Patrick's Day.

7. When riding bicycles if a lizard, but especially a SNAKE, is nearby tell rider in front of you that it has gotten tangled up in their rear wheel spokes. Enjoy their screams and amusing body gyrations. Be careful to avoid them should they crash.

8. Carry automotive oil with you at all times. When co-worker is showing off new vehicle/motorcyle pour oil underneath vehicle so that it appears to be leaking from their new treasure. They look so cute when they get "upset".

9. This is the only Pansy Trick that really must be used ONLY ON APRIL FOOL'S DAY! Tell attorney that the firm's Most Important Client has just called and is quite angry about why no one was at airport to pick them up. Confess that you forgot to let anyone know that the Client had called and told you that information a week ago. Use defribrillator that you have brought to office in preparation for this joke on attorney. When attorney is sufficiently recovered, at his urging pull same joke on Office Manager. Barely keep job.

10. Obtain just enough information from strangers via the internet and use it to trick them into believing you are their "friend". Then dump on them a fake email you have made out of whole cloth about how a "mutual internet friend" hates them. Laugh heartily over their freakout. Oh, wait. That was YOU? Sooo sorry! hahahhahahahaha!

There are more. Perhaps you have some to share? Just know that if you share, Pansy will move heaven and earth to twist it and use it on you. hahahahhahaha!

GET OFF MY FAT ASS ALREADY

2008-10-16T10:57:00.000-07:00

I originally only came here for your planet's water. Who knew your fucking gravity would make Pansy have to stay the rest of her life?

I am a fine and sturdy mare. [Read: fat from those fucking steroids.] I have been dieting since 7/1/06 when I was awakened by the same old/same old: the singing birds, the nectar on muffins, the several partially-clothed, muscular Man Servants fawning at my bedside. HO HUM. But 7/1/06 was different in that I also awoke with this thought/command suddenly screaming at me in my brain: I am going on a diet and this time I really mean it.

The "This Time I Really Mean It Diet" involves:

1. Eating less food. I do a combo of my version of WeightWatchers and my version of Special K's cereal diet. I have tea/toast for breakfast; chicken salad lunch, cereal or spaghetti for dinner. The worst? NO DESSERTS EVER. Except for those 4-5 pieces of coconut cream pie (crack on a plate) I have had since 7/1/06, I mean it about the NO DESSERTS EVER. God, who fucking made THAT rule up?

2. Exercising vigorously (my version of "vigorously" anyway) most days of the week which I do by riding my bicycle. I rode 8,000+ miles in 2007 and am on track for only 5500 miles for 2008. Shut up, you hyenas! I got waylaid this year with 3 surgeries so I have a doctor's note that excused me from P.E. Is that okay with you fuckers? God, there's a critic in every damn crowd.

3. Going to bed angry and hungry. The going to bed angry thing is nothing new but that going to bed hungry shit is really ratcheting up the Anger Quotient. And, please guys: no matter how many times you offer it up, us wimmin do NOT consider your Special Male Appendage to be an acceptable substitute for a "snack". So stuff it, already. And I don't mean THERE, either! God, you horndogs are sooo predictable.

Oh, how I have prayed for an eating disorder. I would only want it for a month or two, okay? After all, I am not greedy. I just want to be NOT FAT. Actually, currently I am NOT FAT. Just not as NOT FAT as I want to be. I topped out at 218 pounds. I did not even hit 100 pounds until after I graduated from high school so that is some Big Momma for me.

The worst is right now: Size 12 clothes are too big/Size 10 clothes are too tight. Nothing fits! Now you know why Pansy has to go to Jamaica for vacations: it's the naked resort for me until this diet thing gets me out of my current awkward-in-between size.

No. Wait! Pansy is [gasp!] WRONG! The WORST of it is this: with the dieting and the exercise I do, why in hell don't I weigh 102 pounds al-fucking-ready? I have lost just under 1 pound per week since 7/1/06. Who the fuck has been stealing those "2 pounds per week" that I am supposed to lose? I can't even manage to lose 1 pound a week. dammit.

I know, I know. It's those Magic Meals I eat the day of/day after chemo: Velveeta Cheeeezee grilled sandwich/tomato soup/7-Up. With white sugar sprinkled on top of it all. WHITE SUGAR IS NOT A CRIMINAL....it just has low self-esteem. And those steroids. Why do cancer patients get fucked over on even the steroids? Why can't we get the Muscle Steroids instead of those stupid Health Steroids? No wonder that Pansy packed on a few pounds between the steroids and the "After Chemo Anything That Goes Down Is All Good." NO, PANSY DOES NOT MEAN SHE "GOES DOWN" after chemo. Even if, you know, she does. Damn fucking one-track-mind horndogs. Which is not at all like a big hot and salty Corndog.

The Streets Will Run With The Blood Of Pansy

2008-10-14T09:37:00.000-07:00

Well, gotta have a dramatic title, ya know. Pansy has decided she actually has only ONE ISSUE. It's them damned Needles. Pansy will confess to (hell, she'll actually COMMIT) the most heinous crimes ever if doing so will allow her to avoid a needle in her personal space. Or anywhere else in her body for that matter. She had a "childhood trauma" that totally ruined Pansy for life about needles. I won't even discuss how it totally fucks up her ability to properly maintain a decent heroin habit, ya know.

As an Air Force Brat, I lived in San Salvador, El Salvador from ages 3 through 9. Vaccinations or "shots" of some horrible kind or another on a regular basis were de rigueur. All kinds of shots. Every one of them nasty. In every limb. Every few months. By the end of each "shots day" my siblings and I would be quite paralyzed from muscular pain, swelling, and etc. (It's that goddam "etc." that gets ya every time!) Our "treat" was we were each given a fucking paddle ball toy. It was a little rubber ball tethered to a wooden paddle with an elastic string. We would paddle ball the holy shit out of our miserable little selves on orders from our military parents supposedly to loosen up our muscles. It just added to the pain as far as my memory is concerned. Whatever sadistic bastard invented that piece of shit toy......well, just wait til Pansy gets her hooves on him! Poor Paddle Balls. They are probably innocent "happy memories" for other children. NOT FOR PANSY!

All in all, it's been a damned good thing for Pansy that for most of her life she was always as healthy as THREE Clydesdale horses put together. No major injuries, no stitches. Look, Ma! No cavities! A fairytale somewhat needle-free life until that fateful day.....when Pansy decided to make a friend. A very selfish friend who all of a sudden decided SHE wanted some major surgery. Which required lots of blood. So Stupid Pansy went and donated blood. What a mistake that was.

Donating blood means voluntarily allowing a needle to tear a hole in my pristine flesh. Did you know that? It's true! And for what? There is NO BENEFIT TO YOURSELF from donating blood. "Save a Life." Piffle. At least you get immunity with vaccinations. Next to me at the blood place was a Big, Burly Man. Not as Manned Up as Pansy, of course. And what happens to the Big Man and Man Pansy? We both go into low grade shock from the "trauma" of donating blood and begin weeping! What the fuck?! So we are weeping and laughing at the ludicrous situation we find our manly selves in.

The blood people are not amused and they shuffle us off to another room so we can't continue making a scene and scaring off other would-be blood donors. They monitor us and called our respective people to come take us home since we were not fit to drive. A couple hours later each of us, now best of manly friends, still weeping and laughing, leave with our spouses. And have to make arrangements to get our extra cars home, too. The next day, to add insult on top of injury, the blood people called me to let me know my blood was unsuitable and THEY THREW IT AWAY! My friend did get "blood credits" for my attempt. Sheesh. They threw it away because it contained Hepatitis B stuff/germs/whatever. I was ordered to never again darken their door. hahahhahha! Fine, fuckers! THAT stupid rule is one Pansy will gladly obey.

Years later when I was pregnant with Daughter #2 the Hepatitis B vaccine had just been invented and mass produced so all pregnant women were subjected to blood testing for Hepatitis B. Of course, I came back positive for Hep-B. My ignorant obstetrician handled it by bringing down all kinds of hellfire damnation talk on me. I finally said "so what am I supposed to do here?" He said "get an appointment ASAP with a gastroenterologist and don't come back until you have seen one and we have his report." I literally walked out of there in such shock and dismay that I said to Mr. Pansy "Now I know what someone who has just been told they have AIDS must feel like." And I meant it.

As I drove home from the obstetrician I decided "Well, I'm dead meat; Mr. Pansy is probably dead meat; I will try to save my child (daughter #1)." I called her pediatrician that day and somehow from the tone in my voice that Wonderful Angel Doctor told me to hang up and come right away to his office--that very minute. He made patients wait while he sat me down and read aloud, tracing his finger on the words, from some big doctor book all about Hep-B. He did everything so right and wonderful and he saved my sanity.

The various doctors and I decided there is little doubt that during the years in Central America those needles were used on: horses; goats; swiped on a sleeve; me. Not necessarily always in that order. Sometimes the goats went first. But I am from Strong German Stock (Percherons, I hope) and my bout with Hep-B was probably thought to be a bad cold or flu. Plus there was nothing to be done back then even if anything else was suspected. So, after bunches of tests and such.....no I am not a "Hepatitis B carrier" which upsets Mr. Pansy because, as usual, he is always looking for some way out of this hellish marriage he finds himself ensnared in. The kids are safe, alive and well and I gave the obstetrician Quite the Piece of Pansy's Mind.

The tie-in here to Present Day is two-fold.

FIRST TIE-IN: back then the gastro-guy told me "You are healthy but there is an increased risk that you'll have liver issues later on when you're over 50." Well, whaddayaknow? I did eventually end up "in my 50s" with "liver issues". I don't have liver cancer but I do have a liver that is smothered in jillions of tumors. Which is not at all like having liver that is smothered in onions. When I got my cancer news what kept me alive at that moment were these 3 thoughts, in this order:

1. I am so glad this is not a surprise. Surprising people is Pansy's Turf! That gastro-guy did warn me and I am shocked, but at least I am not completely blindsided.
2. I am so glad my children are grown up.
3. I am so glad we are somewhat financially stable.

I was GLAD...GLAD, GLAD, GLAD, SO VERY FUCKING GLAD when I got my cancer news! Haw! Not quite, but survival genes evidently run very strong in my emotional makeup and I was in survival overdrive instantaneously. I probably have terrific powers of denial and I am very driven by Shame. I would literally die from shame if I did not have the guts to do whatever was asked of me to fight this cancer. I will take any drug, drink any combination of mammal/insect piss, put any kind of suppository up any orifice. I will not let myself die from having chosen to NOT try some option....offered by DOCTORS. I won't be traveling to Mexico for powdered apricot pits ala Steve McQueen but I would be terribly embarrassed if anyone anywhere could ever say "She didn't try."

SECOND TIE-IN: I may not be able to donate blood ever again but guess what? Me and my Hep-B got passed on to my daughters in a Most Bizarre Classic Only With Pansy way: they each have SUPER BLOOD which contains the magic ingredients needed to make the Hep-B vaccine! Their blood is literally worth more than its weight in gold. Take THAT, stoopid blood donor place.

Moral of Story: be careful....that blood you drink at your next Midnight Dance Naked Under The Full Moon Ritual just might be from Pansy via her daughers' donations! hahahhahahahaha!

FUCK DIAMONDS--CANCER TREATMENTS ARE A GIRL'S BFF

2008-10-10T11:41:00.000-07:00

It's taken me awhile to process this event and some of you know the story but here it is again, anyway.

People I know think I am so "brave" with my cancer. It's because they believe that bullshit about cancer. It uses its Big Bad Scary Muthafucka street rep to scare people who don't have cancer. Getting cancer is not a good way to learn that it is actually a cowardly pathetic chickenshit that has no purpose other than to lie in wait for its chance to attack when no one is looking. Come out front and center, Cancer. Then we'll see who's the Real Muthafucka.

Since I got cancer I think of myself this way: I have become my own Special Needs person. I still love me, take care of me, am glad for what I can do, proud of what improvements I achieve, and once in awhile I even mope around because Pity Parties are a part of NORMAL people's everyday lives.

I will never again be the person I used to be. But every day each of us is no longer the person we were yesterday. At best we are one day older, one day more feeble, one day closer to dying. Everyone has to go through that even if they don't ever have cancer. Every day is a day that might turn out to be the day you embark on a "New Normal". You make a decision that changes the course of your life. An event occurs that changes the course of your life. Some are positive (marriage, babies); some totally suck (marriage, babies). I mean: Some are "not so positive." Like cancer. But "totally suck" or "not so positive"......."New Normals" don't deserve to be given any more power than they actually have. Why should cancer be given any Special Power? Power to the People! [Pansy was a Black Panther back in the day, doncha know?! After she got done being an Aztec Warrior Amazon.]

I have also always been a Daredevil. Got that "spark" that makes me a Fierce Competitor. It's all good so long as my "spark" is channeled into Legal Activities! hahahhaa! Just kidding. I always been a Good Girlie. But I have learned that when a Daredevil Patient meets a Daredevil Doctor that's when the REAL sparks fly. And they can burn the house down.

Cancer is supposed to be "one for all, all for one"....."together we stand, divided we fall"......"in for a penny, in for a pound" kinda shit. As in: the tumors either ALL grow or they ALL shrink/stay stable. Whatever they do it's supposed to be ALL of them. Not Pansy's tumors. The largest tumor on my liver has long been 2.5cm. Then, one day last year it--and only it--suddenly grew to 3.6cm. Everyone went on High Alert (that's why we were all wearing orange there for awhile) and the frequency of scans was increased. The tumor noticed all the High Alert Orange so it hunkered down and stayed at 3.6cm for several months. Fooled us all. We "Stood Down" and went on with our partying ways. Then a scan showed the tumor was suddenly 5.0cm. After the doctors and I did an appropriate Morale-Raising Cheer: "Fuck. Fuck. Double Fuck. What the fuck?" we all knew it was time for Aggressive Attack. But what to do? We had two options: RadioFrequency Ablation (RFA) or SNAKE VENOM!!

Well, you fucking know Pansy wanted that Snake Venom, twice! Woohoo! And, since the tumor was Hugely Beyond the limits for RFA (it is only for 3.0cm or smaller tumors due to technological limitations)it really looked like Snake Venom was gonna happen. They inject it all around the tumor, the venom kills off the blood supply lines, the tumor starves and dies. I was so excited about having those bragging rights. Because Pansy has reflexes like a cobra and when cancer grabbed her, she grabbed cancer's wrist right back and said "You're gonna die, too, cuz I am taking you with me."

Then, The Cowboy rode into town. He is my onco surgeon and he actually IS called "The Cowboy" in the medical world. He makes Clint Eastwood look like a singing telegram bellhop. He said "It's gonna be an RFA showdown, so spur up, bitch." Perhaps he used other actual words but that's what Pansy heard. The surgery went way longer than predicted and then The Cowboy tells Mr. Pansy THIS fucking downer when he came out to update Mr. Pansy: "Well. We got the surgery done." WTF? We all know the surgeon is supposed to say, in a very upbeat voice: "Wow! That went Great!"

It didn't help that I had a preview/premonition dream two days before the surgery wherein I was flying...you know, with typical dream flying powers--all on my own. Someone was with me, holding me on my left side, and we flew over my liver and I saw it in its entirety. We studied all of it and I could tell it was in trouble. The other flier (not male or female) pointed out everything and said "This is serious. We are not kidding around here." I woke up in kind of a funk. And not the good kind of James Brown FUNK.

After the surgery I woke up in great pain, despite the Kick Ass Big Time Post Op Drugs they had pumped into me. I was medically stable and this is an outpatient procedure so home I went. On the Third Day (sounds Biblical!!) I went off the edge of the cliff. Pansy The Most Manned Up Woman In The Universe was a fetal ball of vomiting and crying in her bed. Mr. Pansy and Pansy Jr. took turns literally staying physically in the room with me they were so freaked out by this never-before-seen behavior from Pansy Da Man. On a pain scale of 1 to 10....this was an 18.

The surgeon even gave us his personal cell phone number. Over that weekend he guided me through overdose levels of the various drugs prescribed for me. When the pain got down to about 14, I was able to "rest" for maybe 30 minutes. Others might describe it as "blacked out". In hindsight, THAT'S when we should have taken me to the hospital. This went on for 10 days before I was no longer bed ridden. I was able to sneak in a 4th of July parade viewing involving my sister but that took all of my Super Powers to pull off even though it was totally worth it.

When I saw the surgeon at the 2 week followup visit he questioned me extensively about what I had experienced. It was "post ablation syndrome" and I got every single symptom that defines this syndrome. All of them are bad. It always starts on....Day Three after surgery! No one can predict what patient will get it or how severely they will have it. It is Very Rare (I am beginning to get just a WEE BIT so fucking tired of being Very Rare!) and my level of severity was Even More Very Rare.

Well....let's think. We were already breaking the rules by even attempting this surgery due to the size of the tumor. And then it turns out that the tumor, which was 5.0cm on the last scan before surgery.......was 12cm on the day of surgery. Any other surgeon would have just said "Close her up, I'm outta here." But, noooooooooo! The Cowboy dives in anyway. Which is why they make you unconscious beforehand so that you don't hear them all scream, retch and barf when they open up the Surprise Package in surgery. Thank you, Cowboy and God.

RFA is supposed to be a walk in the park kind of surgery. Really. Evidently MY fucking park was full of goddam rotten trees and sure as shit every one of them fell on me. Fuckers. Oh, and for Bonus Points my liver also got "knicked" during the surgery....on the "Glisson's capsule." DO NOT LET YOUR GLISSON'S CAPSULE GET FUCKING KNICKED EVER!!! hahahhahahahha!

It took weeks to fully recover but the last week of August I definitely felt I had turned the proverbial corner. Naturally, like all wounded wild animals, I do a masterful job of acting "Healthy And Well" so that no predators will think they have a chance at me. Since the surgery on June 25, I have managed to ride my bicycle 1,081 miles. And stay on schedule with my chemos. And even work at my job. Oh, and fuck that Mr. Pansy a lot.

Exercise (bike riding/dieting) has undoubtedly literally saved my life. I am so glad I already have decades of physical activity in my body. I fret for all the people out there who haven't already "been there/done that". How do they get over the mental trap of "I can't do that" re exercise? I know my doctors have gone to the mattresses for me at their "committee meetings" simply because they can see I am worthy of backing because I am actually likely to survive even horrible procedures. I hope they are beginning to run out of those! hahahaha! Now, finally, I am getting a clue about what people mean when they say those stupid platitudes such as "a good attitude is why you are doing so well." Those are not quite the right words. Plus, well, the doctors want to keep me around since I AM so foxy and all.

The only "take away" I can remotely snatch from my jaws of death experience is: you really, really cannot die from pain. I am "glad" I got to experience this misery because it is important to know I do have limits but that I still got through it. It gives me a deeper sense of I can do this and....
IF A PANSY CAN DO IT, ANYONE CAN DO IT.

You won't do it with as much flair and swearing and certainly no Mr. Pansy fucking, but you can't always have everything. Oh. And next time Pansy thinks "maybe I need an ambulance" she is so fucking gonna call the goddam ambulance! Good godawmighty, what was she waiting for? The pain to get worse?

And the shopping goes on and on and on....!!

GREG LEMOND STILL LIVES

2008-10-10T09:55:00.000-07:00

Some people dismiss Greg Lemond as a bitter, green-eyed, bile spewing, whining crybaby who has devolved into a pitiful trainwreck. Whew! Just because he seems on a never-ending vendetta against "nutritional supplements" that Greg thinks ALL the professional cyclists ingest. Especially His Holiness Lance Armstrong! Well, Pansy has THIS to say about THAT:

MY personal experience with Greg Lemond was very pleasant--especially since I was not forced to go into a Witness Protection Program of some sort because by the Grace of God we were all smiled upon that day and a genuine tragedy was averted: Mr. Pansy and I really almost killed Greg in a head-on collision on Monitor Pass (Sierra Nevada mountains near Lake Tahoe) in the Summer of 1990 with our Chevrolet 4WD 1/2 ton truck. Chevy Rules!

We were going uphill, scouting out the bike ride portion of the World's Toughest Triathlon (held at Lake Tahoe). On a somewhat blind curve, our truck tires were on one of the double yellow lines on the road and suddenly there was Greg--entirely on both of the double yellow lines on the road, with his riding partner to Greg's right. I still believe we could have "made the spare" and gotten them both since the angle was pretty good.

Anyway, we all veered in the appropriate defensive/evasive directions and as Greg went by the driver's window (inches from the mirror on the door) Mr. Pansy and I both screamed simultaneously (waking the sleeping children) "That was Greg Lemond!" We knew it was him because he was THAT close to us and had no helmet or sunglasses on so he was like a real live Bicycling magazine coverboy.

However, we were on a mission so we dutifully continued our route scouting. Then we turned around and drove "quickly" down the hill to see where Greg might be. We found him and his buddy resting in Markleeville--sitting on the hood of the chase car. A top of the line with all the bells and whistles Mercedes Benz, thankyouverymuch. With a soon to be degraded paint job from their salty, sweaty, nasty wet asses!

Before I could unbuckle the children, Mr. Pansy (who is SOOOO outgoing that I have always sarcastically called him "Chatty Cathy") has already leaped out of the truck, has shook Greg's hand, and they are chit chatting like longtime friends by the time I straggle up with the girls. Mr. Pansy apologized for scaring Greg on Monitor Pass to which Greg said "Oh, that was you? Yeh, that was close but I was over the lines so it was really my fault." Greg and his riding partner were riding their bicycles on a training ride for the World Championships coming up in Japan.

Mr. Pansy asked him why no helmet or glasses? Greg said "We had just come over the summit and I was sweating so much I couldn't see, so I took them all off." He was thrilled we were out camping with our family, saying "I take my family everywhere with me, too." He told me I was crazy to want to do the Toughest Triathlon since he had done the bike portion a few years earlier. He signed a hat of mine and was generally a fabulous PR poster child.

He and his buddy were out for a "little ride"--a 120 mile loop from Carson City, NV, where his folks lived. They took off, waving to us as we took photos of them. I then went into the country store there to buy some of the "power training food" Greg was eating----red licorice whips. Which I still have in my scrapbook with the Lemond photos and my signed hat. The licorice I bought was actually touched by him! Woo Hoo!

Factoid: every ultra-level cyclist I have ever seen personally, including Greg, has a unique physical feature: they are very "deep chested" from front to back. I am convinced that autopsies will reveal all of them have 4 to 6 lungs encased in their huge chests. They are not wide side to side---just deep from front to back.

I also hold as true that Greg was the first cyclist to truly break through the unwritten rule of "Europeans Only" for the Tour de France. He was loved and reviled at the time and I truly feared for his physical safety. He was also very intent about being a Good Will Ambassador--for which he has never received enough credit. He lived "over there" more than any other Americans of the era, he learned the language(s), he made himself accessible to the press, he WAS betrayed by the "broken promise" of his team and Bernard Hinault, and his time trial 8-second win over VainPrettyBoyPonytail Laurent Fignon remains forever The Miracle on Wheels.

I also go along with Greg's bruised ego over not being able to achieve all he probably could have due to the gunshot accident and its aftermath healthwise. He has systemic problems due to the multitude of buckshot pellets still scattered all through his body. I am highly disappointed in his comments about Lance Armstrong and drugs. But I am a person with Many Personalities (or perhaps just someone with many voices in my head) so I love and am dismayed by Greg all at once. I forgive him because I don't have the full story, never will, etc. I hope Greg is wrong and I hope Lance was/is clean. That is all. I must go answer the phone now. It's either Greg or Lance. Maybe Jan Ullrich {drool}. They all call me constantly for advice and to ask me to run away with them. Other than THAT obvious lie, the rest of this story is true.

Reunions!

2008-08-27T12:15:00.000-07:00

Reunions! huh- yeah- What are they good for? Absolutely nothing Uh-huh Say it again y’all They ain’t nothing but a heartbreaker They cause unrest in the younger generation I said - Reunions! Huh – Good God y’all What are they good for? ......

AHHH, family! Can't kill 'em; can't eat 'em. But there IS that part where they reveal closet skeletons and make everyone (except the owner of the skeleton) laugh and laugh and laugh.

My Stupid Elderly Baby Sister (SEBS) did it! Not Me! Thank God! She has been finalizing family genealogy stuff for the past several years. Our mother put most of it together but is totally mentally gone now with Alzheimer's since 1999, so she obstinantly persists in being QUITE UNHELPFUL with our questions. During one of our home invasion/steal everything not nailed down visits to our Dad, up turns a letter from UncleG to our parents in which UncleG is announcing the birth of their third child, CousinJ.

SEBS proudly presents the letter to CousinJ during yet another one of those Family Reunions we keep having to endure since the fucking old people continue to refuse to die. As CousinJ read the letter she is making weirder and weirder faces. Turns out SEBS had read the letter when she found it, but for some reason interpreted it to have been written in our family's classic viciously sarcastic mode of communication. Not exactly.

UncleG wrote to say CousinJ was born 1 minute before midnight on July 22 and "couldn't she have waited one more minute? Now I have to pay for Sunday, too! I am so mad I could eat a ham sandwich!" [OMG. I am so grateful swearing has calmed down since 1953. Such profane language!] UncleG then informs my parents of the baby's name and writes "isn't that just awful!?" With the word "awful" heavily underlined...practically tearing through the paper. UncleG then makes more comments about how he can't see how my parents could hate him and his wife because he and his wife are too nice. And he signs off with an abbreviation of his name, "UG". It appears these two closest of brothers had a major tiff. UncleG and family did not come to most family reunions. Hmmmm....skeletons?

CousinJ is shocked since she has believed, for her entire life----up to that very second----that her birthday is July 23. Not July 22, which is when she was actually born...at one minute before midnight thus directly causing her father incredible grief, financial woes, angering him enough to want to eat a ham sandwich, plus he hates her name! And he has never been "UG" in any way, shape or form so now she's thinking maybe he isn't even her father! hahahahahha! As us cousins all kindly laugh our heads off at her, she says "Holy Cow! This means I am not even a Leo!" To which we burst forth anew with even more laughter.

Since SEBS and I did not know CousinJ's "birthday" we had no clue this would be a bad letter for her. If we had known about July 22 vs. July 23, maybe that letter just would have disappeared. UncleG lives with CousinJ and her family so maybe an update/explanation is forthcoming. Meanwhile, I am pretending I have "the answer": SEBS and another girl cousin were both born on April 23 and CousinJ was born the same year "almost" on July 23. So maybe her parents just wanted to be in on the "babies born on the 23rd" cult thing. Although, to be honest, I didn't know there WAS such a cult re "babies born on the 23rd."

Then there was the reunion the year when finally a few of the old folks did die off. That's when all hell broke loose. Turns out one uncle dated AuntieM all through school. In small towns back then you did NOT date someone "fovever" without also marrying them. He joined the military and got sent away..........to where AuntieE was then living. The whole family told him to "look up AuntieE." About 6 weeks later, he and AuntieE were married. One does wonder how the family took THAT news but that's all blood long gone under some bridge somewhere. AuntiE dies and at the very next family renuion WidowerUncle is hitting up on AuntieM! WTF!? He was serious. She declined. Couldn't he let the body get just a wee bit COLDER before going after AuntieM? Sheesh. Horny old people.

The latest reunion was a week ago. Only THIS time the reunion is combined with my Dad's and UncleG's Prisoner of War group. Because who DOESN'T want to get together and reminisce about the good old days when we were all prisoners of war? Again with the remaining old people who refuse to die off, thus making us younger generationers have to waste our valuable time escorting their elderly asses around. Luckily we all drink. It is amazing that the core POWs are still alive and able to visit each other. Of the pod of four who spent their war years together (and got each other through it), three remain alive. This reunion probably was their last one. So that gathering was kind of tear-y.

But Family Reunions aren't the ONLY kind of reunions. Pansy attended a reunion this summer on the highest order of bizarreness: reunions with people you only know from the INTERNET! hahahahahhahahaha! And Mr. Pansy agreed to go along with this nonsense!

We all gathered together to ride our bicycles. That is the only commonality between us all. Evidently, that is enough. There was liquor available and I brought along all my drugs so I could become unconscious at the swallow of an overdose if necessary. What a fun long weekend that was. I do not know if I will again attend one of this group's reunions but I can assure you that using rare and valuable vacation time to do THIS kind of reunion smacks of insanity. Except for the fact that it was fun. Which only further affirms my conviction there was "Kool Aid" in those drinks.

And then there's the Ever-Unpopular But You Just Can't Look Away And Sometimes You Can't Even STAY Away: HIGH SCHOOL REUNIONS. This summer was a bumper crop for reunions of all kinds. So why not? Pansy went to a combo-reunion of her high school wherein her group was 41 years past graduation. I got to hook up with:

1. My unrequited high school crush
2. Some guy who said I was HIS unrequited high school crush
3. The guy Mr. Pansy THINKS was my unrequited high school crush
4. One of my 2 "best girl friends"

Here's a picture of my best girl friend. Taken by "accident" by Mr. #3. She thinks a "real friend" would destroy that picture. I say "who doesn't want to look long and get hard over a 60-year old grannie panties/pantyhosed crotch!?" Enjoy:

No, you shithead......that is NOT Pansy's 60 year old crotch. She's not THAT old. But she'll be glad to get that old.

Why'z Ev'y BUDDY Picking On Me?

2008-08-25T08:27:00.000-07:00

For fucking god's sake...........Can't you fuckers of this world LEAVE PANSY ALONE? Besides her main credo: NOTHING IS SACRED, Pansy actually does have one (1), and ONLY ONE (1), lousy fucking rule to live by:

1. Remember: Only YOU can prevent an internet email joke from being forwarded. And do NOT send it to Pansy, you Stupid Email Skanks!

HOW TO IDENTIFY AN EMAIL THAT MUST NOT BE FORWARDED. If it has any of these words anywhere near it, kill it, kill it, kill it: ANGEL FLICKERING CANDLE TEDDY BEAR HUGS SAVE THE CHILDREN DON'T SCROLL DOWN RESCUE A NIGERIAN BANKER THIS IS NOT A WASTE OF TIME IT REALLY WILL HAPPEN

~whimper~ Why do people "invent" these emails in the first place? Pansy's Theory: to feel like they have control somewhere in their pathetic life. This would be especially applicable to all of the emails that have this fucking request included: "send this to 10 people in the next 10 minutes". OR WHAT, jackoff? [Puts hand up in air, waves it around excitedly, says "ooh! ooh! Pick me! Pick me!]

Teacher: Okay, Pansy. What do you think the "or what" involves?
Pansy: It means that if you don't send the email on to 10 people in 10 minutes you don't have any friends!
Teacher: Not exactly. Any other ideas?
Pansy: (worried/confused) It means you'll get bad luck?
Teacher: Not quite. Now think, Pansy.
Pansy: Oh, of course! You have to watch your children die terrible deaths right in front of you while you are being skinned alive all because you did NOT forward the email on!
Teacher: Very good! And what are you going to do the next time you receive one of these important emails, Pansy?
Pansy: I will respond to the Stupid Email Skank sender AND TO ALL OF THE OTHERS listed in that email something like this:

"You do not fucking get out very fucking much, do you? Geezusfuckingkryst, that email is so fucking old, PANSY probably made it up. WORSE.....this is a very fucking poorly disguised one of those FORBIDDEN "happy, uplifting" emails that are an inbred fucking cousin to those FORBIDDEN "joke emails" that hasn't Pansy already ripped you enough new assholes to convince you to STOP IT ALREADY?! You fucking old agoraphobic hag. GET OUT of your house more often, ok? And besides, this email was WRONG! There is ALWAYS a boozy drink in the other hand. In the REAL, original version of this stupid internet email piece of crap. You Stupid Skank."

But when Pansy did THAT, she got THIS from Stupid Email Skank #1:

"OMG! You dirty mouthed old whore. You just replied to my poor old and loving grandmother, who will most likely have a heart attack after reading your filth.
That’s the last time I ever send a “NICE” email your way to cheer you up! Looks like I’ll be taking a trip to Arizona to smooth things over with granny. I hate Arizona! BTW -Pansy, I’m sure you will be hearing from the nun that has been helping me through the difficult times I’ve been having with people trying to alienate my family and friends."

Plus, in a separate email Stupid Email Skank #1 also sent out this:

"To all my family and friends that are currently in shock due to the rantings of a certain “very ill” acquaintance of mine. I am so sorry you were subjected to this, just know that the paramedics finally got the straight jacket on once the tranquilizers took affect. My ill friend is in good hands and we should send only good thoughts her way. Sorry Grandma, I love you!"

And when a MAN SKANK sent Pansy some kinda email shit, Pansy wrote to him and All His Friends;

"if u do not fucking STOP this kind of fucking shit i will fucking kill you. and your wife and i will split the fucking insurance money. i mean it. fuck, i will just fucking kill you just to watch you fucking die. she can keep the fucking money. so am i just fucking dense or was there a fucking "joke" somewhere in that fucking attachment cuz i sure as fuck did not laugh at it. fuck"

But THAT had repercussions, too, which the foul Man Skank shared with Pansy:

"OK. You have made me the topic of discussion amongst all my coworkers who I used to call my friends. They are now piling on the Shiite beyond tolerance. Oh, and some of the curious have checked out your blog and found the, "hi my name is Pansy and I wanna be Hef's girl photos." Now they really think I'm some kinda pervert (don't repeat that). One who gets particular pleasure out of my embarrassment doesn't know my real name, he just calls me "Bitch." I was gonna cry on my momma's shoulder but she hates me too."

So Pansy decided perhaps she really should not include the other Innocent Victims of Stupid Email Skanks in her rants to the Stupid Email Skanks. She would only write to the Stupid Email Skanks themselves. And politely ask them to remove Pansy's name from such mass emailings in the future. Such as this request to Stupid Email Skank #2 who recently sent Pansy an email of squirrels being fakely cute and massaging each other. Which Pansy has only received said Stupid Fake Email 284 times this past year. Which kind of Stupid Fake Email is also on Pansy's Hit List because emails with lots of fancy-schmancy photoshopping/motion, etc. are just some pathetic loser's attempt to impress "us" with their Mad Computer Skilz. Pansy wrote:

"This is truly sick. Squirrels having doggie-style sex and you think THAT'S a stress relieving "precious moments" kind of thing that is somehow appropriate to email to everyone in the world? And who's to say that those squirrels aren't having anal sex? This smacks of beastial pornography. Plus, I believe (from the expression on his/her/its face) the "bottom" squirrel is just about to puke. I know I am. Whoops. I mean, I HAVE. Didn't you get the memo to stop spamming me with this kinda crap or you will deeply regret it? Please note I have used no damn vulgarities in this response. Oopsies! Sorry about that "damn". I meant: I have used no FUCKING vulgarities in this response. hahahhahahaha! Aahhhhhh! I feel all stress-free now! Laughter IS the best medicine. Next to heroin.
Mrs. Pure -n- Wholesome Pansy Palmetto"

THAT got Stupid Email Skank #2 mad. CLARIFICATION: Pansy does NOT feel that Stupid Email Skank #2 is indeed a "skank". Pansy is just using that phrase for continuity in this story. Pansy received this from Stupid Email Skank #2:

"First off let me say that I am truly sorry that I mistakenly clicked on your name and address and sent you the Stress Free Day e-mail with the 2 squirrels, one giving the other a relaxing back rub. There was absolutely nothing wrong with the picture of the squirrels, nor was it in bad taste. I am sorry you felt the way you did. While it was my intention to click on the person’s name and address that was underneath your name in my address book, I guess I failed to click on the correct one, and accidentally clicked on yours. Anyway…what I fail to see is why you sent your profanities to everyone I sent the email to; which included my 82 year old mother, my sisters and even my minister. That was totally un-called for. It was my mistake for e-mailing it to you, and not theirs. Again, I sincerely apologize to you."

HAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAA! What are the fucking odds that this reaction was remarkably similar to Stupid Email Skank #1 and Man Skank? I mean, for god's sake, there is a religious figure (minister/nun) in each situation. ELDERLY MOTHERS. Distraught people all around. What's a Pansy to believe?

Worse, Pansy feels (brace yourselves) BAD! Pansy truly had NOT intended to include all the other Innocent Victims EVER AGAIN. So how did that happen? Because Pansy, poor thing, has that Terrible Fat Fingers Syndrome from peripheral neuropathy from the inoperable, incurable, the-doctors-don't-even-know-what-kind of CANCER Pansy even has so she has to get weekly chemotherapy to keep the CANCER under quasi-control but the chemo drugs have given Pansy moderately severe peripheral neuropathy from the CANCER that Pansy has……continue this mobius loop for as long as you wish….

Yeh, Bitch Pansy is pulling out her "Caner Card". "Caner" comes from Portugese WasherWoman who misspelled "cancer" long ago in a very heartfelt email she sent to Pansy. Who immediately slapped Portugese WasherWoman up one side and down the other, completely overlooking the heartfelt message in order to point out the misspelled word. So, forever more, Pansy has CANER.

The difference between Stupid Email Skank #1/Man Skank and Stupid Email Skank #2? Skank #1 and Man Skank are "friends" of Pansy. Pansy fears what curse Stupid Email Skank #2 is raining down on Pansy right this very second. But Pansy has no intentions of visiting her children any time soon, so they should be safe. I think maybe for as much as "the next 10 minutes." Somehow [golly gee], Pansy feels that Stupid Email Skank #2 does NOT believe Pansy's excuse/apology. Yes, Pansy wrote back and APOLOGIZED. But, then, we are probably "even" because (gasp!) Pansy does NOT believe the Stupid Email Skank #2's "apology" either.

I mean. Fuck. Look at it carefully. The Stupid Email Skank #2 STILL maintains that the email shows "2 squirrels, one giving the other a relaxing back rub." THAT IS SO FUCKING UNTRUE! SQUIRRELS DON'T KNOW FUCK ABOUT BACK RUBS. But Pansy is convinced that squirrels DO know about fucking. I'm leaving it to God to fucking sort this shit out. See you in Hell.

One Day...At Band Camp.....

2008-07-04T17:13:00.000-07:00

My incredibly Stupid Elderly Baby Sister somehow has hooked up with some other old hag and on June 30, 2008, SEBS joined a new group. Since then, SEBS has been marching (literally) around her house.....inside and outside, in public and in (old) broad daylight getting ready for a July 4th parade as: the bells player in an old people's marching band

The old hag friend of SEBS was talking to SEBS about how she didn't get to go to a car show last weekend because of this marching band. SEBS got all excited and quizzed her about the band. Eventually the woman said SEBS should consider joining and asked SEBS what she played. In high school she had played bells. To which the woman gasped, both hands flew to her face and she screeched "We HAVE bells! And we NEED a bells player!" It was obviously Fate Sent By God.

That very day SEBS drove over to where the instruments are stored, and with no ID or proof whatsoever bull-shitted the old man about how she was the new bells player. He handed over a $600 instrument and she drove away with it! She is very protective of her tender emotions about this and really does NOT want to "have to deal with knowing" that anyone she knows is going to see her marching by. Well then why did she tell me!? I would fucking be there if it required an ambulance.

There could not be more definitive, unimpeachable proof that SEBS is in fucking fact SISTER O' PANSY. OH, god. I have laughed so much I have injured myself. And while the stupid bitch could not suppress herself enough to keep this Most Incredible Secret to herself.....she did manage to refuse to tell me anything about the band, where this parade is happening, etc. How could SHE of all people in this world not know Pansy is as foul as the day is long when it comes to really wanting to know something. So I let SEBS babble and eventually she let out ONE solitary clue. I managed to playact with SEBS until I said I needed to hang up and go rest. Sucker Sissie fell for it.

Immediately Pansy Jr. and I burned up the internet and found out everything we needed to know: band name, time/location of this parade, BAND LOGO PARAPHENALIA to purchase (and thereby support the marching band), etc. Turns out the paraphenalia is all out of stock. Every last fucking piece of shit including the damn dog scarves. So we didn't get to go to the parade decked out like we really wanted to be.

We plotted to secretly go to the 4th of July parade, be QUIET parade watchers as the fool SEBS marched by banging her bells and destroy our cameras with more photo taking than a posse of paparazzi. After the parade we would hunt her down and watch her dissolve from shame/excitement that we had outed her. Possibly even take her out for a Celebratory I-Hop 4th O'July Pancake Breakfast! Seems fitting. They have such a nice Senior Menu, too. SEBS tried to make me believe she had not even told her husband where the parade is, but that doesn't seem right. He knew but was under Real Threat of Real Death if he revealed any information to anyone. She did say he was standing in their yard as she drove away to join the band and pick up the bells with a peculiar expression on his face: part smirk/part deep humiliation/part pride. Because he's as huge a dweeb as she is. Former Full On Eagle Scout and all that crap.

Even Better: the marching band has OLD LADY Baton Twirlers. Well, Pansy Jr. herself is a Baton Twirler Extraordinaire. And so is SEBS, by the way. Okay, okay. Even Pansy is a twirler, but I never went pro. Pansy Jr. packed her two batons ahead of time to make sure we did not forget to take them to the parade. She was gonna hit up (not literally, but accidents happen) one of the Old Lady Baton Twirlers with an impromptu audition for the purpose of getting lessons. And hopefully simultaneously embarrassing/making Auntie proud. The old marching people wear "matching uniforms". I cannot wait to get a load of those. I wonder if they wear "special shoes"? Ow, my side hurts from more laughing. It takes so little to amuse me.

Because it is IMPORTANT to know the genesis of how these terrible things (old people in marching bands) could happen to you in your very own family, here is some more information:

Pansy Jr. took twirling lessons for years mostly because those Texas genes are impossible to eradicate no matter how many times you shout "Out, damn'd spot! Out, I say!" and she has always LOVED twirling. Auntie SEBS was a twirler in the Orangevale Velveteers (orange velvet costume included jaunty Paul Revere tricorn hat with white fluffy feathers!) in her early high school years. She weighed all of 73 pounds. Glasses, hideous perm in her hair, snaggly teeth. That picture is priceless but in the possession of SEBS. I will do what I can to obtain it. I have all kinds of blackmail on her. I'll have it soon.

At Pansy Jr.'s yearly recitals Auntie SEBS would attend because she is her family's only girl (very tragic story of mother of 3 sons, no daughters) and evidently SEBS was secretly fascinated by the Old Twirlers. The OTs were women who took lessons at this same dance studio as children. Then they grew up and had their own children but when their own children started lessons the OTs started pouting and whining that THEY still wanted to twirl, too. So teacher made a class for the OTs with this payback: the OTs had to perform at every recital. hahahahaha. God, I miss the Frank 'N Dolores Dance Studio. I bet they were from Texas.

Now I must go research several burning questions I have:

---Are there bell solos in John Philip Sousa marches?
---Are there Enough bell solos?
---Have they considered "amplified" bells?
---Can't the band director place The Bell Player more prominantly in the formation?
---Should she be front and center?
---Perhaps in the Direct Center but in a line consisting only of herself with color flags in the lines just in front of and behind her?
---Could the color flags have spotlights to point out The Bell Player?
---Can't they move those Old Hag Twirlers to behind the band? And would SomeOne put long pants on those "legs".....pleeeeze!
---Other rude thoughts not yet fully formed.

Costco! Someone has to get to Costco for MORE CAMERA BATTERIES.

DAY OF THE PARADE: Pansy Jr. cannot attend the parade. She is devastated but I promised to carry on. Mr. Pansy keeps me on schedule and even with all his cattle prodding we arrived in the small town at 9:50am. The parade was to start at 10:00am. No problem. We drove right up to a shady parking spot which turned out to be 2 blocks from where we decided to view the parade. That viewing spot was only 1 block from the Judge's Stand so it was ideal in that we got to see each "act's" premier moves. It was the cutest little small town parade I have seen in eons. Military vehicles filled with Boy and Girl Scouts, a crew of 5 unicyclists (how could I fail to have taken their picture? But I had to be sure to save my camera for SEBS), some nondescript cars with 2-3 people inside. Lord knows what/how/why these parade entrants wanted to even be in the parade for. But, oh well. And the La-De-Dah entry was the local police force on 8 motorcycles doing fancy loop-de-loop "daring" criss-crosses through each other's lines. Kind of a land-based Blue Angels. NOT! But adorable and the "crowd" went wild. The crowd was a singular row of people along the curbs for 8 city blocks. This was great stuff.

Then..........ohmygod..........you could HEAR THE BELLS from a city block away! The BAND was coming! The BAND was coming! Thank goodness SOME things never change. Like where the bell player is positioned. I knew from my own junior high/high school marching band days (French horn) that SEBS would be with the percussion group and in the last row of marchers. The bell player is ALWAYS on the right back corner so we were properly positioned on the correct side of the street for fullest viewing of SEBS.

That sloppy kid does NOT have his t-shirt tucked in! Where's his pride?

I couldn't stand it. I erupted like a volcano and told the row of viewers along the curb that [insert entire Pansy family history here and all about how SEBS is being busted and this is her first parade and other chattering forever]. BUT YOU KNEW THAT WAS FUCKING GOING TO HAPPEN SINCE ANYTHING PANSY DOES INVOLVES SHANGHAING INNOCENT BYSTANDERS. Thank goodness SOME things never change.

So......up comes the BAND. Since I was busy snapping photos I really didn't "see" the Band, the Old Lady Baton Twirlers, or much of anything except for my SEBS. All is fine and good, they end their little tune (huge bell banging finale) and..............they stop!! I mean stop moving forward. They are marching in place because several "acts" ahead of them are doing their thing for the Judges. My SEBS is marching in place literally directly in front of me!

SHE DOES NOT KNOW YET:

The crowd, having become family members by virtue of their terrible decision to pick that area to watch the parade did it! They Really DID IT! On the count of three, we all yelled: "THAT LOOKS LIKE PANSY'S SISTER!"

And lots of laughing, clapping, hooting, etc. SEBS slowly, dazedly, looks to her right and sees me (and all our new family members) waving at her and grinnning like jackasses. She smiled back. More photos.

IT BEGINS TO REGISTER:

Then I decide "this is ridiculous", hand off my camera, run up beside SEBS, march in place beside her as one of my new "aunts" took pictures of me and SEBS together.

I BELIEVE SHE IS BEATING ME WITH HER BELL BANGER:

We met up after the parade and SEBS was all agog with her huge rushing buzz from performing live. Practically like being a rock star I bet! Her hubby found us and off they went for probably some Sex With The Bells Player fun and games.

Ahhhh. It was a great parade. They might have even won FIRST PLACE for "Marching Bands." Of course, they WERE the only fucking marching band in the entire parade. Still, the vote could be close. I think I may join the band. First, I'll practice having sex with my band groupie, Mr. Pansy.

PANSY'S PINK CADILLAC

2008-06-10T13:48:00.000-07:00

Just a story. From kinda long, long ago.

Every Texas Gal NEEDS a Cadillac. Pansy's Cadillac was a 1978 Coupe De Ville. Her name was Flossie. When looking directly at Flossie, she appeared gray although actually it was Pewter. But Pansy knew Flossie's TRUE SOUL COLOR was pink. Just like Pansy wasn't actually BORN a redhead she sure as hell was meant to BE a redhead. In case you did not know, Pansy was a very white-haired child (they called it "tow headed" in those Olden Days). She was told all her life by her lying family that she'd be a redhead just like Aunt Peggy, who had been a towhead also. Well, Pansy's hair did NOT go red. Just very reddish-BROWN. Bitter and angry, she has been dyeing her hair red since before she can remember. And Flossie Pink is not your regular, everyday pink.....it is Invisible Pink. The kind you can only see for a brief second with your peripheral vision. "Flossie Pink" is wispy, ethereal and pearlescent.

For some reason, which escapes Pansy's memory now, the wild hair up Pansy's ass in 1992 was obtaining a Used Cadillac. She convinced Mr. Pansy that a Used Cadillac would be fun, cost hardly anything, and when it died we'd just leave it in a ditch somewhere and buy another one. Mr. Pansy's only proviso was that it had to be a two-door car. The newspaper ads (this was in the Olden Days when people used actual newspapers) were scoured daily. Many Cadillacs were viewed and rejected. Suddenly, on a Sunday--when NO ONE places a new ad for god's sake--there was The Ad! It made various completely impossible claims. Outright lies is what those kinds of claims usually are. Pansy decided to call even though it was already "too late" since she discovered this new ad after 1pm. Shockingly, the owner said "come on over and take a look." Pansy couldn't go look that day and so another 24 hours goes by before she and her two Pansy Offspring can go see the surely-it-has-been-sold Cadillac.

Prepare for a brutal unpleasant truth: The woman (sole driver of the Cadillac) was a German National, married to a U.S. military officer during WWII and they had both fretted when it came time to sell Flossie. [They did not know then and still do not know the Cadillac's name was Flossie.] They told me they had fretted because they might have to deal with "not white people". The owners were (1) original owners; (2) older, white, retired military; (3) the impossible claims were TRUE STATEMENTS; (4) they had "held" the car for Pansy because they "knew" over the phone that She was The One. They knew Pansy was The One because.............she sounded WHITE. Sorry about that, readers, but that's what they said out loud to me. Even though they did whisper when they said "not white people". It's Old Guard mentality. Let's hope it dies off with that generation.

Flossie sounded good mechanically, she was clean as a whistle, she was perfect. A 14 year old car with 58,000 miles on it and in primo cosmetic condition. Because it only went (1) to the weekly local Bridge card game; (2) once each month to the Bay Area to visit daughter. I explain I can't just buy it, my husband has to see it first. The elderly, Man Is Boss Of His Family couple readily approved of this proper behavior from Pansy. They saved the car for us and we bought Flossie the next day. For $1800.

Flossie was the real deal. I could have driven her to New York City and arrived refreshed. They really were Cadillacs back then. Mr. Pansy loved working on Flossie. She was cooperative and only required the usual oil change/tune up kind of maintenance needs. Her absolute favorite music was hip hop/rap/old school and she'd blare them out at the top of her lungs. With reverb! Yeh, yeh. Pansy don't necessarily like the rap but in Flossie, well, it sounded great. I made those slacker younguns, Sexy Mexi and Portugese, learn how to parallel park Flossie. They were scared but I was insistent and Flossie showed them it can be done....even with a big honkin' land shark like her! The schools nowadays and the DMV don't require it. How can you get through life without knowing how to parallel park?

One day as Flossie and I were driving to the courthouse I see I am coming up beside a TWIN TO FLOSSIE! Now, seeing a twin to your car is among the Top Ten of Life's Highlights. I drive up, look over and 3 black males in their early 20s are in their "Flossie" grooving to the same radio station I have playing! I say "Nice car" and they stare at the old white lady that seems to be talking to them. Then they get it. And we drive along for about a mile, enjoying our mutually beautiful cars, banging out the hip hop tunes. The guys just really can hardly stand it and they are laughing away and so am I! Comes time for me to turn off so I do my newly-learned-from-Sexi-Mexi sideways "V sign" with my hand and say "Peace out, dudes!" as I go left. They all literally stared at me with cartoonish wide open eyes and then started laughing so hard I believe they may have peed their saggin' pants. The driver goes so far as to bang his head on the steering wheel laughing at me. They all flash back the sideways Peace Sign at me and honked for about 2 city blocks as we parted ways. Ahh, it feels good to connect with youths of today.

One terrible night we heard Flossie screaming in the driveway at 3am. Someone had tried to steal her and instead she honked until Mr. Pansy disconnected her battery. Putting your head into a car honking at full throat is quite deafening and not nearly as fun as getting your ears ruined by a rock concert. The evil ones had punched out Flossie's passenger door lock so very little cosmetic damage occurred. The insurance adjuster was good about the claim and not pushing us to "total" the car. Until we got her back from the repair shop and her horn was still non-functional.

For reasons I still do not understand, the insurance adjuster and the repair people threw a tantrum over the horn. They told me that repairing the hot-wire job on the steering column had nothing to do with the horn. Now, Pansy is no mechanic but that's not her job. She said "So, you are actually trying to tell me that the horn bone is NOT connected to the steering bone?" THAT really angered them all. Eventually they gave us $150 cash and since there was no sense arguing with them further, we took the money, cancelled the insurance policy and tattled on the adjuster to the company. Flossie drove around for a year, unable to speak. Which was good training for Pansy to not lean on her horn at all the bad drivers out there. We found a "steering columns only" repairman who repaired Flossie's horn. Via the steering column. For only $100. Now whose bone is connected to which bone...?...smirks the Pansy as she spent the extra $50 on a fluffy steering wheel cover for Flossie.

Flossie could handle dicey situations, too. Once Pansy went to pick up Pansy Jr. and friends from a dance. A young man was talking to Pansy Jr. through the window about how fucking mad he was that he got fucking kicked out of the fucking dance for no fucking reason. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, etc. So you know Pansy is LIKING this young man a whole lot. The girls are giggling and giggling and suddenly young man thinks in his (probably fucking) head "what's up?" At that point, he sees ME and goes into a ridiculous "Aw, shucks, ma'am" routine and actually said:
"I apologize, ma'am. Please excuse me. I did not mean to speak so vulgarly."
Pansy said: "Well, it's a little fucking late for that, now isn't it?"

And Flossie, take note Ladies, was quite the Man-Catcher. EVERY time Pansy would get all dolled up in a big, ratted up hairdo and go driving (which happened regularly what with all the social engagements the Pansys like to go to), men would follow her and Flossie and ask us for a "date". No shit. Especially that time Pansy was dressed up as Peg Bundy at 3am. But she has an excuse! Really! Pansy was heading for Lake Tahoe to run around the lake in a race. See?
[In case you can't tell.....Pansy is the one in the green camo tights. And feather bra. With big boobs hanging out. Over a fishnet bodystocking. With hair 3 feet in the air. And red lipstick. Okay, Okay...even Pansy agrees she looked kinda whorish THAT time! hahhahahahahha!]

Flossie lasted for 12 wonderful years. She was the Greatest Cadillac That Ever Lived. We donated her to the local car museum. She was still operational but it had become too many systemic failures for the Pansys to deal with. Pansy still blesses the day she found Flossie.

p.s. A year later, of his own volition because Pansy would NEVER ask this of anyone no matter HOW much she hated them: Mr. Pansy SOLD HIS HARLEY DAVIDSON to buy Pansy her current Little Red Car, PATSY. Who the fuck needs a "Man-Catcher Car" when she already has a Good Man like THAT sniffing around her?

FULL DISCLOSURE: 5/12/08 UPDATE: 5/10/08 re HOT FUCKING FLASH NEWS BULLETIN!!!

2008-05-06T11:09:00.000-07:00

5/12 Full Disclosure At End Of This Post

This is INSANE!!! Baby Pansy is studying Things Medical to become an R.N./Physician's Assistant. While searching the internet for information on lost libidos and SSRIs re some of her studies she found THIS:

"Three psychiatrists wrote in the Journal of Clinical Psychiatry that granisetron (a sexual stimulant in rats) works great in men and women, if taken one hour before sex. But the drug, available as Kytril (and labeled for chemotherapy-related nausea control), costs $50 a pill. That means it would have to be a very hot date."

GUESS WHO GETS FUCKING PUMPED UP TO HER EYEBALLS WITH KYTRIL VIA I.V. WITH EVERY WEEKLY CHEMO SESSION? hahahahahahhahahahahahahahahahhahaha! After many failures to combat nausea, Kytril is the only drug that really has slammed down the chemo nausea for Pansy. Yeh, that Fucking Pansy is SO DEFINITELY one very hot date! Why, lookie here!! She has a whole slew of them "little white pills" in her medicine cabinet right now for in between chemo sessions.....should she feel the "need". Oh, Pansy has Needs all right! OMG. This is a scream!

Which reminds Pansy of even more proof that she is the Undisputed Most Manned Up Woman In The Universe: when all other MENopausly wimmin get drugged up with Estrogen Hormone Replacement Therapy to help them through their hot flashes/whatevers......what did PANSY'S doctor prescribe for HER? Testosterone! You read that right: TesTosTeRone! hahhahahahahhaa. Only took it for about 3 weeks way back whenever and it instantly fixed everything up Just Fine With The Pansy. And, NO, it did not make her Penis huger. Hell, the world already isn't ready for how large her Penis currently is!

DISCLAIMER: Pansy denies that Kytril has changed her in any way whatsoever. Except for she throws up a WHOLE LOT LESS now when she has sex with Mr. Pansy! hahahahahhahahahahaha!

UPDATE ON 5/10/08: On 5/9/08 I took a Kytril for scientific purposes only. Yes.

FULL DISCLOSURE 5/12/08:
I bravely took a Kytril on 5/9 to "see". And, no, I was not nauseated so now you know I have misused a prescription drug. I had joked earlier with a few people by predicting that Mr. Pansy would probably go all Pure and Holy on me and refuse a Kytril himself because it is not prescribed for him. And wouldn't you know it----he actually DID say those exact words! I laughed as I tore him a new one since I am certain those susbstances he took in his college years WERE prescribed for him. Not! hahahaha!

I chose to not tell Mr. Pansy I had taken the Kytril. That way he would not be on the lookout for anything or suspect things were different, IF they were going to be different. He was the "control" group that did not know he was not getting the placebo! hahaha! The effect did kick in at about 1 hour. It was real. Nothing mental, just physical. Like there was a disconnect between my brain and my body. Not so very different from the disconnect that happens in childbirth. Your body has its own agenda in childbirth and the same with Kytril and possibly all those other drugs such as Viagra.

The sensation was one of "feeling" (your genitals are saying "Hey! Here I am! Yoo hoo!") and the feeling was "pleasant". If I were an actual man and not merely The Most Manned Up Woman In The Universe I would say the blood engorgement that occurred would have caused the beginnings of an erection.

The actual sex part was not different. It did not take a longer or shorter amount of time, the orgasm was not more or less intense, but AFTERWARDS it was not over. I only went back down to "feeling". That must be where the 4 hour erection warning begins its countdown. Essentially, it was like having a gun that has been fired but then on its own it put another bullet into the chamber and cocked (pun!) the trigger.

Unfortunately, this scientific experiment was begun at 9:45pm (took pill), enacted at 10:50pm, and afterwards it's past Pansy's bedtime so she's too tired but also can't sleep. So I got up, read, watched tv, waited around for about 1-1/2 hours, then went to sleep. During the "coming down from the drug trip" time I wasn't anxious or annoyed or all hot to trot, but I say: use these libido drugs earlier in the evening so you can find out what the ongoing effects are all about.

Another comment on the actual sex part: the drug--much like the anti-depressants themselves--changes your usual M.O. You have to be much more in the "here and now" moment. None of that wandering off into erotic fantasies or thoughts. Or, at least, you have to be more careful with them. With anti-depressants your mind/body loses its "trigger" and it is difficult to get over the hump due to an impaired libido. With Kytril there is a similar tendency, if you don't stay very "here and now", to get derailed. What that means is you are getting more stimulated and suddenly it's like someone pushed in the clutch and revved the gas pedal. All high rpms but no traction. You race ahead of yourself, if that makes sense. So you have to back off the gas pedal, let the clutch out and start anew.

To my amazement SOME internet information/rumors are, in fact, TRUE! Just to make sure I keep my Pansy Cred, I "shared" this experiment information with my daughters. They now hate me lots and are likely to sue for counseling money. hahahahhahahaha! Hey! The Baby Pansy started it. Sue her!

Pansy Had A Dream

2008-05-06T08:44:00.000-07:00

Technically, since she was just waking up, it wasn't so much a dream as it was a "vision". But it most definitely was extremely, I say Extremely, erotic. And it wasn't even about HER getting HER rocks off. How wrong is that!? Being a demure and not very revealing person, Pansy declines to describe in too much detail herein the details of the extremely, I say Extremely, erotic scenario. But it does involve: Mr. Pansy, a 1963 VW bug (pale green), an airport, a partially dressed evidently love-starved Pansy. She got into the car and then she did.............to Mr. Pansy, who.............well, he was satisfied with his end of the deal.

Pansy calls it "Let's Play Airport". Yes, the Pansys are still finding yet more Hot Nasty things to do with each other that they have never done with each other or anyone else. If one were a RUDE reader of this report, one might be inclined to try imagining what "Let's Play Airport" involves. Well, it does NOT involve: Anything other than something so mundane as it would EMBARRASS the Pansy to reveal the details/rules of "Let's Play Airport". Unfortunately, Pansy, who likes to think she is not stupid, stupidly revealed the details/rules of "Let's Play Airport" to that horndog, Mr. Pansy. He has been all over her about the prospects ever since.

A week later Pansy is at lunch with the Portugese Washer Woman and Sexy Mexican. During this lunch Sexy says her husband got all weird on her about her latest thoughts: she would like to get a collar/leash setup. For her neck, not his. That Sexy! hahahahhahaha! Who knew? But her husband is all like "But how would I know what to do? What if I pull it too tight?" Uh, I think that part about Sexy yelling at him "You are choking me"--wouldn't that be a clue? And then Portugese says she and hubby have finally decided that they aren't destined to have another child (they have one 14 year old and have been trying) and went to appointments for a vasectomy. But first the doctor says they must test Portugese for pregnancy and the damn whore is PREGNANT! Right this very now! So, Sexy and Pansy burst into a bit of teariness at the restaurant at this great news just when 17 year old pimple-boy server comes by to see if everything is okay. Pansy wails "I'm just fine, can't you tell?" He says "I think I will just go away from this for now." hahahhaha. Of course, we must then hug each other. Can we help it if our hands slipped and found Sexy's third nipple (it's on the right side by the way) and it simply happened that we gave Portugese a bit of a pelvic exam. After the restaurant manager kicked us out we went shopping for baby shower stuff and Mother's Day stuff and all kinds of The Damn Whore Portugese Is Pregnant stuff. With periodic outbursts of teariness from Sexy and Pansy in the various stores. And that Damn Portugese Tease....she did not share HER erotic fantasy with us. Bitch. Her boobs are already HUGELY. Pansy and Sexy hope the Portugese will cooperate with the photo sessions they are envisioning.

Some people make sick and twisted word association transitions and for them "airport" led to "landing strips" which led to "tattoos" which led to those "low back but really Ass Tattoos on women" which led to concluding Pansy wants Anal Sex? WTF? That's awful. Pansy is disgusted beyond measure because everyone KNOWS those tattoos are called "tramp stamps" NOT "landing strips." And besides, while "tramp stamps" are most often seen above women's asses Pansy has seen them above some men's asses. But she thinks maybe they were gay guys. So, All Not Gay Guys who have this low-back but really an Ass Tattoo: would you please let Pansy know if those tattoos are unisex? Pansy thinks they are supposed to be a Girl Tattoo. But what does she know?

And, no, Pansy is not suddenly all hotted up about anal sex. Because we all know that anal sex, except between consenting people, is AGAINST GOD'S WILL. We know this because those holy, screw-your-neighbor's-wife-while-cruising-the-gay-bathroom-in-the-park-scene-after-scoring-some-heroin-from-that-prostitute-who-will-let-you-NOT-use-a-condom, good, God-Fearing/Loving, Right Winged jerks have declared it so from their Sanctified Pulpits (man, Pansy is going to go to hell for that rant). And, anal sex is "germy" and IF there had ever been any such activities between the Pansys it always resulted in a "rash" or "bad reaction" to SOMEONE'S man part....IF that had ever happened.....IF!!!! Which, ALWAYS gets started in the first place between hopelessly white straight people ONLY BY ACCIDENTAL SLIPPAGE resulting in a squeal (of not delight) from the female and a squeal (of great delight) from the stupidass male perpetrator. And the accidental slippage was really only because of all those beers at that rodeo followed by too many tokes of "smoke" and we all know what "smoke" does to Pansy's libido. And anal sex is just not "all that and a bag of chips" except that the gay guys the Pansys know claim that it IS "all that and a bag of chips" because of the prostate being stimulated---so at last, finally, at Pansy's advanced and elderly age she has heard an explanation for anal sex.

And did you know that Men Are Liars? Yes, they are! Pansy is shocked by the trickery of Mr. Pansy over the years. I just learned something in the past few weeks that still has me all fumey hot and not in a good way of hot. That bastard I live with told me this: a male (not necessarily him, you know....this is a theoretical mainly unsexxxed male--like all you pricks out there reading this for instance) who has a pre-awakening largesse going on is not necessarily in the mood. Said largesse can merely be due to:

(1) a not-empty bladder pressing on
(2) prostate gland which does something--constrict or increase, not certain--to
(3) blood flow which results in
(4) largesse.

All these fucking years Mr. Pansy has let me think he has a condition that needs releasement. I even said (sometimes in baby talk) "poor thing, that must be painful" to which he would bravely grimace, nod and begrudgingly accept tender mercies thereto. From now on, German Nurse Pansy intends to efficiently catheterize those stupid largesses. hatehatehatehatehahahahahhahahaha. But then, not content to leave things alone, Pansy pressed (on what she hopes was a painfully full bladder) Mr. Pansy for more information. He claims that horny largesse and pee-filled bladder largesse do NOT feel different. Just one makes him need to pee before having the very necessary and desperately needed sex. Because if he doesn't get the sex he will explode and have blue balls and all that usual blah, blah, blah that men will say in order to score their Very Undeserved Extra Sex. Pansy hates that she is so easy.

However, Mr. Pansy tries. Years ago he suddenly asked out of nowhere "Do you need more cuddling after sex?" This was just "after". What in fuck is he doing waking me up? Good god. Hey, Pansy blacks out instantly upon achieving the "after" state. Do NOT be bothering her with stupid cuddling shit. And he'd better not be trying to act all "sensitive" by asking about my "needs" just to snag some cuddling for himself either. What I NEED is for him to get my rocks off. If he happens to get lucky himself along the way, more power to him.

At about the 10 day mark since Pansy's vision, the opportunity to Play Airport arose. Actually, it was Mr. Pansy's "opportunity" that arose. Pansy went for it. The landing was a little rough. No! Not with a collar/leash! And there was nothing shoved up anyone's butt either. And she does not recall when he peed. To be more precise, finesse will smooth off the rough edges. How's that saying go? Practice makes perfect? Which Mr. Pansy has indicated he is very willing to put up with said practice. Rough as it might be. Shut up! Pansy does not mean "rough".

Fine. Okay. Pansy will tell you exactly what the vision was about: it's exactly what YOU have been wanting to do/have done to you but for whatever reasons the partner involved just would not go along with it. The difference between "Let's Play Airport" and whatever you are desiring is only in the DETAILS specific to you and your situation. So, give it another try with your partner. Ya never know. Again Pansy is forced to say "what the hell was I holding out for all this time?" Mr. Pansy had nothing to say after we played "Airport". He had blacked out. ~smiles~

WHO'S UP FOR SOME HELL RAISING?

2008-05-02T16:59:00.000-07:00

Watch out. I have been in a real mood the last couple weeks.

I am not going to go to Hell. Except for that part about I AM going to Hell on a one-way speeding bullet. Hell, I am already in the line for getting into Hell and I can see the velvet ropes. The last time the bouncer demons opened up the Gates Of Hell they spotted me and I heard one of them yell: “Oh, Fuck! Satan! Pansy is out there and when SHE gets in Hell it’ll fill the whole fucking place up. Godammit.” Now, I know with some of you out there, well, we’re going to have to fight over who actually gets to go into Hell first. I know it will be me because I am elderly and feeble and you’ll cheat and fake me out and pull some trick hot jukey moves on me, which will make me stumble and plunge headfirst into the inferno. Don’t worry. I’ll keep the light on for ya!

But, wait a minute. Didn’t I say up there something about I ain’t going to Hell? Yep. Because I am “saved”. Yes, I are too! And because I am not totally stupid, I will agree that merely having been born hopelessly white in the United States Of America By God in whom we trust just about automatically guaranteed I would be raised, or at least exposed to, Christian teachings. No, not the Catholic priest kind of exposure! I will always have great and wonderful memories of Easter Morning sunrise services on the beach of the Texas Gulf Coast. I went to church every week until my senior year in high school. But I never really “got” religion. I still don’t got religion. I am just saved.

When I started a new job and met my Very Most Christian Friend who, upon first spying me, said “Would you like to go to a Bible study class at lunch?” I should have suspected something. I went and and my hands magically knew where to find any and all Bible verses we studied. I remembered all the names of the Bible people. My gracefulness was amazing.

Years earlier I had exorcised my childhood through secular counseling. But I had never grappled with or resolved the issue of “forgiveness” of those who had wronged me. I knew I had made a life-altering decision in that first lunch hour Bible study. Still, it took over a year but one day I realized I could and wanted to forgive. In person. So I did. I had to literally pull over halfway through the drive to pray for strength and for the words I wanted to say.

My thoughts are that one’s God/Higher Power is the best father/parent a person could ever hope to have. A father who forgives and forgets every bad thing you have ever done. You are made new and all the old is gone. Literally gone. Never happened! If God (Christian) can forgive a wretch like Paul (the apostle) and murderers and even ME, PANSY…………how can I not likewise forgive another person’s terribleness? Not to God’s level of forgiveness. But me thinking that someone else’s sins are unforgiveable due to them being unworthy of forgiveness is the height of arrogance. Yes, arrogance.

After all, what makes MY sins so special as to warrant God’s forgiveness? Aren’t I just as despicable and unworthy? And because MY sins are forgiveable, everyone’s sins are forgiveable. For humans (at least me, anyway) to be able to forgive does require the Hand of God, however. And there have been and always will be many a moment when I want to retract/take back my forgiveness. Or at the very least, I feel angry and unforgiving. But, luckily, just like accepting Jesus into my heart , I cannot unforgive. My angry thoughts/feelings do not undo my forgiveness. They are just my human feelings.

It took me becoming a parent to find the courage and then 2 years and 10 months of scorched earth counseling to begin the real and final healing. I could not do it for my unworthy self but by God I could and would and did do it for my children. And, yes, things did get extremely way worse before they got better during the counseling. But everyone involved did not go running off a cliff (though if some had, good riddance), the world did not come to an end. What happened was: the world got refracted through the prism of truth.

It took many more years to want to extend my forgiveness. And certainly only after those lunchtime Bible studies helped me to seriously ask Jesus into my heart. I don’t pretend to understand “correct theology” but I also don’t worry about it a lot. I grasp the basic concepts and I am happy to leave the details to God to sort out. Oh, dear. That sounds like some military bumper sticker slogan! Hahahhahahahha!

I don’t know how or even if prayer works but it is a good way to give something over to God. What I am sure of is that literally lifting my burdens up to God works completely for me. I actually feel my muscles pushing stuff up there. I don’t pray for a specific outcome or result. I agree to accept that what happens will be okay. And then I step off into the abyss. So far, so good.

I am just glad so much of my spiritual work got started/done before cancer. I hate to think what a mess I would be if that groundwork had not already happened. The best part is, I lost my “scorn”. Scorn is a very powerful and destructive thing. My best example of lost scorn is this:

There is a bumper sticker that says “Christians are not perfect; just forgiven.” I used to really sneer at that. When I changed sides, so to speak, I realized that phrase says it all. I will continue to sin. I will never be perfect. But I know God is working on me even if it is really starting to piss Him off.

When my counseling concluded I had the epiphany of “I can die now” because I realized I was now through the fires of counseling and confrontation, etc. And believe you me, them fires was as hot as anything that sissy-ass Hell has to offer. I even found a fine sweater with “1986” knitted into it. Obviously made just for me by some slave labor factory child in China via JC Penney. I bought the sweater so that I would never forget that 1986 was when I moved on. As if it could remotely slip my mind!

Sorry (not) if I’ve exploded a few Christian heads here. But that’s just a party bonus! Hahahahhahaha!

NOTE TO SELF: Don’t ever say “I can die now” again. Hahahahahhahha!

I WARNED YOU I HAVE BEEN IN A MOOD OVER HERE.

Texas Women and The Knives In Their Hair

2008-04-25T10:56:00.001-07:00

Well, I have already shared this story with a few people but maybe YOU haven't heard it yet. First off, I will confess (but only this once): Texas Women don't really carry knives in their hair. They just tell everyone that. And no one has yet had the nerve to test it.

Now, back to the story. It started with an incredibly on target remark re my whining about some chest pain. The comment came from some female who shall remain nameless (see? I did NOT mention you by name, Bike Princess!) and she wrote: "so puleeease be better after another fucking nights rest..." She knew not how so very apropos her comment/wish was. Well, guess fucking what? I got me some of that "fucking nights rest" and I feel ever so much fucking better now.

Recently, after a night of not eating enough food and drinking various "liquids" I woke up not in my own bed with a really bad headache and feeling like I had been brutally stabbed all over my chest. Which it turns out, I had! By a bunch of men wearing masks and I had even paid them for the privilege. I had chest surgery to remove the old chemoport (which I wore out) from the left side of my chest and have a new, modern chemoport installed. Surgery went pretty long because they could not put the new one in the old location. So they had to chop on the right side and install the port over there. With the extra anesthesia required I also got to delight in vomiting for the next 24 hours. Which aggravates chest stab wounds. Did you know that? Neither did I! Plus, I didn't even get to bomb myself out with The Really Big Ass Post Surgery Drugs you are supposed to get to enjoy--especially with big honking glasses of wine, some gin and tonics and, of course my favorite: Pomegranate Martinis. But, noooooo! They, the Really Big Ass Drugs, not the booze, made me throw up even more.

I managed to sleep a little bit on Thursday night (4/17 the date of surgery) sitting upright in a La-Z-Boy chair. Friday I just cannot get to sleep and at 3am (which technically makes it Saturday so it's not a work day for Mr. Pansy) I went in and woke Mr. Pansy up. Because he gave me permission to do this years ago whenever I have this problem. I demanded he fuck me until I could get some fucking decent sleep. The crazed look in my eyes and the fact my hair was all in a spikey standing up scary everywhere way (and it was fucking 3am!) convinced him, yet again, that I probably had a knife somewhere to back up my demands. One long fucking hour later, Ta Da!!! I slept like a woman who had been, well, fucked good and hard and long! YOU try finding a comfortable position when YOU have had your chest all stabbed up to hell and back AND you are going cold turkey since the surgery because the pain pills only made you throw up even more. Believe you me, it is HARD to find a good fucking position under those conditions. But Mr. Pansy bravely persevered.

I am still going cold turkey over here and in a fair amount of pain. For "regular" people (that would be big assed gay pussies like YOU) the pain is about an 8. For me it's only 4 or so. And then on 4/24 I got my first chemo with the new port. Boy, did I really need major blinders on my eyes. Those beast nurses and the satanic doctor just shoved all over the port LIKE IT DIDN'T HURT THEM A BIT to do so. What shits. Makes me extra glad that check I gave them today is going to
bounce.

A cute response I got re this story was this: "wow! sex therapy for chest stab wounds?!? That Mr. Pansy is one lucky sumbitch! Now, did he have to go to medical school to learn that or what? and if so, which school and was there much homework? And do they accept 51 year old first year students?" The answers to ALL your questions, Slow Moe (see? I can keep TWO names secret!) is: NO. Especially when it comes to YOU.

Now, this therapy began at 3am and each dose is only good, apparently, for 12 hours. Mr. Pansy is getting very worn out. Like I give a fuck. I WANT a fuck. Hey! Is it almost 3 o'clock? Anywhere? Mr. Pansy! Get over here, Now! Some people have reacted to my story like this is not what usually happens after surgery. I have not had enough surgeries to know one way or the other. But evidently nothing gets in the way of my needing some of that Mr. Pansy Rousting Rodeo Riding. I am beginning to think they spiked my anesthesia! hahahahahhahaha!

Oh, and lest you stupidly think I may not, after all, be the Most Manned Up Woman In The Universe........72 hours after surgery I went for a bike ride. With the usual caveat: "Let's just see how far I might be able to manage to ride, honey." THIRTY FUCKING MILES later we finally went home. Okay. We did NOT fuck during the 30 miles. That was done AFTER the 30 miles.

Pansy Loves Grease

2008-04-16T13:30:00.001-07:00

It took years of Mr. Pansy's begging before Pansy finally acquiesced to going to: The Auto Rama. Who could possibly enjoy that? It's nothing but a buncha stupid cars. Sitting around, with their stupid owners sitting around their stupid cars while other, possibly more stupid, people walk around the sitting around cars/owners. Perhaps the walking around people are more stupid. After all, they paid to come look at the sitting around cars/owners. But wait? The sitting around their cars owners also paid to be IN the Auto Rama. OK, it's a tie as to who is more stupid. The cars for sure aren't the stupid ones. They are the innocent victims. Like Pansy. She knew she would hate it.

NOT! Within a very embarrassingly few SECONDS Pansy realized she was In Love! With the cars. With their owners. With everything about the Auto Rama. OMG, she's a Closet Greaseball Whore Bitch Twin to Paris Hilton! Those stupid cars are hot! Their sleazy, slimey, greasy, stupid owners are hot! Pansy would pay the hot sleazy, slimey, greasy, stupid owners to take her in a hot split second. In fact, she would pay extry if there is grease under their hot nasty pinchy fingernails which she would want them to use to pinch Her Hot Nasty a Lot, or certainly at least until their hot nasty pinchy fingers cramped up. Where did this awful recessive gene come (hot nasty pun!) from? And how did it go so dominant so fast?

Pansy should have known. For many years prior to this Auto Rama she and Mr. Pansy have been avid Drag Racing fans. Not the kind Pansy would like to see which would involve men dressed up like Big Time Female Icon Stars competing in races in high heels. No, Pansy, poor thing and being the Most Manned Up Woman Ever, has had to do that stuff all by herself in all her triathlons/marathons because No One Else Will. But that's yesterday's news.

I'm talking here and now about the monster horsepower, permanently deafening, ground shaking that registers on a Richter Scale, erection simulating/possibly causing actual erections because Pansy damn near gets an erection herself, top fuel drag racing. This stuff can only be fully appreciated Live and In Person. Forget the TV broadcasts, which we also watch without fail. Many a year we'd drive down to Bakersfield, CA in March and much like being at the Tour De France.....right there in front of you, willing to chit chat, etc. are all the biggest, greatest, smartest, home-grown backyard engineers/mechanics/damn near rocket scientists you could ever hope to meet. These guys are actually geniuses, inventors, innovators, serious high-end athletes with jet fighter pilot reflexes and they are greaseballs---all in one hot nasty package and they have PACKAGES, too! And most of them (swoon) are of that "shorter" size Pansy lusts for the very most. Don't even try to hold me back.

Lucky for Pansy there is a stupid little podunk drag racing strip near her neighborhood and one year DON GARLITS came to town as a goodwill gesture. If you don't know who Don Garlits is, do not tell Pansy. She will kill you for that crime. Google him up and even then you cannot know how fabulous this guy really is. You can read all the National Dragster Weekly editions from since before Pansy was born (which she has read because even before she was conceived she was a Very Good Reader) and biographies about him. And read his own stories he has told about himself. And even then you won't know as much about him as Pansy does. Why, at this very second, just writing about him, she is all sweaty and pantish. Ooops! There went her panties. I guess she has a crush on him! ~blush~ And he so deserves it.

So, Pansy goes to some store where greaseballs go to buy tickets to the local drag strip when Don will be in town. To surprise Mr. Pansy. Because it would definitely surprise him to see Pansy run away with Don Garlits right in front of the whole town. Pansy was babbling (can you believe that?) to the counter clerks about Don this and Don that and Pansy loves Don even more than Mr. Pansy loves Don (but not in a gay way) and such. They are smiling and Pansy knows they are patronizing her but she does not care. She is all high just to be able to talk to someone who knows what she's talking about. No, the counter clerks did not know what Pansy was talking about but we can all pretend here for just a moment, can't we? Finally, one clerk excuses himself and goes back into the offices. He comes back out with......FUCKING DON GARLITS. Who has overheard (can you believe that?) Pansy's babbling about him. OH. OH. OH. Don is just beaming at me and so proud that I know all about him and his Swamp Rats and his this and his that. He then comes outside with me, poses with me for pictures which meant he TOUCHED ME!
MMmmmrrrrrRRrrrrHHhhhhhhhhhhhH! I have not bathed since.

Hey! Did you know that Mr. Pansy is a packrat? He is awful. Not to the point that we have a maze of ceiling-high stacks of old newspapers to negotiate through our house. But he is a packrat. I am a military child. Nothing in my possession makes it past 3 years. Except for Mr. Pansy. He's stuck with me. But this particular packratting story has me rethinking my attachment to Mr. Pansy:

Mr. Pansy has saved every spark plug from every car tuneup he has ever done on any car since HIS FIRST CAR TUNEUP in his life. And said used spark plugs were carefully placed in zip lock bags that are clearly and legibly labelled with: 1) make, model of vehicle; 2) mileage on spark plugs; 3) date removed. We no longer even own the cars these fucking used spark plugs came out of. But the bagged, labeled spark plugs live on in our garage. Why? Because, in his very own fucking words, Mr. Pansy says "When the depression comes, these will be useful." There'll be a depression all right. When I'm done slamming the bags of spark plugs into his skull.

Three times....THREE TIMES....Mr. Pansy caught me at the garbage can "that close" to tipping the box of labeled/bagged/used spark plugs into oblivion. Each time Pansy tried to toss the spark plugs it created a fairly severe crisis in our relationship. And then those fucking snotty spark plugs went back into the garage, into their cabinet. The one with special "soft glow" lighting under which the sneering sparkplugs would bask and mock me. You just wait until next time, you little shits.

Pansy actually finally gave up the fight over the spark plugs. This is how bad it got rubbed in her face. (rub anything you want in Pansy's face, Don) Mr. Pansy's brother lives in Atlanta, Georgia. He went to Florida for some reason or other and made a special trip to the Don Garlits Museum (lord let me die now if I can just go to the Museum once) to buy and send to Mr. Pansy this item: a singular spark plug from THE car that Mr. Pansy and his brother saw Garlits race in Bakersfield back in the 50s. It arrived, in a lovely presentation gift box, in a plastic bag, labeled with 1)specific Swamp Rat drag racer it came from; 2)some sort of data re the spark plug; 3) date used/removed. FUCKING DON GARLITS also has saved every fucking thing associated with all of his racing, ever. And labelled it. And bagged it. Well, if it's good enough for FUCKING DON GARLITS, Pansy says "have at it, Mr. Pansy." (please please god let me have at it with Don Garlits just for a few minutes)

I got to give Mr. Pansy not just tickets to the Don Garlits event but also a lovely framed photo of me hugging all close and up personal onto Don himself with big smiles on both our faces. The best part is, if you look real close, there is lipstick smeared on my teeth. How utterly attractive. No wonder all those counter clerks and Don were smirking so much! ~blush~ I can only hope Greaseball Girls are allowed lipstick mishaps. I'd mishap whatever Don wanted me to on him with my lipstick as much as he wants. I know. Pansy should not talk like that about Don. He is not that kinda guy. Really.

Mr. Pansy and I eventually mated and produced two girlie girls, who also rather enjoy drag races. Not as much as mama and papa but they sure won't forget their first, and so far ONLY, event. It was at Sears Point Raceway (last I knew it's now Infineon), which is near the California coast, which means always, always, always cool/foggy weather. Good for racing, kinda chilly for viewers. It had also been quite a few years since the Pansys had been to a live event. I called for tickets, was asked where we wanted to sit, so I said "front and center". Really, where else would a Pansy want to sit? Guess what? Things have changed since those Bakersfield days. More safety (courtesy of Inventor/Innovator Don Garlits) evidently has allowed for more up close and personal seating. We used to sit miles away in bleachers while the cars exploded down on the track. Now we were at most 40 feet away from the exploding cars. How can this be?

We don't know. We don't care. Rock on! Until that first car fired up on the line. Oh. My. God. The concussion thumped our bodies like we were being given full, head-to-toe body blows by Muhammad Ali. The fuel fumes immediately scalded and chemically burned our exposed flesh and our internal flesh. And blinded us by the instantaneous spurting of tears from our frantic eyeballs. And the smoke from the burnouts gave us retroactive lung cancer. What had happened in the intervening years? We figured the crews down on the track were suffering as much as we were, except for that part about they had breathing apparatus on and full bodysuits and NASA ear protection. No wonder not one other person was sitting within 50 feet of either side of us four schmucks! The girls literally dived to the ground, crying and wailing in fear! We all bailed for the concession booths where they were selling ear protection. Not until we bought all 4 options available did we find something that would work for the girls. We were willing to be brutalized by the cars but they were really terrified. And we moved down the bleachers toward the finish line.

It seemed warmish that day and we were overdressed for the anticipated cool/foggy weather. As it got hotter and hotter I, being a Good Mother, kept taking the girls into the restrooms and soaking all their clothes with sink water so that they could stay cooler. With the extra clothing I made "cooling blankets" to keep their legs and arms from burning. We had to re-soak the clothes every 25 minutes. It also seemed we were buying bottles of water every time we turned around but there was no denying it was hot. And it's not even noon. Finally, I cleverly noticed the First Aid Trailer. If you are a mother with darling little wilting children they let you into the trailer. Where is it Air Conditioned! And they had ICE! So I am sucking up all the valuable resources there because I could get away with it. No one else seemed to notice the impending doom.

Around 12:30pm things took a turn. The authorities/announcers "suddenly" realized they had a full-on emergency happening. The whole place was fainting away, especially those who had been drinking beer aka The Official Fuel Of Spectators of Sporting Events. It was 115 degrees in the air.....so god knows what the track temp was but it got freaky! The race is somewhat suspended while trucks came screeching in from everywhere loaded with Now Free bottles of water which at first the stupidoes threw randomly into the air toward the people clamoring like they were in a Fourth World country. That didn't work so well when many of the bottles hit people on their heads. The lines at the First Aid Trailer were huge. I think even the beer sales were suspended.

I told people around me to go soak their clothes in the bathrooms. How stupid are people anyway when they have to get advice from a Pansy? This is how stupid: I had to tell them to NOT use the toilet water, use the SINK water. I suppose some just were too desperate to differentiate. Oh, well. After awhile things calmed down, the races began again, and people were subdued for lack of a better word. That event is still talked about to this day on race shows because it was so uncharacteristically hot. And not in a Paris Hilton hot kind of way.

It's fun to go to drag races. Lots of crazy people to watch, lots of noise, lots of meeting and touching big names like John Force, Tony Schumacher, the Pedregons, the Bernsteins, etc. And not to forget the pro stock and motorcycle classes, either. We just try to pretend and forget about the fumes/exhaust/ear damage/future health problems these things have got to be contributing to. But some things are just plain worth it.

Meanwhile, back at the Auto Rama one year Pansy spied this Extra Special Yummy Snackboy scampering along: Jimmie Lee Vaughn. He's in town at the Auto Rama because he has entered his "Ironic Twist"......one gawdawful fucking ugly GREEN glitteramick metal-flake honking huge Land Shark car. For a short guy, he can sure hustle along. Pansy had to run to catch him! Her pickup line: "What is a handsome Texas Boy like you doing in Sacramento?" He swooned right into her waiting clutches. (Car pun!)

p.s. What ever did happen to those spark plugs you ask? That fucking low life cheating cruel scab sucking shit Mr. Pansy.....Threw Them Away. By himself. Alone at home one day during a remodel he decided it was time for them to go. And he didn't tell me for days. Some load of crap about grieving over them. He thought that "event" was worth crying over? I'll make him cry like a person's never cried before over anything. I may never forgive him. But then he goes and wiggles those hot nasty pinchy greasy fingers of his and............

PANSY, YOU CAN DRIVE MY CAR! But please stay away from my motorhome.

2008-04-02T21:46:00.000-07:00

It was all my MicroManaging Stupid Elderly Baby Sister's (SEBS) fault! She started it and she dreamed it up. It happened long, long ago.....maybe even STILL not long enough ago.

'Twas the Summer of 1990 and there was a Family Reunion down home in Texas. My SEBS said "let's buy the parents airplane tickets so you and I can drive their motorhome to the reunion with all the kids." A Road Trip!? OMG! Yew Becha! So, without even consulting the Old Folks we bought plane tickets, presented them to the parents, swiped their motorhome keys and began planning our Road Trip.

It was gonna be me, SEBS, our five (5!) children, ranging from 1 year to 12 years old, all the credit cards, and.....and The Very Best Part? NO HUSBANDS!!

THE DAY BEFORE DAY ONE:
We are All Set for the Road Trip adventure. I call MicroManager SEBS who has designed the entire trip and I ask her: "Um. Do YOU get the motorhome and come get me and the 2 girls? Or do I get the motorhome and come get you and the 3 boys?" Neither of us knows the answer. SEBS bites the bullet and asks her husband. He looks aghast at her, calls Mr. Pansy, who looks aghast at me, so I call SEBS, who looks aghast at her husband. I finally break the silent, aghast staredown to demand "So which the fuck is it?" Both husbands laugh and laugh and laugh and say "You two are so on your own with this one. Good luck, bitches." Then they HANG UP! WTF? We DO know we are going to want to eventually end up in Texas and that is "east-ish", isn't it?

DAYS ONE, TWO, THREE:
SEBS picks up me and the girls. See? Problem Solved! We hightail it to Disneyland, set up, look at each other and realize we are ahead of schedule! SEBS is one serious ass bossy MicroManager but somehow she miscalculated how long it would take us to get to Disneyland. No matter. We go to Disneyland right then and there instead of waiting until the next day like on the Original Big Plan. Disneyland was in the final day of a monster heatweave so there were no lines anywhere for any of the rides, we stayed until they closed at 2am, lots of fun! Same thing next day: no crowds, stayed until 2am, lots of fun. Same thing third day UNTIL....when we got back to the motorhome at 2am "suddenly" SEBS and I decided to re-check the Original Big Plan only to discover we are in serious trouble. What had possessed us to not remember that we have to actually BE on the Coast of Texas before July 4th if we are to celebrate July 4th AT the Family Reunion? Damn that Heatwave and Damn that Disneyland! Damn them both to Hell! OMG! We hauled ass outta there, at 2am. Problem Solved! Please don't tell the husbands.

DAY FOUR:
We drive to El Paso, Texas, where our next KOA reservations are for: two days ago. Stupid Magic Kingdom! But we call and they assure us they have space for when we arrive. We are SUCH Problem Solvers! Silly Husbands and their mockery. We drive nonstop, except for.....we are on Vacation and our Only Rule of Vacation is this: We Must, and Will, stop for every tourist trap Souvenir Roadside Stand/Reptile Garden/Exotic Freak Animals HERE!/Genuine Artifacts [made in China] For Sale Cheep/Shit Here 4 U! We had already stopped at 6 places between home and Disneyland and we were not about to break our streak. In fact, we had told the five (5!) children: If you see something and want to stop, we will. Democracy Is Cool! Or maybe it's Anarchy Is Cool!

We had a wonderful time driving and shit shopping, until we got to El Paso. El Paso is one freaking wide-assed city. When we got to the west side we think we are "almost" there. THREE HOURS LATER we finally get to the KOA in East El Paso...and we are driving 65mph. Perhaps even 80-ish mph. Please don't tell the parents. Finally we arrive at 2am, do the hookups and collapse. Then those five (5!) children wake up at: 5-fucking-am. Hungry, needing care, all kinds of disgusting me-me-me behaviors/demands. But it is just as well. We are still more than a day from the Coast of Texas. Because once you are inside Texas, all the roads have 90-degree turns every 100 yards.

DAY FIVE:
We are Seriously Hauling Ass now, especially since we have to stop for every tourist trap shopping opportunity, and we absolutely cannot make it any further than the Odessa, Texas KOA, where we finally arrived at 2am. What is it with that accursed 2am? It was the witching hour for us throughout that entire trip. Odessa is one sorry place to have to live. Winds incessantly howl through there so all the landscaping was rocks and plastic plants. But the KOA was pleasant enough, even with the whitecaps surging across the swimming pool. And if you discount the pedophile that actually tried to hit on Oldest Boy. Eewwww! Please don't tell the husbands.

DAY SIX:
It is now July 3 but we make it to the Family Reunion in the late afternoon with our five (5!) children. Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you, Travel Mercies Gods! Plus, we did not miss out on any tourist trap shopping opportunities! Glee! The entire clan is so impressed with "those two girls a-drivin' by theyselves acrost the inntyre USA!" Pansy has never claimed grammar or geography are her family's strong suits. The July 4th-reunion-orama is a massive success and now it is time to head back home.

DAYS ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR GOING BACK HOME:
We head for Carlsbad Caverns, shopping at every tourist trap along the way which required we take that motorhome down rutted dirt roads where motorhomes have never been before and should never have gone in the first place at all. Please don't tell the parents. We do just fine, thankyouverymuch. Well, except for that part where Miss MicroManageress totally fucked us over with "we will buy gas at that town." Except that there was NO town. Just a solitary building: a closed down/abandoned gas station. Well, there is still that next town ahead. It's another solitary, closed down/abandoned gas station. Stupid AAA maps!

There is nothing else on the map except for the next town which we knew was too far away for us to have even the remotest hope in hell of reaching before we run out of gas in that fucking gas guzzling monster motorhome! Stupid cheap-ass parents couldn't have thought to buy a motorhome with a bigger gas tank? Do you think the mileage might have been affected by the dirt road side trips to buy tourist trap shit?

The only live things we see are lizards (not for sale) and Drunk Cowboys (available Cheep!) in rusted trucks racing up and down the dirt roads. We are going to have to draw straws on who has to prostitute herself for gasoline while envisioning newspaper headlines: "Shop-A-Holic California Mothers Kill Five (5!) Children Because Mothers Are Horrible Stupid." Only by God's Very Own Grace, which we totally did not deserve but probably the five (5!) children did deserve, we miraculously make it to that next town. When we filled up the motorhome it took 44.8 gallons. It had a 45 gallon tank. We were so freaked out we never drove more than 15 miles before filling up again for the rest of the trip. Please don't tell the parents OR the husbands.

Next, we go to the Grand Canyon where we decide to go for an airplane tour. Now this was in the Olden Days, when things were looser and more relaxed. SEBS didn't want to pay for her baby to go on the plane so we solve that problem by LEAVING HIM WITH THE COUNTER CLERKS FOR 2 HOURS, which Counter Clerks of course are people we do not know. Good God, what were we thinking? I am pretty certain they did not even have emergency contact information should our plane have crashed. Please don't tell the husbands. Especially SEBS' husband. He is a very big man.

Then we are in Las Vegas. It was in the middle of a monster heatwave and all traffic has been stopped on Hoover Dam while the poor workers had to pour molten tar/asphalt/whatever on the road surface. It is so hot and the wait was so long (3+ hours) the motorhome's air conditioner/generator/whatever blew up. We will never forgive the parents for being so uncaring and cheap in their choice of crappy motorhomes. The kids are broiling alive and they all stripped down to just their underwear, whereupon Daughter #1 precociously says "I sure am glad I have not developed yet or this would be embarrassing." hahahahhaha!

We got over Hoover Dam, cruise the Strip, set up the motorhome on the grounds of Circus, Circus at......2am. But everything is OPEN so we wholesome mothers introduce the children to gambling. Circus, Circus has a great area for children to learn early in life how to gamble/bet/lose/get all upset/beg on street corners for money with which to get home. Tip: If you are begging for money and a prospective charitable person says "But how do I know you aren't just going to gamble with this money I give you?" YOU SAY: "Oh, I HAVE gambling money!" No, we didn't make the kids beg for money. They SAID they wanted to! Guess What: Cash Advance! Problem Solved!

Upon leaving Las Vegas the next morning, SEBS drove the motorome through a McDonald's driveup. Until she did about $900 of structural damage to the passenger side of the motorhome where it wouldn't fit past the concrete guide poles. She was an insurance adjuster so she knew how to estimate how much damage was incurred. And all because her SPOILED BRAT BOY CHILDREN demanded McDonald's whereas my PERFECT ANGEL GIRL CHILDREN were Quite Content to eat the oatmeal their Wholesome and Much Better Mother made for them. I'm thinking maybe that unbroken string of 18-hour days was beginning to take its toll on our normally very good natures.

Then, we are filling up the gas tank (because we had driven at least 12 miles since the last fillup) and get told by the Manager that our tires are about to blow out and have no tread left! We will have those stupid parents put in jail for life for letting us drive our five (5!) precious children in an unsafe, air conditioner blowing up, tire blowing up, gas-guzzling crappy motorhome. Nothing that a few hours and $1000 of new tires won't take care of. Problem Solvers Is Us! We drive away mightily cursing those now feloniously stupid parents of ours.

YOSEMITE:
We arrive, after all the requisite tourist trap shopping, at the "beginning" of Yosemite. Micromanageress SEBS had read some blurb about Yosemite having a shuttle system to reduce vehicular traffic inside Yosemite. Except she didn't read far enough to get to that part about you still have to drive down into the Valley before you can park your vehicle and use the shuttles. Well, by the time we got down into the Valley and park in our campsite we had driven every last foot of Yosemite roads possible. Stupid fake Yosemite Valley "green" traffic-reducing shuttle plan.

We were, however, mighty fucking grateful to have gotten down into the Valley at all. Because on the narrow, winding road going down into the Valley there was an "incident." I was at the wheel but it was NOT my fault! A huge Buick kind of car came roaring around a curve and was over the double yellow line headed straight for us. I had two "choices": a full-on actual headon collision or......kind of drive a little closer to the right edge of the road. I chose to slow down and go rightish------right up against the low rock wall. The Buick did veer back to its side of the road but kinda AFTER the last second since it was fully beside my window before it went back into its own lane.

What the low rock wall did not tear off from front to rear of the entire bottom half of the entire right side of the motorhome, the thick stand of pine trees tore off from front to rear of the entire top half of the entire right side of the motorhome. SEBS loudly said my name in a quite blood-curdling Exorcist/Rosemary's Baby scream kinda way. We continue driving since we can't stop and just block the road and besides the Buick really took off after that close call. We drive to the next turnout. During this eerie 1/2 mile we hear really loud screechy/scraping noises and see lots and lots of SPARKS coming from the right side of the motorhome. Being that we have become Highly Experienced Problem Solvers during this trip we responded very rationally: we started laughing. We laughed so hard I do believe there may have been some loss of bladder control and I'm not talking about the baby. We finally get to a turnout so we can stop and a nice couple behind us also stopped to see if we were okay. We were unable to answer them due to continued laughing. All the noise/sparks was only coming from the mostly torn off metal stair/step so now we knew the motorhome was not going to burn to the ground and we would still have a roof over our heads that night.....if not a wall. Who could have guessed how truly shitty and tarpaper shacky motorhomes really are? Stupid sucker parents to have ever bought a motorhome at all!

We get to the campground, hook up the tattered motorhome and are all settled in and it wasn't even 2am! The next day Daughter #1 and I went for a horseback ride. SEBS was going to take the other four (4!) kids and do something or other. Halfway through the horseback ride a sudden and violent electrical storm hits. These are Serious Ass storms and nothing to mess around with. But, the wranglers told us that we were past the "point of no return" so we were going to have to slog on through. There would be a truck waiting at a road a few miles away, after we crossed a creek, for anyone who wanted to quit the horseback ride. The woman in front of Daughter #1 completely, and I mean completely, freaked out. She was literally screaming and boo-hooing. My daughter precociously said to her in her sweet and well-brought up way to calm the woman: "Shut up! You might scare the horses and you are hurting my ears! I said, Shut up!" hahahahahahha!

When we got to the "creek" we learned a new lesson about sudden, violent, electrical storms: they cause flash floods the likes of which I have never seen. The creek was such a torrent we literally all had to get off the horses, form human chains of inter-locked arms and inch our way across the waters that were up to my armpits. Normally this creek is about 10 inches deep. Who knows how screaming boo-hoo bitch got across the creek but she dramatically "collapsed" into the truck. No one else bailed on the horseback ride because this was one great kick-ass ride! Eventually, our stalwart horses sensed we were getting near the end whereupon they reverted to their rental horse, barn-soured, beastly selves and galloped home like possessed animals with us Soaked Rats Riders hanging on for dear life!

Daughter #1 and I climbed into a shuttle bus to get back to the motorhome. At that precise moment the rain stopped and a hail storm with hail the size of golf balls begins mercilessly pelting us in the Open Roof Stupid Ass Shuttle! We grab newspapers from the floor and attempt to avoid getting a concussion. We straggle up to the motor home where everyone else had spent all that time trapped inside watching: The Little Mermaid. Evidently Daughter #2 (my precious 4 year old Child From The Netherworld) was so powerful in her persuasion skills that none of the boys or Auntie SEBS had dared defy her request for The Little Mermaid! hahhahhaha!

A few hours later, SEBS looked at me and said "You know, screw my MicroManaged Original Big Plan. We can just go home, Now!" Yahoo! But first we stopped to shop at a tourist trap, for Old Times Sake.

Odds Bits 'n' Things:

1. Without exception, at every KOA (EVERY ONE) when the women in the bathrooms figured out we were on our own with five (5!) children they would ask "But....but....WHO drives your motorhome for you?" Oh. My. God. They were serious! We would respond with "Well, who will drive your motorhome if your husband gets hurt or sick?" They would pooh-pooh that scenario as not credible. So then we would say things like "Oh, we just pick up hitchhikers that are big and burly because they are also likely to know how to change a flat tire." THAT one they believed and they actually advised us to NOT do that, if only for the sake of the children. WTF!!!????

2. The interior of motorhomes is Major Crapola, too. Baby managed to pull off whole panels of the motorhome no matter where we set up his carseat.

3. Every day we made videotapes of what we did and we would watch them that night. That was seriously great entertainment since our 18-hour days were so long we would actually forget what we had done, when, and often where. We have 8 full-length tapes of that trip. The husbands have never seen them and never want to see them. They know there are many things they do NOT want to know.

4. The parents had, in fact, had the motorhome and its tires thoroughly inspected and approved as road worthy for 2 women and five (5!) children. But did they tell US? Nooooooo!! Sheesh! With their proof of road worthiness they negotiated with the Las Vegas Tire Shill so that the tires ended up costing only $140, total.

5. The insurance adjuster just howled over the entire debacle of the destruction of the motor home and even threw in repairs of the baby-altered interior. His own parents had suffered a somewhat similar sideswipe incident with their crappy motorhome so he actually believed my story. Plus, Oldest Boy backed me up as he also saw the "ghost Buick" which no one else saw because everyone else was asleep at the beginning of the "incident."

6. The "incident" occurred on Friday, July 13, 1990.......my 40th birthday.

7. Yep, it was an Epic Trip and among my greatest adventures/memories with my dear SEBS and her spoiled brat boy children.

Epiphany of the Day

2008-03-30T19:36:00.000-07:00

You CAN teach an old dog, even a Bitch Old Dog, new tricks! Pansy is, after all, an internet virgin despite that business about her being perceived as a $2 whore. Not that being a $2 whore is Pansy's actual business. It's her joking reference that means she is Just Very Open. But not "open", you know, "for business." Errrmmm....where is this all going again? Oh! Yeh! Pansy forgot, sort of did not know, whatever her lame excuse is, that there is a difference between being invited into someone's home as opposed to running wild in the streets. Email is an invitation. The Wide Open Free-For-All Internet is running wild in the streets. So, the next time Pansy takes someone up on that "invitation" she PROMISES (really) to wipe her hoofs and keep her clothes on when she comes in your house. Ooopsies! She meant when she ENTERS your house! hahahahhahaha.

WE INTERRUPT THIS PANSY DRIVEL TO BRING YOU THIS BREAKING NEWS:

UPI:Sacramento. Today a half-dead camel was found by the side of the road, bloodied from head to toe with many scorch marks in its fur and a broken back. Veterinarians performed surgery on the camel for hours. They stated they were "very cautiously optimistic but hopeful that the camel will survive." When pressed for further details, all the veterinarians would say was that they believed the camel to be female based on the two humps they found on its anatomy. But the humps were very saggy so the doctors did not want to be held to that conclusion until the camel regained consciousness and could provide them with more information.

Police have secured the area in which the camel was found and are puzzled by the many pieces of straw littering the area. One particularly large piece of straw is believed to be what was used to break the camel's back. When asked about the reasoning behind their theory as to which straw broke the camel's back, a police spokesperson said "she got moderated on the wide open free-for-all running wild in the streets internet and was dumped here in a hole of self consciousness. By the quantity of dirt under her hooves it appears she dug the hole herself. It's a mystery but we intend to solve it."

BACK NOW TO YOUR REGULARLY PROGRAMMED PANSY DRIVEL:

Among Pansy's many "issues", one should not forget to include this Particularly Big Issue: there is nothing sacred. As long as it is not illegal. Or immoral. Or costs too much. Or any number of other qualifiers Pansy will invent in order to bail herself out from being "in trouble" for her non-sacred behaviors. When Pansy issues a challenge or a joking taunt, she has been known to somewhat, a little bit, sort of, go completely berserk and "appears" to be out of control. But she's not so much out of control as she is simply acting on her deeply-rooted and very hard-won belief that one should "feel the fear and do it anyway." If she won't walk her own talk, how can she expect others to walk Pansy's talk/challenges? What she is specifically saying here is: she "forgot" her sports bra in her excitement over taking photos of her being a Not A Weather Weenie (please see, but DO NOT LOOK AT, the photos included in Pansy's recent post entitled "PANSY IS A JERK"). In "real life" her topless photo taunt/challenge would have been far more realistic if she had truly replicated the conditions involved in being a Not A Weather Weenie and, well, there would have been more clothes involved.

Which brings us to the REAL POINT of this post. THIS was the final straw: Pansy DID get moderated. By her photo upload host site on the internet! For her Not A Weather Weenie photos. Now, no, her photo upload host site is not quite the Wide Open Free-For-All Running Wild In The Streets Internet, but still! My goodness was she shocked to get that bit of information! Guess which photo got deemed as "inappropriate for this host site"? No, not that one. No, not THAT one, either! It was THIS one:

WTF? hahahahahhahahhahhaa! Talk about getting told, and in no uncertain terms, that she has one gawdawful ugly BACK. Why, it almost broke her spirit! All Pansy wants to know, really, is this: When, EXACTLY, does the shit stop rolling downhill? And can she get a seat somewhere else besides at the bottom of the hill? Well, maybe she could if she would stop being such a JERK! hahahahhahahahahaha!

p.s. There is, at present, NO INFORMATION AVAILABLE as to the condition of the camel's toe.

Pansy Praise Is Hollow Indeed

2008-03-26T10:19:00.000-07:00

Tour Leader is all kinds of stupid. He has a limitless, lifetime supply of stupid. Which means Pansy can never run out of pranks to pull on him. He did, once, successfully pull off a Payback on Pansy. However, within an hour of that horrible mistake of his, she threw it right back at him. Literally.

Our bicycle club sponsors bicycle tours each year. After the tour, there is a reunion party so we can share stories and photos while eating and especially while drinking to excess. This particular apres' tour party involved the presentation of the Pansy Au Natural Commemorative Patch. Pansy knew the Balance of the Universe hinged on her regaining her composure as well as the upper hand in this duel to the death with Tour Leader. So she composed herself while making a meringue pie topping with eggs from Tour Leader's chickens. Tour Leader's Wife helped Pansy make the meringue because she is Pansy's Friend more than she is Tour Leader's Wife.

There were presentations and various awards given out and the party is winding down. Finally, Pansy stands beside Tour Leader and begins her Speech. Pansy drones on about how the last few years of tours have been great fun, with lots of taunts and one upmanship between her and Tour Leader but that when it really came down to it the tours could never have happened without Tour Leader's very able guidance and devotion, etc., ad nauseum and she Declared A Truce. Pansy then kneels down (!) next to Tour Leader for the "truce has been called" photo-op. He jerks away and is shieing all around like a farm animal being castrated (too late, that had already happened long ago). But Pansy showed her hands and the fact that they were empty settled Tour Leader back down into his chair. He smiles, Pansy drapes her loving right arm around his shoulders, people are sadly gathering to take a picture of the Night The Dream Died And Pansy Burned Down....but, wait!

What's going on with Pansy's LEFT ARM? It's slithering out behind her, Tour Leader's Wife places the meringue-filled pie pan, topped with a chocolate syrup "happy face", into Pansy's hand. Pansy's left arm snakes back at speed and delicately places the pie pan into Tour Leader's face. Just in time for a time-elapse sequence of photos from the many cameras. The photos show the pie arm coming in for a direct hit; the pie pan all over Tour Leader's face; the meringue WITH chocolate "happy face" clearly showing on Tour Leader's face; Pansy laughing maniacally; everyone laughing maniacally; Pansy sprinting away from enraged Tour Leader (with a chocolate syrup "happy face" on his face); Pansy escaping into the swimming pool; Tour Leader lunging into pool and attempting to drown Pansy (can't be done, she has gills); victorious Pansy preening around with Tour Leader pouting in background. OH, it was glorious.

So many party attendees made a point of telling Pansy they were so glad she was such a liar. They had really believed her speech. Many more tours, with pranks, happened. Current Score:

Tour Leader: 1
Pansy: 90 million + 1 Oscar for Best Actress

Pansy Is A Jerk

2008-03-25T18:25:00.001-07:00

Because she (and her Brain Worms) loves nothing more than to jerk your chain. So, this "male" is all impressed with how Manned Up Pansy is and tells her she is so wonderful for ripping some sissymen new assholes, blah, blah, blah. He promises her photos of an event. As usual, he reneges on the promises. Because he thinks he has some kind of "boundaries" and "respects" others' requests. It's because he ain't Manned Up. I looked it up and right next to "ain't manned up" was a picture of HIS withered, dessicated, miniscule and definitely empty ballsack. Pansy felt spurned and burned and yearned for a payback, for about two minutes.

Then she remembered. Everyone she knows, compared to HER, is a fucking prude! What better way to payback than to do something that could be considered titillating (LOVE that word) or compromising or embarrassing because it's just a bit too over the top AND Completely Unexplainable! hahahahhahahahahhha! Plus, she knows that her behavior is always suspect until finally---usually years down the road OR after a week of intensive one-on-one close proximity to Pansy---her victims and their entire support system come to believe and understand and accept that Pansy is over the top in the most harmless way possible. Her victims are safest when being made the butt of her jokes. Because to be her joke butt means she really, really likes you and ONLY "likes" you. No worries about her having ulterior motives. The secret to pleasing Pansy is to squirm with concern about how your support system is going to perceive the Pansy Treatment. Her joke butts are always given a "specific to the occasion" treatment.

There is no explanation for this particular joke butt other than to say it involved weather weenies; cold temperatures that did not quite materialize; and Pansy's simple request for "topless" photos of the Not Weather Weenies. Turns out that there is more than one kind of weenie. That would be: Camera Weenie.

Pansy was therefore forced, FORCED she says, to create her own Not Weather Weenie/Weather Defying photo montage. To wit:

All Pansy wanted was some "discreet" topless photos such as:

Or even this might have sufficed:

But, noooooooo!! Pansy was denied all photographic evidence so she said "Okay. Be that way! Peace Out."

Why Doesn't He Take Pansy To The Movies Anymore?

2008-03-05T21:07:00.000-08:00

It all began long, long ago......

The Pansys were quite young, but of legal age. And Deep Throat was all the rage. The Deep Throat movie, not the Deep Throat Nixon snitch. But Deep Throat was not available for viewing in Provincial Pansyland movie theaters. Well, technically speaking, Deep Throat was available between consenting partners and I suppose one or the other of those consenting people could view their own personal interpretation of Deep Throat. If they left the lights on and kept the bedcovers out of the way. Unless they were on a couch. Or in their car. Or a friend's bathroom. Well, anyway, the movie Behind The Green Door WAS available for viewing. Into the theater we go. After the absolute very end of the movie--we stayed extra long to be sure it was over--we leave, aghast. And wondering what on earth more could possibly be in Deep Throat that would make it unacceptable for local viewing standards? As we learned months later: nothing.

But that's not the real point here. The point is: Pansy cannot help herself in movie theaters. She must point out what she refers to as "Charlie's Angels continuity/editing". Charlie's Angels was that wonderfully awful television show with Farrah Fawcett and all those other who-cares-who-they-were-they-are-nobodies-now actresses. Without fail we watched every episode because, without fail, there would be numerous scenes that were just "not right in the haid". All long distance shots of the Angels showed they always wore life vests as they dangerously, but expertly, manuevered their jet skis. But in the closeups the Angels were Never wearing life vests. Maybe that's because they were endowed with natural/perhaps unnatural Mae Wests which the producers were anxious for us viewers to see and possibly then we would buy sets for our own selves. Product Placement they call it nowadays. Strictly for safety while dangerously manuevering jet skis, of course. Because large boobs, probably, increase one's expert level of jet ski manuevering. Come to think of it, Pansy now recalls that in the long distance shots those Angels were darn muscular. And quite hairy armed. And they had bulges in their bikini bottoms. For flotation? Or fellatio? Hmmm.

Meanwhile, we Pansys are in the theater studiously paying attention to Behind The Green Door when, from one scene/angle to the next scene/angle.....quite frankly that body part was NOT Marilyn Chambers!!! Which Pansy loudly proclaimed with disgust and objections. And then the other people who were in this documentary film about body parts.....well, quite frankly they were using body doubles all over the damn place. Pansy could hardly stand the non-continuity. She almost became incontinent. As did the laughing audience around Pansy. Mr. Pansy scowled on the way home.

Years and years later Pansy was riding her really hot brand new just now being seen out on the highways and byways one-seater (for us Lone Wolf types) Harley Davidson Buell Lightning 1 along Highway 50. Rule One of riding motorcycles is: Always check your mirrors. And then check them again. In doing so, Pansy noticed this crazy car ricocheting from lane to lane and coming on pretty damn fast. Pansy is pretty damn fast herself and on this day happened to also be riding her motorcycle pretty damn fast. She determines she is not pleased with this crazy car and its antics so she gets in the slow lane to make sure crazy car can get past and be gone.

Crazy car manuevers itself all the way up to right beside Pansy and then paces her. Finally she gives up and looks over. IT IS FUCKING (figuratively but maybe literally, too, you never know) HOWIE LONG in a really hot brand new just now being seen out on the highways and byways 2-seater BMW convertible who..... [Please note: that while Pansy loves/lusts with her whole body, heart, mind, soul for FUCKING (figuratively but maybe literally, too, you never know) JAMES GARNER].....well, she'd dump Stupid Old Jim in a heartbeat for FUCKING HOWIE LONG!! Good God! Pansy even owns a "Howie" necklace she bought special for her fantasies about FUCKING HOWIE LONG!! It really was HOWIE! Pansy is dying if she's lying here. And he gives Pansy a huge shit eating grin and a thumbs up!!! Pansy is not stupid. She knows he just wants Pansy's BIKE! So, she smiles right back at him, revs up her bike and leaves him behind like that! hahahahahhahaha! He catches up to her and smiles and waves and thumbs her up (well, figuratively speaking, although you never know) again! Alas. There's Pansy's exit. Dammit. So she blows Howie a kiss, he laughs, and they part ways. Sigh.....

Pansy babbles for days about her and HOWIE. Mr. Pansy mocks Her! He does not believe Pansy! Well, honey, Pansy gots news for you: Next time she sees Howie, she's gone. Several years after this event out comes Howie's movie "Firestorm". OMG, OMG, OMG!! Mr. Pansy smirkingly takes Pansy to see Her Howie. Because although he vigorously mocks The Pansy, he also equally vigorously feeds The Pansy Monster. He takes Pansy to see Her Howie during an old people's afternoon matinee screening. He has always been one cheap ass. No matter. Pansy drools and watches this fascinating, probably a documentary, film which reveals Howie's great acting abilities. He makes Farrah Fawcett look like at least a Double(D) Oscar winning actress. Howie couldn't act his way out of....ummm...some kind of container like thing that's made out of, like, maybe paper and is moist or damp or soggy, like with maybe water. Howie has 4 (count 'em...FOUR) expressions:

1. Steely gaze (to gaze steely)
2. Happy smiling puppy face (to look like a happy smiling puppy)
3. Frowny face (to look frowny or perhaps constipated)
4. I forget

At any rate, this movie goes on forever and is making Pansy groan louder and louder. And not in a Deep Throat or Behind The Green Door good kinda groaning way. She had many, many "not quite right in the haid" scenes to comment about. At the very end of the show somehow Howie has been under water for a really long time. But he doesn't die. Dammit. There should have been death rolls with a crocodile involved. Pansy certainly remembers yelling/rooting for a crocodile. No crocodiles were in the movie, which she pointed out was a great disappointment to her. Pansy doesn't know or care what the other 8 people in the theater thought about whether the movie was missing a crocodile. Pansy DOES care that at the wonderful, climactic ending (climactic because it was, thankyougodfinally, the end!) of the movie Howie gives his Very Best Smiling Puppy Face to which Pansy screamed (yes, screamed) "That's Exactly how Howie looked at ME that day on the motorcycle!" She could not help herself. It really was the same face. Mr. Pansy scowled on the way home.

My 7am Angels

2008-02-27T13:48:00.000-08:00

So there are two angels that have been brought to Planet Earth courtesy of Pansy's Prolific Loins. They are more perfect than anyone's kids...especially your ugly bastards. And their Perfection is Official, too!

At precisely 6:00pm PST on February 26, 2008, Mr. Pansy returned home once again. Because he is very well trained plus he's not equipped to survive in the Big, Bad World. Because Pansy strips him at least twice daily and removes his survival juices. Anyway, when he stepped into the house, Mr. Pansy declared "I have some really kick-ass children. They are self sufficient and not afraid of anything in the world." Then, upon Respectfully Requesting and being Graciously Granted access to the Pansy Bunker Mr. Pansy declared: "Oh Holy Mother Of God This IS The Best Bunker Ever!" Duh! And it's true. All of those statements.

Anyway, either of these Angels can, and would gladly, kick your ass 8 days a week. And don't you doubt it because the last conscious thought you would have would be this: "Did I actually say that Out Loud to her?"

ONE daughter is destined to be The President For Life Of These United States Of America By God.
OTHER daughter is destined to be The Bodyguard Of The President For Life Of These United States Of America By God.

ONE strives to be squatting at the riverside in the mud eating snails.
OTHER strives to be lounging on the yacht savoring escargot.

ONE is vegan.
OTHER is omnivorous.

ONE is so soft hearted that as an 18 month old she cried over torn automobile upholstery and asked "is something wrong with it?"
OTHER will tear your soft heart out, eat it raw and ask "is something wrong with it?"

ONE can outmanuever you mentally and be long gone before you know what hit you, leaving you in shock.
OTHER can outmanuever you physically and be long gone before you know what hit you, leaving you in shock from blood loss.

ONE studies geography hard, gets Straight As, learning how to precisely document every little speck of her arguments.
OTHER studies medicine hard, gets Straight As, learning how to precisely dock every little speck of her victims.

ONE is a "morning" person.
OTHER is not a "morning" person.
Can you pick which is ONE and which is the OTHER in this photo taken at 7am?

ONE won every spelling bee, speech contest, essay contest in her schools from 3rd grade to...well, she hasn't stopped winning yet.

OTHER won every horse show she entered, volunteered for Afghanistan as a Combat Medic, and personally hauled a 200 pound unconscious man by his own belt around his wrists into a hotel, up 3 flights of stairs while she was wearing a miniskirt and high heels. No, she didn't harm him. He was an Army buddy who drank that drink she warned him not to take from those strangers at the bar. The drink was spiked. He passed out. She administered IV fluids to flush him out enough to pass next morning's muster. Your Army at work. But now she is a civilian.

ONE and OTHER are hot. Too hot for all human male mortals. They are each currently unmarried. ONE and OTHER will put many husbands in early graves. The corpses will have very big smiles on their faces.

pick ONE or the OTHER. But whichever you pick know this: Pansy is the Mother In Law.

The Tour Leader's Wailing Wall

2008-02-27T08:50:00.000-08:00

It all began SO VERY long, long ago.......

Pansy was at her first ever bicycle club meeting. This particular bicycle club fell victim to being the Club of Choice for the Pansys simply because the club's meeting night was the ONLY night of the week/month that was still open and available in the Pansys' lives for consorting. The OTHER bicycle club is forever and ever grateful beyond measure at how closely their fates could have turned in another direction. Over time, however, the OTHER club's fate did indeed go down a bad road since the Pansys eventually joined both clubs. Pansy is still a bit miffed/mystified (not sure which) that at the end of the OTHER club's recent holiday party several members yelled "Mr. Pansy we are SO glad that YOU are married to her." Like he threw himself on some sword of death that they don't have to endure. In their dreams.

So, at this very first meeting there is some guy who is a dentist in the back of the room. Pansy is, as always anywhere, up Front and Center. Discussion is about a woman who had been on the recent club tour. Pansy recalls only this part of the discussion:

Club Member: She had a tough time on the tour possibly because she is a new rider. And she is in her 50s.
Some Guy Dentist: (very scoffing tone of voice) Oh, she is MUCH older than that!
Pansy: Now how would you know that? What did you do? Count her teeth or something?
Room of People: raucous laughter directed at Some Guy Dentist (Pansy, not knowing at that time what kind of landmine she had just stepped on, does recall thinking the laughter had a kind of nervous edge to it.)
Some Guy Dentist: Makes a "confused, kinda hurt feelings puppy face". An expression Pansy has been delighted to make happen on his face many times since and will continue to do so for the rest of her natural born life. As Some Guy Dentist has aged, his face more resembles a "hang dog look." hahahahhahahaha! Pansy learned during the meeting that Some Guy Dentist is also Tour Leader. And he called the woman "old" to rationalize away any complaints that the tour route had been perhaps less than ideal. We will explore those tour routes in other stories.

Thus, began the long, strange, trippy relationship between Tour Leader and Pansy. Tour Leader Wife and Mr. Pansy just stand back, shake their heads and say "Kids! What are we going to do with those two?"

Pansy is the first to admit she is a high energy person. But she is also a total slacker when given half the opportunity to slack. She is "bossy" but in a really fake way. She does not think she is always right, even though she is. She is very flexible, to the point of being a contortionist. She can really go with the flow. And she has the very, very uncanny ability/skill to pick up on other people's vulnerable and tender psychological "weaknesses". Not that those people are weak, but Pansy does have her own kind of Vulcan Power Grip that fortunately she chooses to use Only For Good...FUN.

Tour Leader is your classic Recovering Horrifically Guilt Riddled Catholic Hyperactive Kid, grown up. He USED TO be very convinced he had somehow been secretly elected Boss Of The World For Life. Until he met Pansy. His one Saving Grace is that he instinctively and possibly immediately realized Pansy was fun and that she would not harm him. Too much. This was like a Revelation Of The Greatest Order to all who knew Tour Leader BP (Before Pansy). Even Tour Leader's Wife said "you changed his personality."

Tour Leader is a disaster combo of guilt and industry. So he's always fidgeting around: building decks around his house, painting the house, remodeling the house, doing all the mechanical repairs on all his cars and appliances, making a "mountain stream" in his backyard, playing farmer with a barn, goats and sheep, just busy busy busy. And then doing it All Over Again! Plus riding his bicycle to Ireland, New Zealand, Germany...many, many places. Yes, I said riding his bicycle TO those places. He might as well have. He is at his Especially Busiest Best in making the rest of us fools look like slugs. It would be very easy to just hate him. Except we are all too exhausted from watching him and his busybee-ness. It's like "calm down already"! Don't they have Ritalin available in adult dosages?

There is one aspect to Tour Leader that you most definitely Do NOT want to get Pansy started on: that would be Tour Leader's gawdawful fucking MURAL on Tour Leader's front hall! Oops! Too Fucking Late! hahahahhahahahaha!

Pansy cannot adequately describe this MURAL. It started out as a plain, but happy and even functional, white wall. Before the Pansys met Tour Leader, his wife (the MURAL is all HER goddamned fault by the fucking way) said one day "I sure would like it if that hallway weren't so plain. Maybe some wallpaper with a pattern, like trees or something naturelike." That's like throwing a match into a can of gasoline aka setting Tour Leader's "imagination" on fire and this particular suggestion unleased a hitherto unknown trait of Tour Leader: that of INNER ARTISTE. Oh fucking christ save us all. No one can seem to get through to Tour Leader that his Inner Artiste has been extensively examined and medically declared to be: STILLBORN. DEAD. DOES NOT EXIST. NEVER FUCKING EXISTED. WILL NEVER EXIST GODDAMMIT.

Tour Leader freehand paints abstract, leafless, branchless, ugly brown "trees" all over the poor innocent hall walls. And that's how the hallway existed....in an ugly odd brown stick hell....for lord knows how many years before Pansy ever first saw it. It couldn't have been TOO many years since we all know that Tour Leader does things All Over Again on a very frequent basis. Then the Pansys show up and Pansy mocks the MURAL. Tour Leader gets that stupid whipped puppy ass look on his face. Pansy is then informed by Tour Leader Wife that said MURAL is Tour Leader's pride and joy. Pansy says "He must have a very low threshhold for pride and joy." You would have thought Pansy had insulted Tour Leader's penis size or said his children were ugly--which they so fucking were Ugly Mutts until THANKYOUGOD Tour Leader Wife's genes kicked in and saved their homely asses. Which fact Pansy repeatedly explains over and over to the dense and stupid Tour Leader. So he won't forget it.

Evidently the Pansy MURAL mocking severely wounded Tour Leader (we were early in our relationship) and as a direct result the MURAL FROM HELL began to emerge. Yes, now it is all Pansy's goddamned fucking fault and Tour Leader's wife is very grateful to have had the Mural Burden lifted from her shoulders. If those walls could only talk. Well, they wouldn't talk they would just start screaming and never, never, never be able to stop.

The MURAL FROM HELL aka Wailing Wall began as a whitewashing of the ugly odd brown stick hell mural. Then the entire wall is painted with some fugly green in a shade not to be found in nature, this galaxy or this universe. I mean it was GREEN with a capital FUCK. Worse, it wasn't "left over" or even "accident" paint that was on sale. Noooo! Tour Leader proudly declares it to be the Best Bright Green Paint Money Can Buy. Who would have ever guessed that all of us now bleeding-eyed mural viewing victims would rue the loss of the ugly odd brown stick hell mural? Oh, rue we did and still do.

Originally Tour Leader was planning to "create" just a grassy meadow. But that was quickly deemed too small a concept for his Giant Imagination. Every freaking week (why we kept going over there to torture ourselves we will never know but it's too fucking late now so we can't quit) there would be a new gawdawful "element" added to the Nightmare on Hope Doesn't Live Here Anymore Street or whatever the fuck is the name of the street Tour Leader's Wife and The Mad Artist live on.

First came the "sky" (Best Bright Blue Paint Money Can Buy!). Then the "mountain range". It was almost okay. It was a very monotone dark gray (it, too, was the Best Money Could Buy but even Tour Leader can't fuck up GRAY too much) in an undulating line across the wall in sort of, kind of, maybe, almost, just about the right place for a mountain range to be, in its own horrid lack of perspective way. After all, technically speaking, it was between the BLUE and the GREEN "parts". But only if it is possible for Really Green grass, Really Gray mountains and Really Blue sky to occupy EXACTLY the precise same amount of 1/3, 1/3, 1/3 of all occupiable space available.

Now is as good a time as any for Pansy to mention that Tour Leader's Inner Artiste is evidently Very Rigid in all ways possible. And regimented. And very, very obsessed with Exactly The Sameness. For Tour Leader's Wife's sake ONLY, Pansy actually dearly hopes another part of Tour Leader is reliably rigid.

Then the "snow capped mountain peaks" were created with a Precisely Rectangular (Pansy suspects a leftover chalkboard eraser from Tour Leader's Catholic schooling) dipped into SNOW GLARING WHITE ENOUGH TO BLIND YOU paint (The Best Money Can Buy!) and stamped across the wall like marching rigid soldiers in caskets. It was so bad even Mr. Pansy couldn't hold back his laughter. However, the laughter elicited a particularly fetching rendition of that stupid whipped puppy ass look on Tour Leader's face that Pansy so loves, so THAT particular Mural Viewing was worth it. And Tour Leader's Wife finally felt not so terribly alone anymore in her aghastness over the Wall.

Next came the "forest" of Extremely Natural Trees that curiously resembled a Christmas Tree Cookie Cutter dipped in yet another shade of GREEN FROM RADIOACTIVE OUTER SPACE. But Tour Leader had learned his lesson from the snow capped peaks and cleverly used Different Sizes of cookie cutters so the trees would have "perspective". Uh, no.

Never one to be deterred by naysaying nabobs of negativity, Tour Leader assessed the Wall and determined it needed a house.....like......the cute Chateaus he saw in Germany on a bicycle tour (even though chateaus are Fucking French, dodohead) and then.....EUREKA! VOILA!! HIS INNER ARTISTE'S SPECIAL PURPOSE WAS BIRTHED! The Wall would incorporate all "special memories" from all his bike tours from everywhere. Now he was cooking with gas! The rest of us fought viciously over who got to put their head in the gas oven first. In our frenzy we failed to realize that putting Tour Leader's head in the oven first would solve all our problems, bring about world peace and etc.

Tour Leader feverishly painted for days, weeks, months on end. During this time Portugese Washer Woman developed a toothache. But she's afraid of dentists. I called Tour Leader's dental office, told them what was up, transferred the call to Portugese. She fell for the ruse and now had a dental appointment. I begged her, BEGGED HER, to chit chat with Tour Leader and insert this phrase "So. How's your mural doing?" She was all set to do so but when push came to shove she realized he had her life in his hands. And sharp tools in her vulnerable mouth. She said nothing. I will never ever really trust that woman again. However, upon telling Tour Leader later on what I had tried to make Portugese say to him the look on his face was almost as good as if Portugese had followed through. Because it was then that he realized the Wall Mockery was very likely nationwide. But he was wrong. It had long gone international. Starting with weekly discussions of the Mural during my office's Monday Meetings. Boy did my attorney's wife LIVE for those Mural Updates.

The wall developed hives (strange botanical things that don't exist in nature); cess pools (low lying "foothills" that don't exist in nature); a floating and undoubtedly haunted "chateau" which floating Tour Leader tried (and always failed right to this moment in time) to anchor with shadowing, then bushes, then a fence. There was a fissure that scarred the landscape from top to bottom. It is the Very Best Rendition of an Ass Fissure Pansy has ever seen even though she has never seen an Ass Fissure--which she would gladly volunteer to view Many Ass Fissures if doing so would destroy this Mural. Tour Leader claims it is a "country road". At least now Pansy knows what the road that leads to Hell looks like.

Then, one day, the Low Lying Rock Wall began to take form. It was actually in the "right place". It looked "good" even with its just a bit too precise rocks that curiously resembled identical books standing on end. But the rock colors were, like, real-ish. In that they varied in shading. A first for Tour Leader...to vary the shading. Pansy has seen real live rocks in most of those colors. Could it be that Tour Leader is improving? No. We were all just so battle weary we couldn't go on. No mas, we cried. No mas. Is it possible Tour Leader has won the Mural Battle To The Death? We will never know. What we do know is that he was probably getting tired, too. Naw. Because the next thing we all knew he was Out Back fixing the "mountain stream" AGAIN and looking at extending a flagstone path down to the barn. But first, this deck has Got To Go!

Pansy: The New Dr. Ruth

2008-02-26T12:28:00.001-08:00

Pansy is constantly misunderstood or maybe it's misinterpreted. I mean, all she is doing is Saying Stuff and others get all queasy or funky looking!! For example, one of her favorite jokes:

Dentist has never married, lives with mother all his life. Finally mom dies and he decides to try dating. Goes out with several women but the relationships never go anywhere. Finally he is dating a woman who really does like him. She questions him one night:

She: Why do you never go beyond kissing me?
He: Because my mother told me about you women and what you have down there.
She: What are you talking about?
He: You know. You all have pointed teeth down there.
She: That is a lie and I'll prove it. (Pulls her dress up, panties off. That's it, guys. Will you please continue reading this post. Sheesh.)
He: Well, of course, YOU don't have any teeth. Not with that nasty case of gingivitis you have going on.

I told this joke to Tour Leader dentist and his wife, forgetting they are PRUDES. They actually blanched. I thought it would warm them up. Instead it killed the holy fucking hell out of any chances for group sex between us THAT night. Dammit.

It is true that sex is one seriously hard (pun!) driving life force. Pansy got her "diagnosis" in 2003 and was thrown right into some seriously nasty chemo. One night as Pansy was spending the evening doing her new usual (laying on the floor in the family room vomiting) she did dip into a bit of moroseness: "Is this it? I lay down and vomit until I am dead? No more work? No more play? No more sex?" Even she was surprised that she was missing sex in the middle of vomiting. Then Pansy got over herself and went and had sex with Mr. Pansy until HE puked. hahahahahha. Now, HOW can that be TMI? You want TMI? Oh, I gots some TMI racheer fer ya!

Pansy caught a really lucky break on the cancer/chemo thing. Which is a good thing because Mr. Pansy would have been one sad empty shell-man if I had left him behind back then. Now I can fill him up all I want to with lots and lots of Pansy. Not that I didn't before, but perspectives change when your very own personal Sweet Chariot swings way down low for YOU. I can still feel its tire tracks all across my back.

You only have one life. Live for today while knowing that you are likely going to have to, dammit, answer for it tomorrow. hahahhahaha. Seriously, now is the time to get it on. For me and Mr. Pansy we are a strange kind of couple because as "Love Children of the 60's" we felt very strongly about having an Open Marriage. That means: you want out of this marriage? I'll give you a hundred yard head start and then I'm opening fire on your sorry freaking MARRIED TO ME FOREVER ass." We are vehemently monogamous. Which means we got to have our fun.....WITH EACH OTHER. Dammit. Now I am the first to admit we undoubtedly have a very vanilla sex life but it's fun for us and that's all that counts. I am just sorry some kinds of fun took so long to warm up to. Oh, I was all warmed up to them before cancer. But still, what was I thinking? Holding out on the poor boy like that.

No, I don't have any actual wisdom to dispense. Just letting you know you shouldn't miss out on what you can already have. You would be surprised at how the simplest of things rocks it for your spouse. I am only speaking from a female point of view (despite the undisputed fact I am the Most Manned Up Woman On Earth) but good god when just "personal shaving" elicits a raging erection like you can't believe...every time? I would laugh but that would be impolite. Oh, wait. I like being impolite. hahahahahhahahahaha! So now we are working on frequency/location issues. I say we have sex all the time. Like no less than 10 times a week. He says we hardly ever have sex. Like as infrequently as only 10 times a week. But we both love the hell out of Hallway Sex. How we do it is when we pass each other in the hallway we shout "Fuck You" at the top of our lungs. Good thing the children have moved out so we don't have to muffle ourselves anymore.

Work Hard. Play Hard. Stay Hard.

Pansy's Car Was Dirty....

2008-02-26T11:02:00.000-08:00

Pansy recently came upon a photo of Mr. Pansy because he is soooo cute. He is one seriously whippet thin, smooth shaven, Pansy's favorite kind of "not tall", greaseball car monkey, housepet man creature. One Yummy Yummy SnackBoy. Mr. Pansy, thankfully, just misses being perceived as a metrosexual. Pansy just learned the hallmark signature of a metrosexual is they wear good smelling cologne. Mr. Pansy doesn't wear cologne, just mouthwash and the lingering smell of cheapo Walgreens shaving cream from shaving me. Right now I am looking at the photo. MY God. [long, vigorous silence.......] Well! Now I have to go and wash my "Bad Lil Pansy Parts" until I come clean. Again. Some afternoons ARE delightful.

What? Who's crying "AUGH!!!! TMI!!!!! TWICE!!!!!!! AUGH!!!!!!!" I ain't even begun.

COURT TRANSCRIPT:
It has been duly noted by The Court that consideration has been given, to wit: indeed, there is no evidence proferred at any time by any party, consenting or coerced, that at any time did alleged "victim" cry, or type, "STOP with the TMI already!" Therefore, The Court, in Its Infinite Wisdom, has concluded Pansy may continue with her rampaging spewing of TMI, whether said TMI is true, fictional, or otherwise. Entered Into Evidence This Date of 20, February, 2008. ~Court smiles~

THERE WAS A BRIEF, USELESS APPEAL:

FUCK! Stupid loopholes...
signed,
The Fuckee, who respectfully requests* that all future submissions of a TMI nature, as defined by The Fuckee, be expunged from the record BEFORE they've been recorded.

*using proper form: STOP with the TMI already!

THE COURT HANDED DOWN THIS FINAL RULING:
The Time Travel Stipulation to effect said requested "premature expungulation" is----nay, WILL!---cost Extry. Roolz iz Roolz and any further "respectfully-ness" will be dealt with Extremely Harshly.
Court.....OUT!

Premature Expungulation of TMI: STOP....READING....NOW!!!

In a satiated mood from the photo viewing, Pansy thought it was now safe for her to take her dirty car to her local car wash establishment. But it was a gray dampish day. Her car wash was closed! There was road construction going on so Pansy had to take a detour. She got lost. And happened upon AN OPEN CAR WASH! All right! It looked a little rundown and there were only two workers on duty. But, oh well.

Just as her car was entering the carwash, the track that pulls the cars through the wash zone BROKE! Pansy got out of her car, distraught. The water hoses then suddenly started spraying cold, soapy water even though the track was still stalled. Pansy got soaked! She gave a tiny shriek when the cold, soapy water sprayed her. The carwash workers saw her dilemma and the 2 of them rushed in to help. One grabbed her from behind and he somewhat brusquely grasped her wrists and pulled her arms down to her sides. He said "I am Raul. Be calm." The other carwash worker was in front of Pansy and somewhat brusquely rubbing her down with towels. He said "I am Jack. Be calm." Pansy, still breathless from the cold, soapy water spray, could only haltingly whisper "Oh, Jack, Raul. Thank you."

Jack did what he could with the towels but they were soon soaked and useless. Pansy was shivering now. Jack knew he had to get her heated up. He told her he was a trained rescue person and he was going to have to warm her skin-to-skin. Jack pulled down on her sheer, sodden, surplice blouse when suddenly the delicate fabric tore and revealed her ample trembling bosoms, encased in a black stretch lace, front closure, strapless brassiere. Jack peeled the lace down from the chilled boulders revealing their summit peaks. Jack gently thumbed the peaks to even higher elevations.

Meanwhile, Raul was warming her neck with his hot, steamy Latin breath and whispering "let it all go." She said "ooohhhhh. yesssssss." Raul, taking his cue from Jack, had removed his coveralls and was slowly, slloooowwlllyyy inching her skirt up her smooth thighs...slowly. He asked "does the downstairs match the upstairs?" She, shamed because she had forgotten to replace her panties after her earlier enjoyment while looking at that photo of her yummy yummy snackboy, said "oh, please. NO." Raul became more insistent and with one last tug revealed her bareness. He caressed her hipline and said "tell Raul about the meesing pantees." "They, they are black stretch lace, with boy cut leg openings and a low rise waist." "More. Tell me more about your meesing pantees. How low do they rise?" as he provocatively traced along the tender flesh below her pretty innie-belly button. "Ooohhh, lower than that, Raul." she panted. He traced lower, lower, lower until he reached her nugget.

Meanwhile, Jack was pressing warmly against her and massaging her ever so delicately with his man-fur. He asked "Are you dirty?" She growled "Yes. Dirty all the way down." And he scrubbed her clean as a whistle.

Meanwhile, Raul, firmly pressing HIS man-fur warmly against her back loading zone, said "Are you dirty like that girl in town?" She moaned "I AM that dirty girl in town." And he scrubbed her clean as a whistle.

Pansy said "After all these twisted roads that we've been down together I think it's time to say goodbye. And believe me if you think I'm gonna get down and crawl you don't know me, you don't know me at all.

Jack and Raul both said "And when you need us and you think we're gonna be there when you call? Well, you don't know us, you don't know us at all."

Sincere apologies to Don Henley. I have no explanation whatsoever for how this story came to be other than Bad rock and roll influences. Just like the old folks warned us about.

Why Doesn't He Take Pansy To Dinner Anymore?

2008-02-18T14:42:00.001-08:00

So, I have this "son"....a baby attorney who sublet office space in a law firm Pansy worked for. This worked out just great since Baby Attorney (BA) was not, technically, a co-worker. Leaving Pansy quite free to sexually harass and horrify him as often as Pansy felt the need AND no worries over lawsuits being filed against her rantings. Ahhh!!! And he could easily be made to blush. Over time he got "used" to me and my ways. But he never could see them coming. What a great target.

Once we all received new chairs at work. Very ergonomic. The Portugese Washer Woman kept referring to them as "origamic." I finally had to straighten her out on that one, that the actual word she wanted was "orgasmic." We hear BA sputtering in his office. We wimmin are having difficulties in adjusting the chairs, so BA helps out by getting all manly and adjusting the chairs. I ask him later about how he did that.

Pansy: BA! What did you do to get those chairs the right height?
BA: I twisted the adjustment knob underneath.
Pansy: Oh. Like this? (makes a circular, twisting motion with her hand)
BA: Yes.
Pansy: Well, now I understand why we wimmin couldn't get it figured out. We are way more used to doing it like this. (makes a jacking off motion with her hand)
BA: Gaaaaahhhhh!!! (closes/slams his office door)

For a time I worked in the fine jewelry section of a department store (yes I did, too!) and had the usual employee discount on anything in the entire store. BA needed a new suitcase so we went to the store on our lunch hour to select one. I told him I would buy it, that the discount would show up later on my monthly statement and that he could just reimburse me then.

We are in the store buying the chosen suitcase and the cashier is narrating as she goes "10% sale price, extra 5% for buying today (extra discount day) and the total is...." This is how it should be. I would get the additional 40% on my statement. But BA doesn't remember that detail and tried several times to tell the cashier "what about the employee discount?" I practically have to stomp his foot to get him to shut up already because, of course, it is not kosher to be using my employee discount for other people. Like that's never been done before! It is such a charade, but we must play it.

FINALLY, stupidass BA gets a clue that I want him to shut up. But now he's thinking he can get in a little payback. He says (loudly) "Thanks, Mom." To the cashier he says "My mom is buying this for my birthday. Today is my birthday. Thanks again, Mom!" And, truly, coming off as so stupid and lame that the sales clerk looks long and hard at me and then him and then me again. I know she was thinking "That poor woman. She's going to be burdened with that Special Needs boy forever." OR! She could have been thinking "That woman is some kind of a major slutty whore. How could she be old enough to be that man's mother? I wouldn't be surprised if they are fucking each other. They are both disgusting." We escape the store and he laughs at his cleverness. Forgetting, again, that Pansy plays Serious HardBall when it comes to Paybacks.

Soon thereafter, we are all out together for our somewhat bimonthly evening of eating/drinking/catching up with each other nonsense. Attendees are the usual suspects: Me, Portugese Washer Woman, Sexy Mexican and BA. A couple years earlier us 3 women had started wearing matching clothing as pretend mother-daughter getups. For this particular dinner I asked the girls to wear our newest blouse acquisition: it was a nice, lacy blouse that snapped up the entire front. Just to look dorky and make it easy for BA to find the 3 of us in the restaurant. And to set up my payback.

I wait until we have been eating and drinking for some time. And the restaurant is full. I then stand up and tap my glass. The other diners respectfully pay attention to our charming quartet of people. I loudly (you know how loud I can be) go into a sweet little speech:

"I just want you all to know that my 3 children here have taken me out to dinner tonight for my birthday. (polite applause) And, my son here.....stand up, honey (he complies...what an idiot). My son gave me a lovely t-shirt for my birthday. The problem is, I really don't know where I can properly wear this t-shirt. Perhaps some of you folks might help me out."

I then rip open my lacy, "cover" blouse (for which those snaps were so wonderfully convenient to do this maneuver) to reveal a t-shirt that BA had, in actual fact, given me for my birthday a couple months earlier. It is a black t-shirt with a white chalk outline design of two dogs humping each other and the words "Copulation. The Mating Season."

I continue to loudly say: "For those of you who cannot see the t-shirt clearly, it says on it "Copulation. The Mating Season." Now, what kind of a son would give that kind of a t-shirt to his mother? Especially since I am a widow now."

BA went redder than Pansy's hair. The restaurant crowd, smart people that they are, realized it was all a joke at BA's expense and laughed mightily. I wonder if BA is still enjoying his suitcase.

Pansy's Stupid Elderly Elder Brother!

2008-02-18T10:51:00.001-08:00

Yeh, Pansy's stuck in the middle with her siblings. Her Stupid Elderly Elder Brother (SEEB) is actually stupider than her Stupid Elderly Baby Sister (SEBS)! Because he invited Pansy to his wedding. In Noo Yawk City.

SEEB married a wonderful lady who so totally does not deserve that the rest of her life is going to be spent being "related" to any of us freaks. She started learning that hard lesson 2 days before her wedding. I shall call her Long Suffering Woman (LSW).

The entire family flies east to SEEB's house for the wedding. That first night LSW brought home a "treat" (and their personal favorite) for dinner: loads of Popeye's Extra Hot Extra Spicy Extra Crunchy Chicken. We all begin chowing down and immediately spewing these compliments: "It's burning my gums!" "My lips are cracked and bleeding from the crunchy crust!" "I need water! My tongue is on fire!" "This stuff is horrible!" Etc. After many, long minutes of this incessant bitching and whining, SEEB sheepishly looks over to LSW and says "They are saying how much they love it, in their own way." Oopsies! Even I "got it" that we were being very rude for having Just Met LSW For The First Time Ever Two Hours Earlier! Oh, poor, poor LSW.

Next day we are getting to know each other a bit more. I am nursing a 3month old baby and brought an outfit for the wedding that for some unknown reason I had not tried on to see if I could even get into it. I gain 70 pounds whenever I am pregnant and this outfit is tight even when I am at my skinniest. Naturally, it does not fit. So we make do with a chain of paperclips and safety pins to "enlarge" the waistline. And every time I hear the baby make a noise my boobs sprout like the Trevi Fountain in Rome....torrents of milk soaking whatever I am wearing, down to my ankles. OH, and milk spewed "outward" too, all over LSW's hair. Nice. Now we have to get my silk outfit dry cleaned before the next morning's wedding. And buy some duct tape to strap down my boobs so they can't spew except when there is a baby attached to them. LSW decides she should stay "away" from me tomorrow once her hair is done and she is in her wedding clothes.

Then, to top the day off, my SEEB develops alarming symptoms: losing peripheral vision; dull, leaden sensation in chest and left arm; dizzy; nauseous; "hearing" buzzing sounds.......enough that Dad drives him to the hospital ER. Hours later in the late evening, with no phone calls or updates, they both come straggling back. During the extensive and Very Expensive tests and procedures, the doctors ask SEEB if he is under unusual stress of late. SEEB's answer? "I don't know. Umm, let's see: I am getting married tomorrow; my entire family has been living with us for the past 2 days; they have never met my fiancee before this; I haven't eaten since last night; and, oh yeh! My fiancee and I each got fired from our jobs in the past 24 hours." FUCKING DUH!!! The eventual diagnosis was: SEEB was having a "silent migraine headache." Gee, some $10,000+ in tests for a headache. LSW is the one who should have been having the headache but SEEB is the one running up the medical bills! I tell ya, women are the stronger of the species.

After the wedding, Pansy finds herself surrounded by friends of the wedding couple. She thinks "well, maybe they would like to hear SEEB stories." Oh, yessss.

Story #1: SEEB is a know-it-all high schoolian and had a running argument with Dad for an entire summer over this: Terminal Velocity. Dad explained it meant the fastest speed a falling parachutist could possibly reach...after which, no more acceleration was going to occur. SEEB vehemently denounced this idiocy by smugly showing up The Old Man with this logic: Terminal Velocity is the speed at which the falling parachutist will DIE. And that is why they pull the parachute ripcord. To avoid falling at a faster speed, which speed will keep increasing until they DIE. The more daring parachutists will push the envelope but that was only because they had fancier stopwatches to help them know exactly when they had to pull their ripcord. No amount of discussion could dissaude SEEB from this foolproof, castiron, extremely logical conclusion. And he did have the cred to back him up: he was President of The High School Slide Rule Club.

Story #2: SEEB was All About cowboys and indians and their horses as a young boy. One day a neighbor said: Good morning, Skippy. So! Are you Roy Rogers or Gene Autry today?
Outraged Skippy: I am Roy Rogers! Cain't you see Twiggah?
Neighbor: laughs heartily at "Skippy" sending him into a lifelong identity crisis highlighted with numerous massively debilitating depressive episodes.

Story #2 naturally led right into Story #3: The entire crowd of friends had NO IDEA that SEEB's childhood nickname was: Skippy! OMG! This just killed the friends, who had many a "Buffy" "Chip" "Scooter", etc. amongst them. And who had been roundly teased and mocked by SEEB for years over their Yuppie nicknames. And now they learn he is "Skippy"!? And, why "Skippy", pray tell? Because as a child he had been SO happy and cheerful and sweet that he literally skipped everywhere he went! hahahahhahahahahahaha! SEEB is, how shall I phrase it, NOT so "Skippy" as an adult. Much more bookwormish, serious and possibly "dour". Except that he really is funny. He is a Pansy Relative, you know.

Just after Pansy finished telling the "Skippy" story, SEEB joined our laughing little group, wanting to know how we were all getting along. When the crowd roared "Oh, look! Skippy has decided to join us!" he actually went beet red. SEEB broke up the little story-time gathering but Pansy managed to sneak around during the rest of the party and tell snippets of other stories. It was a great wedding reception party.

SEEB invented his own college major: Genetic Anthropology. Which wowed Yale so much it lured him away from California and all but gave him a Ph.D. So you would be led to conclude that he is smart. Maybe. Maybe not. Some years later we were all sitting around reminiscing over our various weddings. SEEB went on and on about the mountainside, the string quartet, the guests in their "hippie" clothing, etc. All fine and good and true......but that was the setting for his FIRST marriage. In California. NOT his marriage to LSW. In Noo Yawk City. LSW gave him the most scary Stink Eye Pansy has ever witnessed and a 3rd degree burning, scathing comment. Ahh, LSW has adapted very well to life with SEEB and his people.

LSW has chosen to keep SEEB, bore their one and only child, a son, who has been a good son. For son's high school graduation, SEEB and LSW threw a party not too far off the level of Coronation Of The Queen Of England. The third floor of a hoity toity restaurant completely swarming with SEEB people. Drinking SEEB people. Somewhere during the festivities it became mandatory to randomly shout "To SEEB Son" and everyone would slam down big glugs of wine. In a very short amount of time, poor SEEB Son, being merely a high school graduate, was the only sober one in the room. And don't you just hate it when you have to be the sober one in a room full of drunks? Finally, SEEB stands up to toast his Wonderful Son and makes it about this far: "My son is such a good son...." and fell into such a blubbering heap that half the rest of us burst into tears as well. Oh, great! Now it's a room full of not only drunks, but drunk SEEB people who are now also Crying! We screeched and yowled for a lot of hours at that restaurant. It was fun. The Queen missed a really good party. I already fear for son's college graduation and wedding events. Those are going to cost so much they will require both parents to take on paper routes. And that will barely cover the cost of hankies for the hordes of drunken, crying SEEB people.

SEEB is a good elderly brother. He taught Pansy all about horsemanship; bicycle repairs/maintenance; gave her rides to high school dances; never acted like he could not stand to be around her. The only negative part is that we are creepily identical twins. When we are skinny we just look like ME (that way we are prettier). When we are chubby we are totally Tweedle-Dee/Tweedle-Dum. I pick "Dee". He already is "Dum(b)".

Yeh,yeh, yeh. Hey! I warned you in my first blog post: this blog is only about Pansy Stories. Even the not profane ones.

SEEB on his pony, whom he named Prince before he even saw the pony. SEEB was so happy and cheerful and sweet and trusting and, well, "skippyish".....UNTIL he got a load of the promised "white stallion" parents gave him. SEEB will never trust anyone ever again.

The Donner Party Got Nothing On This Oregon Tour

2008-02-18T10:02:00.000-08:00

Darling Pansy had a very rough week in Oregon this year. Thank goodness she is Man Enough for anything. And vengeful. Thus, this tattle-tale story:

One of the bicycle clubs we belong to puts on a members only, low-cost, fully supported/sagged tour each year. This year we went from Gold Hill, Oregon down to the coast along the Rogue River to Gold Beach, Oregon; to Crescent City, CA, and then diagonally back up to Gold Hill. The Pansys went along as (1) food truck driver/Mr. Pansy; and (2) sag wagon driver/Pansy herself. Because the original drivers bailed at the last minute or came to their senses(!) and the Pansys are reknowned as "go to" people. Really.

2/3 of the group had no idea who we are or, at most, just that we were club members. 1/3 of the group knows us very well. We have been club members since 1986. The 2/3 group, to the Pansys' great astonishment, treated us (The Reknowned Go To-ers!) in quite a demeaning manner. All week. It was strange. Could someone explain to me what makes cyclists on a supercheap tour get all full of thinking they have some sense of entitlement? Naturally, this only brought out the Very Most Pansyish Behavior from The Pansy.

TRAVEL TO OREGON DAY: I work very hard to memorize all names to faces. And keep at it until by bedtime I had them all in place. Because I want to be a very good sag driver and really make them feel watched over and cared for. There is one particularly bristly guy who was especially aggressive and unfriendly. I make a snarky remark along the lines of "Oh. I see I shall have to make you my bitch this week." He responds with a simply scathing "No. You won't." My peeps (the 1/3 group) who are nearby and overhear this exchange all burst into laughter and say "Bristly Guy, our money is on Pansy. You are going down."

DAY ONE: I get dressed in "easily identifiable at 500 yards" clothing so that the riders will know it's ME and proceed to do my first ever stint as a sag driver. I rescued 3 people that day.

FIRST RESCUE: A guy had a flat tire so I skid around in a dirt/rock throwing u-turn, park near him, leap out with water bottles and snacks and a floor bike pump and a first aid kit. After a few moments of conversation, he makes me realize he is not with our group while begging me to stop bandaging his hands behind his back. He says "Maybe I know some of your group. What are their names?" I mention about 4 and then say "Wait. Where are you from?" He says "Oregon." I laugh and say we are all from California so he couldn't possibly know anyone. Then it dawns on me what his scheme is and I screech at him "What kind of creep are you? Now I suppose you are going to steal the identities of the people whose names I just gave you!" We laugh, I fuel him up, he's on his way. Shaken but okay.

SECOND/THIRD RESCUES: An older couple (probably in their 50's!) rides by the turnoff where I have parked to make sure no one misses the turnoff. I peel out, race to cut them off, leap out and yell "You missed the turn off. It's back there." Yeh, they, too, claimed they were not part of my group. We chit chat anyway, I fuel THEM up with water, snacks, etc. And we all go our own way.

People look different with helmets and sunglasses on. So I re-memorize the group that night.

DAY TWO: The Pansys wake up, declare to each other "this is the longest week of my life" and promptly burst into tears when we realize it is only Monday morning. But I dutifully get into more "identifiable clothing" and go on with my rescuing ways. Bristly Guy says to me "I hear you and I graduated from the same high school in the same year." We discuss names we recall and determine there is no degree of any kind of separation between us when I suddenly shout: "Wait! Why are you breaking our sworn oath that we would never acknowledge each other in public again? Especially after I had to pay those people to take the ugly babies? And what makes you think those were your babies anyway? You were just one in a Very Long Line of other guys that night of the Sophomore Sock Hop. Just deal with it, dude!" He (and the nearby campers in the KOA) looked shocked.

DAY THREE: Four events:

1. My maps are taken by a rider since he couldn't find HIS maps. I AM THE SAG DRIVER! DO NOT TAKE SAG DRIVER MAPS! I seethe/smirk/plot all day for an appropriate punishment.

2. We are setting up camp on the grounds of a junior high school for which we have paid, have insurance riders, receipts and all. But that is the day all the sports teams were to practice and we are on their lawn. Snafu, but not our fault. Big, snarly men come over and demand to know what we are up to. The principal and the superintendent of schools arrive and snarl at us. A police cruiser came through. After appropriate papers are produced they leave. What was particularly intriguing is that all these authorities made extreme efforts to NEVER look directly at me, not even in my direction. Their efforts were so obvious that the cyclists all burst into laughter afterward. I was in a particularly extreme Pansy suit.

3. I finally have hit upon the perfect punishment for map stealer. He is about 80 so I can't do anything too physical to him but then the perfect punishment is really the one that perfectly matches the crime. You want to take the Sag driver's maps? Then you will BECOME the sag driver and I dressed him up in Pansy Clothing. To the great delight of the crowd and he was embarrassed but ecstatic to be a Pansy Victim (aren't they all?). He was precious. But he did wear the clothing/makeup/wig just a wee bit too long and made a lot of us uncomfortable.

Earlier this day, I decided to stop by a thrift store to find stuff for the Map Stealer. I was in an "outfit" and walked in, put my hands on my hips and yelled "Don't tell me there isn't something in this store for me!" I explained my situation to the open-mouthed people and said that while I wasn't certain what I needed/wanted, I WAS certain I would recognize it when I saw it. They tried to sell me a bath rug shaped like a bear skin. No. Then they looked for feathery, ruffly things. Nope. And then, there it was: a rack full of old, huge, nastily-stained grannie bras. Eureka! Map Stealer wears a 48DD. The bra, when being placed upon Map Stealer, was heard to whimper "it's a good thing I am already dead."

The store people groveled to get me to come back when they had a camera so they could take a picture. I said "No, I am from California, so let's do it this way: we'll take the pictures with my camera, give me your email address and I'll send them to you." Then I goofed in the front of their store, posing in the royal purple velvet La-Z-Boy and yelling at the employee to work with me. Just like a runway model diva. It took awhile to get a decent picture since he was shaking the camera too much from laughing. Perhaps crying. Hard to say. The store is called "Maybe This?" and they felt I embodied the concept of that name.

4. Bristly Guy said to me: (well, I'm going to make you wait for THAT).

Turns out Bristly Guy is an attorney (hahahhaha) but we have not crossed professional paths. However, he is a regular poker player with the Tour Leader and as time/beers/wine go by we actually bond and he is quite likeable and vice versa. We then turn on Tour Leader (to whom snarky attorney boy had gone to on Day One....I think to complain about me making him my bitch!) and declare that we are now best friends and that we don't like Tour Leader anymore. Tour Leader's crestfallen face was delightful! Don't worry, I will tell you what Bristly Guy said. Later.

DAY FOUR: My 19-day old cell phone (birthday gift from Baby Pansy) gets stolen. Bristly Guy's best friend from his early high school years comes to the junior high where we are camping. Best friend had been the principal there until last year when he won several million in a lottery and promptly retired. So I extensively smear on him about his "dedication to the youth of America" and how the lottery had fully exposed what kind of person he really is. Bristly Guy and I tell him about how we have become best friends on this tour. Then lottery winner and I end up best friends, turn on Bristly Guy and tell him he is no longer OUR friend. I never said I wasn't fickle.

DAY FIVE: We have a 6 mile stretch of road that is far too dangerous to bike across so we set up a staging/sagging zone in the parking lot of a hotel. Which did not know of and is not getting anything for this invasion of their property. Good planning there, Tour Leader! The Pansys go in first thing in the day, buy snacks and drinks at the bar and chat up the workers. Tell them what's up, gripe about how we have been mistreated, etc. Make friends. I go out to the parking lot, change into my "identifiable clothing" of the day and start ferrying riders.

The other sag driver shows up and (a) unloads her two dogs, in cages, onto the lawn. Next to the sign "Absolutely No Dogs. No Way." (b) parks in the handicapped zone (c) on her first ferrying trip promptly backs into a light post in the parking lot, knocking the post completely down and breaking the light. The Big Pooh Bahs of the club went into the hotel, told them of the damage, and gave them $200 cash on the spot. Nice, except for they talked down to the hotel people as badly as they treated the Pansys. "This is certainly FAR MORE money than the damage warrants so be glad we are giving you money without making you go through insurance hassles."

I, not knowing of this little exchange, later in the day went in (in "identifiable clothing" outfit) to order a lunch to go and give them an "award" for the broken post light. It was a plaster of paris flying eagle, with a broken wing. Do not ask Pansy why she has these kinds of things with her. She just "knows" what to pack. Sometimes it's handcuffs, sometimes its broken winged eagle trophies. I am there with the last 3 bikers to shuttle and they are my peeps. I make a grand presentation of the eagle award and realize the people are pretty tweaked off. Just like ME! So we commiserate, I apologize for the Pooh Bahs, they even said "well, we kind of knew about this because a couple came in this morning and told us." I raise my hand and say "That would be me and my husband." They stare and stare at me and finally recognize me. And burst out laughing. As we wait for my food to go, I riff on the men sitting out in the car (including Tour Leader), things in general, and we all had a great time. It's good to make friends.

DAY SIX AND SEVEN: Who cares? More maltreatment from the 2/3 group, etc. But the week goes by, we drive home to live another day.

Each night we would have a "Heave the Huffy" contest. We each would toss a child's size Huffy bicycle. Teams were (a) the cook crew for the day and (b)the worker's crew (that would be us mistreated peons and Tour Leader). Yes, I, weakling NO DISCERNABLE BICEPS Pansy threw the Huffy 30 feet. Farther than any other woman and up in the Top 5 overall. Unfortunately, that 30 footer was as a DH (designated heaver) for an injured old man (probably in his 50s!) on another team. Which I did not duplicate for MY team (only 24 feet, but still further than #2 woman who managed 22 feet). So, MY team came in 4th place and injured old man's team stole 3rd place. Tour Leader emailed everyone the results and asked me to bring my Benedict Arnold outfit for next year. I responded: I would, but my suitcase is already full with my "F Street Landlady" outfit. That would be an obscure reference to Dorothea Puente, notorious murderess in Sacramento. She killed 7 or 9 of her Social Security tenants and kept collecting their benefit checks. For years. And here I have a daily fight with Social Security over MY benefits. I tell ya, where is the justice? But I do have my new friend, the lawyer....

AND NO, I HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN TO TELL YOU WHAT BRISTLY GUY SAID TO ME ON DAY THREE!

The VERY BEST of all of this was what Bristly Guy said to me, in his efforts to "place" me from high school: "Hey. Wait. Did you used to be thin?"

HEY....WAIT..... DID....YOU....USED....TO....BE....THIN?

I thought I would never stop laughing. And he truly looked horrified and dismayed with what his mouth had done to him. What kind of crack (using?) attorney is he? How could he soooo mal-express himself? Of course, I knew what he meant since I did not hit 100 pounds until the August after I graduated from high school. It was quite the priceless moment for Pansy.

When I Used To Be Thin (that's me on the left and my stupid elderly baby sister on the right----yeh, we've been giving men "groin cramps" all our lives!):

Twice The Fun or Double The Alimony?

2008-02-18T09:31:00.000-08:00

It sounded so romantic. It looked so romantic. Just thinking about it made us so romantic. We would buy a tandem bicycle! Our Love Bike. CUT!! Abrupt shift to reality. Tandems are, well...a parallel universe to bicycling as most people know it. So familiar and yet so foreign. There ought to be a support group, maybe Tandem Survivors Anonymous.

What could go wrong with this tandem dream team? We are a unit. We were entering 19 years of wedded bliss, with two young children and so much debt we are welded together by the credit cards we've melted from the friction of purchases made one-after-the-other-at-the-speed-of-light for lo these many years. The proportion of those purchases directly related to bicycles and requisite accessories is so obscene as to be offensive even to attorneys! We are similar in height, weight, bicycling experience, handling skills, endurance and speed. We even look like brother and sister. (Well, except for that one incident in 1968 when we were mistaken for sisters. But he has gone bald since those days.) Take it from someone who has been through the chainringer of experience: If you are only dating and your other is talking about wanting a tandem it could be a BIG clue they want to break up. Since we are Married With Children, we have to decide: is our tandem Life In Hell or are we just on Practical Jokes and Bloopers? It is a little bit of both. This is HER story, a true account from HER perspective: A View From The Rear.

HOW TO DECIDE ON WHAT TANDEM TO BUY. In every biking couple there is the tech-freak who will dictate the brand, model and color. He will then leave it up to Her to do the number-crunching and initiate the "rob Peter to pay Paul" creative financing necessary to pay for their Love Bike. Starry-eyed, pockets bulging with cash equal to three years of debt, the Tandem Unit sets out to find a test ride.

THE TEST RIDE/HIS TAIL (uh) TALE OF WOE. No bike shop within a 75 mile radius will have on hand the tandem you are seeking. We got so close to just ordering the bike. After all, we knew what we wanted! We are a Unit! We finally conceded we should at least ride a tandem that was in stock. This was a decision we would live to regret, but was it genetic or environmental? The facts: He was 9 days into recovery from surgery for hemorrhoids. The itchy burning bleeding really bad attitude kind of hemorrhoids. Even the surgeon declared this to be the worst case of all three varieties ever seen in the Western Hemisphere. It is a real party stopper when He shows off His surgery scars. Butt, I digress. He thought He was up for a test ride due to thought processes clouded by major drugs courtesy of the surgeon. He was UP, all right, and definitely should not have been operating heavy machinery, power tools, and definitely NOT tandems. A really asinine thing to do in his condition.

She was stoking and did not see what all occurred on this maiden pedal. She does recall a lot of wobbling and negative barking from Him. Something about contributing to the pedaling. How was She to know that the pedals are all connected together and required in-unison pedaling by both participants? (Usually one of us is "done" first, with the other coming soon after, so this "at the same time" stuff will take some practice.) He was doing it all WRONG anyway. When She coasts it is the left pedal that stays down and when She goes around corners with the pedals parallel to the ground it is the right pedal that is in the forward position. How could He goof up something so basic as that? Besides, She was already totally occupied with freaking out from claustrophobia and visual deprivation back there. She does not want to be that close to anyone's rear on a bike even if He is the beloved husband-for-life. Some intimacies should not be so pubic...errr...public. It should have been called a day right then and there, but No-o-o-o-o! She gets on front, He gets on back and...She has suppressed whatever occurred or was said during that time frame. Only a fragment memory remains of seeing the tandem back in the store and slinking home like a pair of coupled dogs, uh, like a couple of dogs that had been separated by a water hose. Talk about a dream dying. This one derailleured so fast it left our heads spinning.

ONE YEAR LATER. He is off the post-operative drugs, She has a lead on a local owner of the Exact Same Model Tandem they are seeking. The tandem owner drives to their house and lets them ride his so-new-it-still-has-that-factory-smell beauty around for an hour. Tandem survivors like this guy are either saints for letting neophytes ride their valuable machines OR they are worse than drug dealers. "Heeeeere, take a 'free' ride!" And then you suddenly find yourself dragged down into the tandem underworld. Hooked...sooo Hooked!

ORDERING THE TANDEM. Every bike shop said "two weeks; four, tops" from placing the paid order to receipt of the tandem, our Love Bike. The bike is ordered in time for a 19th anniversary ride, 2-1/2 weeks away. As we left we did not recognize those sounds we heard from the shop staff were muffled laughter. He comes home a couple days later, arms laden with the legally required twin suits of bike clothing. She is in a swoon. They rush to the bedroom to try on the clothing and to practice some tandem positions.

FIVE MONTHS LATER. Was that metric time or what? The bike shop has closed down, we are paying interest on our line-of-credit-funded/paid-in-full tandem and making some frantic calls to the bike factory. The factory people handled us very well. They even gave us an option on the color. The option was "red." He had ordered "Black Forest." She is rather inchoherent on the subject of "red" because Her racing colors are red and white. She begged to get a "red" tandem. He acquiesces to Her, the beloved wife-for-life. The Tandem arrives....(!)....on Halloween Night. The children have to delay their trick or treating as we drive with joyous expectation to pick up our Love Bike. It is beautiful---a luscious, deep, glowing....Maroon? Rubyesque? Pretty, but NOT "red." Even the children tell Her "It is NOT red." Serves Her right He says. If He can't have Black Forest, at least She did not get Red either. There is no doubt...Tandem, thy name is Trick Or Treat. So prescient.

THE NEXT DAY - THE FIRST RIDE. 40 mountainous miles await us. The group barely conceals its anticipation of certain hilarity to come. We disappoint them. From our smooth take-off, we "locked and rolled" up and down that road like a Tandem Unit. She suffered some sort of physical discomfort but it was probably that pie She had at lunch. It couldn't have been...Trick Or Treat? Surely just a small adjustment on the fit. Hah-hah-ha!!

WHO'S ON FIRST? WHAT'S ON BACK? Trick Or Treat is a 56/53 tandem. She rides a 56 road bike. He rides a 53 road bike. She is the captain and He is the stoker...for 50 feet. She stops the bike because He has turned the handlebars and Her saddle 90 degrees starboard. Talk about backseat drivers. She daydreams about submission training sessions for Him. He denies having a testosterone/control freak problem. At least He has the decency to be embarrassed by His lack of trust in Her captain skills. She still believes He is secretly proud of His strength.

FITTING THE TANDEM - HER TAIL (uh) TALE OF WOE. He fits the captain end of the bike to His needs and rides as if to the tandem born. He has the typical male body style: long ape-ish torso, short stumpy legs, gnarly body hair. She has the typical female body style: svelte, lissome, supple, long of limb, with glorious, flowing locks of thick, luscious red hair crowning Her winsome head. She has to squash up and curl over and reach way down to the handlebars that are too low for Her because they are attached to the extemely lowered saddle for the stumpy legged one in front. There are many 30 to 70 mile rides. All cause various degrees of stoker pain. He claims He is the one suffering because He has to listen to Her incessant whining voice behind Him. She maturely keeps Her assessment of Him to Herself (call me a whiner? you weiner!) and single-handedly saves their marriage....Again!

300 MILES LATER. The fit problems become resolved at great expense, of course, with accessory parts that have since been removed from the bike, of course, and now languish on garage shelves, of course. All except the road shock to the stoker's saddle. She has continuously said cushioning is the solution. He has continuously said more saddle time is the solution. She is a woman who has never suffered a moment of saddle soreness in Her life from riding bikes or beasts, including Him. Finally friction and heat ferment into a world class yeast infection so severe as to practically require amputation and it is Not between Her toes! Now She is mad. Without permission (gasp!) She finds and buys a gel saddle pad. He balks because it does not look cool. She says it is this pad or a big spring-loaded dork saddle with a fuzzy sheepskin cover......and rides as if to the tandem born. Hah-hah-ha!! grrr...stupidmumble...stubborngrrr...testosteronemumble.

THE FIRST TOUR. He told Her "I want to take you on a 20th anniversary second honeymoon. We will tour 30 miles a day over flower-filled meadow roads; sup in quaint restaurants; sleep on feather beds in country inns with hot running water and bubble baths." She is not able to do the number-crunching or initiate the "rob Peter to pay Paul" creative financing necessary to pay for their Love Tour. Starry-eyed, pockets bulging with $300 worth of traveler's checks, the Tandem Unit sets out on the Alternative/Parallel Universe Tour: 350 miles with 16,000 feet of elevation gain along the central coast of California with 50 people to share the second honeymoon. Amenities included cooking one day for the 50 people, making and breaking camp every day and sleeping on the ground in mummy bags. At least the bags could be zippered together. One romantic night She felt the Earth move. He confessed it was just an earthquake. Most of the time She felt like She had been ridden hard and put in the barn wet. After a week of 60 mile days, no sunshine, skin-peeling headwinds, waiting in line for communal, non-coed, tepid showers and 36 consecutive hours of rain, the Tandem Unit came back home....hooked on tandems. So hooked! Who needs Tandem Survivors Anonymous anyway??

EPILOGUE. He and She have successfully survived tandem interruptus of their married bliss. Trick Or Treat got a companion tandem (Dirty Trick) as soon as She was able to (all together now): do the number-crunching and initiate the "rob Peter to pay Paul" creative financing. The children became stokers so that family rides (and vacation tours) could be at a faster pace. This idea was so perfect! The Tandem Family Unit!! What could possibly go wrong with THAT dream plan??? Hah-hah-ha!!!

And now The Tandem Couple has been together going on A Whole Lot More Years. The children are grown and gone. They still say out loud that the tandem rides were among their best childhood memories. The tandems hang in the garage content in their reminiscing about their Days of Glory. Maybe this year we'll bring them out of retirement. Then again, who needs that aggravation! He still has that stupid, stubborn, control-freak, testosterone issue going on. hahahahhahaha!

The Dog From God--Just A Sweet Dog Story

2008-02-14T11:16:00.001-08:00

March 11, 2004. It had been 3 months since I started the new chemo which never works. But was working. Before my eyelids opened that morning I "heard" these words----just as clearly as if someone were in the room speaking out loud to me: "You didn't die. You have to rescue something. Today!" Great. What's that supposed to mean? So I get up and go about my usual. Which was eating and lying in bed and watching movies.

Late in the morning as I walked to the kitchen I see something standing on our front lawn. It is a dog. A Shetland Sheepdog, a Mini Lassie. He was beyond beautiful, a classic sable with big white ruff. Oh, my. I got very excited because all week long a wonderful movie channel I had happened upon was "all Lassie, all day." They were showing only Lassie movies. It was like a train wreck. I could not have stopped watching those movies if my house had caught fire. I had NO idea as to the wonderful and rich history of Lassie and 2004 was the 50th Anniversary of Lassie. Thus, the Lassie Movie Marathons.

All the movies were from the 40s and had insane plots. If you could even call them plots. Said plots, every one of them, involved Lassie being tragically separated from her "real" family and swimming through oceans, rivers, waterfalls, etc. to return home. I am pretty certain many Lassie dogs died during the making of these films. If it is possible for a dog to look frightened-----what am I saying? This is LASSIE we are talking about! OF COURSE, she looked frightened. As she should have. She was often in a real river with real Class 6 rapids. I felt frightened even knowing that particular dog (just an actor dog, not the REAL Lassie) has long been dead. I know this because dogs don't usually last much more than about 16-18 years. Except The Real Lassie, who is still alive. She lives quietly in a mountain community in Southern California. But don't spread it around. She likes her privacy.

Lassie in the movies is a riot! The best movie was her as a War Dog. The writeup in the paper for the movie plot was this: "Lassie snarls at Nazis in Norway." PANSY FUCKING WANTS THAT KIND OF A JOB! Imagine the plot writeups she would create. Amazingly, during the war movie Lassie did, in actual fact, come upon some bad Nazis (2 of them so she was even outnumbered!) on the shore of Norway (is there more than one shore?) and SHE GROWLED AT THEM. Them fucking scairdycats ran like pussies with their tails tucked between their cowardly legs! I laughed and wept with joy and relief over Lassie's successful fight against the Nazis.

But she could also be a bad actress. There were those rumors about substance abuse, you know. Bac'n Bites are terribly addictive. Worse than Greenies, even! There were several scenes of her picking her way back from the warfront to get help and she got wounded. Well, in one scene the bitch would be limping on her right paw. The Very Next Scene she is limping on her LEFT paw. What a faker. And to make sure we moviegoers knew Lassie was wounded, she had a black streak smeared across her face. Except for the streak was left-to-right in one scene and then it was right-to-left in another scene. It was terribly embarrassing for Lassie. Makeup crew shoulda been hung for that stupidity. I hope Lassie bit them.

After 2 Lassie movies, I am again heading for the kitchen and the dog in the front yard is now sitting down. I make myself be good and not go out there and snatch the dog up and drag it unwillingly into the house. But I want that dog something fierce. Maybe it is just resting. Or waiting for someone.

Then I watch Lassie movies some more. In one of the movies, well actually in ALL of the movies, there is always a scene in which the crusty, mean old guys in the middle of some harsh harangue suddenly turn and say "oh, but by god, she IS a beautiful lassie, tisn't she?" And everyone lives happily ever after.

Now the dog in my yard is lying down. I can't take it any longer. I go out to the dog and talk all sweet to it. No reaction. Hmmmm. Could be deaf or maybe just luring me closer for the kill? The dog keeps looking up and down the street but doesn't run away from me. So I gingerly approach it and pet it and kind of check it all over. No wounds, not acting dangerous. I roll it over and even though Pansy does know what a Penis looks like (she saw those junior high Health Lecture diagrams), this dog's gender is a mystery to her. It's not female but then it's not male either? This seems odd. Pansy keeps checking, just waiting for the moment when she crosses the dog's "personal space" line and it kills her. Eventually, Pansy determines this dog is in fact a male dog. He's just a tad fat, though, and cleverly hiding his Huge Penis in his tubbiness and furriness.

Dog comes in the house with Pansy who is already madly in love with him and wants to keep him forever and ever and how in fuck is she going to explain this to Mr. Pansy? We already have that damn Pomeranian and those 2 mangy cats. And besides who knows when this stray dog is going to snap and become Cujo? We do kind of like the smaller animals and don't need another dog whose habits we have no clue about.

Well, Mr. Pansy comes home and Pansy makes a "found dog" sign for the front yard and we wait. Days go by. No one has lost this dog. No ads in the paper. Pansy gnashes her teeth because she really WANTS this dog. He is beyond perfect. Never barks. Plays with the Pomeranian and the cats. Waits his turn to eat last. TOTALLY HOUSETRAINED....unlike that rat Pomeranian freakazoid. Well, the stray dog does have ONE odd little behavior: when the phone rang he would run through the house to find a human and bark and bark and bark while leading us to the phone. It was amazing. Maybe he's a trained hearing dog.

Then Pansy takes the dog to her vet and damn, damn, damn, he has a microchip. Calls are made, Pansy is sad and.......the last vet this dog went to says their records show the owner is deceased as of a few months earlier. And his name is [gag, retch] "Frasier." And the other vet had no contact person or way to find where this dog has been living. Pansy's vet says it is quite common for people to now abandon dogs in neighborhoods in the hopes that someone will take it in. We have had the dog for about 14 days and he continues to behave wonderfully and let us know when the phone rang. Mr. Pansy suddenly turns one day and says "oh, but by god, he IS a beautiful dog, tisn't he?" WE GET TO KEEP HIM!

Mr. Pansy goes to work. Pansy sits with new dog in the backyard waiting for the stupid Pomeranian to decide if he's going to pee today or not. Pansy and Dog talk awhile and she explains he is going to stay here to live now but that she really doesn't like his name. He nods his nead. Pansy then realizes that this dog is what she "had to rescue" that day of the Lassie Marathon so she tells him that since the Pansys have rescued him, his new name is going to be "Timmy." He barks for joy and we begin living happily ever after.

Timmy helped the Pomeranian grow up and get over his broken family background. He played "chase" with the Pom---including taking turns to chase or be the chasee. He was an alternate scratching post for the cats to play with. He lost weight and grew a Penis! Most of all he made Mr. Pet-Hater Pansy love him to bits. Mr. Pansy called Timmy "angel dog". Timmy bonded to us after about 2 months and was proud to showoff and protect me on our short little walks up and down the street.

Timmy only stayed with us for 20 months. One day he was well, the next day he had an esophageal collapse. After a weekend in the hospital the vet called us Sunday night at 8pm and said he had taken a turn for the worse. It was a very sad night. I still do not understand why someone would not keep such a perfect dog. I'm glad he stopped by that day, March 11, 2004.

Our Family's Only Heirloom

2008-02-12T16:40:00.001-08:00

So! The handmade, handblown, hand-whatever word it takes to emphasize this item is irreplaceable, cannot be replicated, is "almost" priceless, etc. hobnail glass cream/milk pitcher that is clear/opalescent/pale blue in color and goes back almost to John Alden/Mayflower Ship days (but actually only back to whenever glass became readily available to common peons) was officially "passed on to the eldest daughter" in 2007.

It has traversed its way westward via covered wagon-----or hand carried or on animals' backs or in hot air balloons, maybe even Sputnik. By whatever vehicular mode each generation used to westwardly traverse. I am allegedly the current "eldest daughter" although I am so incredibly young and foxy there must be some mistake! My Stupid Elderly Baby Sister (SEBS) and I drove to our parents' place to fetch the pitcher in sissie's Lexus hardtop convertible, with the top down and our natural red hair flying in the wind whilst wearing large sunglasses and totally passing for not a day over 48.

We pack up the glass pitcher in a towel, put it into a box, and then put the box into an insulated picnic/food carrier the old man foisted off on us. We photo document the "handing down of the pitcher" from dad to Eldest Daughter. My Mom didn't get to be unsenile long enough to do it herself. Then we make the old man toddle outdoors to take a picture of us in the Lexus.

We drive off, make a U-turn to exit the grounds and see.......in the dirt on the side of the road where we had been parked.......the insulated picnic/food carrier containing the priceless heirloom. Where I had put it since it would not fit in the trunk with the hardtop roof retracted.

I am pretty sure I intended to put it inside the car but the car was locked, we apparently were distracted and possibly too excited (gotta cut back on the sugar) about having a picture taken of us in the Lexus convertible, the sun blinded me, whatever. I do know it was Elderly Baby Sister's idea to get the convertible photo taken so the "Heirloom Debacle" must be her fault.

Right now it is full of soapy water and in the microwave for 35 minutes. Think that'll clean it up all nice and shiny? And I noticed some markings on the bottom that look remarkably like "made in china." I plan to lick it. Hope I get a good buzz from it. [You all DO recall last year's China scare where everything from China was fatal if ingested?]

I just hope SEBS's Senility is not contagious and Thank God my mother does not know this happened.

How To Humiliate Your Child Without Even Trying

2008-02-12T14:32:00.001-08:00

WARNING!! This is a sobering and somber example of what can happen to a Perfectly Normal Person who gets too deprived of human contact while being imprisoned in a house with screaming brats. If this doesn't Scare You Straight (To Kleenex Tissues), what will?

One day Pansy's daughter, Pansy Junior, said to her boyfriend--who was the son of not just one, but two, doctors:

P.Jr.: My mom is really sick.
BF: How sick?
P.Jr.: She is SO SICK she has a rag in her mouth.
BF: Whaaaa?
P.Jr.: You know. She has a RAG IN HER MOUTH.
BF: What in fuck for?
P.Jr.: So she won't get laryngitis.
BF: How does this rag thing work?
P.Jr: [see explanation below]

Pansy used to never be sick. She was healthier than THREE draft horses put together. No, she didn't resemble three draft horses, she was merely as healthy as three of them. Her inability to be sick began upon entering the Hallowed Ranks of Motherhood. Not because germs no longer affected her. It's that germs don't give a fuck that mothers are TOO BUSY with those screaming brats to have the time to be sick. So, in general, mothers just plow on through...germs or no.

When the occasional ailment did succeed in snagging Pansy, usually by one of her fetlocks, she would Always get so sick that eventually her braying voice would be silenced. Total amnesia. NO. Wait. That doesn't sound right. She would get Total hoarseness into complete laryngitis. How Mr. Pansy would skip for joy and beam!

Then, one day, just as she was starting to really get sick she had an epiphany! She carried a cloth hankie around all day.....hanging from her mouth. She would allow her drool to saturate the hankie. She would then mouth-breathe through said soaking wet from drool hankie. Because it created moisture-laden air for her raw and achy throat. Of course, Pansy also would blow her green, bloody snot onto this hankie. No sense in dirtying more than one hankie at a time now, is there? And guess what?! NO MORE LARYNGITIS! How Mr. Pansy wept. His hopes for even just a few days per year of blessed silence were shattered.

Pansy loved this new Medical Breaththrough she personally invented. Pansy does NOT find it odd that no one in her family said what any Normal Human would have said: THAT IS FUCKING GROSS, YOU SICK FREAK! Of course, Pansy is reknowned for slaying messengers so maybe her family wasn't all that unobservant. They were just cowed.

This Medical Breakthrough happened before the Pansy children were toddlers so they grew up their whole lives evidently thinking this was perfectly normal behavior. It never occurred to them their sainted, all-knowing mother was behaving any differently than all other grownups in the world.

Which is how innocent Pansy Jr. came to be explaining this Rag Business to boyfriend who just about died laughing. He then shared it with his parents who also heartily laughed. Even as they put in motion whatever legal steps were required to cease having anything further to do with the nutcase family Pansy Jr. was now mortified to realize she had been burdened with. Come to think of it, that is just about exactly when Pansy Jr. began her "teenage rebellion" years.

p.s. This fabulous Medical Breakthrough has never been patented because Pansy is a Caring Person and wants you all to be able to enjoy the health benefits, too! She is even thinking of making and marketing "pre-soaked" hankies in convenient travel size pouches. And who couldn't appreciate the accessorizing zestiness that a drool-soaked, bloody green snot encrusted hankie can add to an ensemble?!

Pansy's REAL Maiden Name

2008-02-11T11:05:00.001-08:00

THE Kkkhhhhaaaacckkk FAMILY STORY

Great, Great Grandpa and Grandma, with 2 boys ages 7 and 4, walked from Germany to Russia in the 1700's because that lying bitch Catherine The Great (big, wart covered, fat assed, hairy everywhere, whore) promised everyone free land and no conscription into the Russian military. During the actual walk, the 2 boys became separated from their Mom and Dad and the parents were never seen again.

Further into the walk (a stroll through the park kind of thing I am certain), the 2 boys then became separated from each other, never to see each other again. My ancestor, Heinrich Kkkhhhhaaaacckkk (typical German spelling), the older boy, was found and adopted by a family. He grew up in Russia, went to town one day when he was in his 20s and many people kept calling him "Mr. Hase". He said he was not Mr. Hase but everyone was adamant about getting him to come back to town on a specific date. They met and bore a remarkable resemblance to each other.

Yes, it was the long-lost brothers together again and everyone was quite happy about this turn of events. Mr. Hase had a different last name from "Kkkhhhhaaaacckkk" because back then when foundlings were adopted they were not given the adoptive name, to keep the lineage information pure. When he was found he was huddled up and whimpering like a scared little bunny. Hase is German for "hare". Heinrich, being the older one and having more memories of Mom and Pop told brother Hase about them and that THEIR REAL LAST NAME IS: PANSYER. You read that right. My real maiden name actually is PANSYER and I grew up to marry Mr. PANSY.

Heinrich got saddled with "Kkkhhhhaaaacckkk" because he had in his jacket pocket a Bible with his home town written in it. MY FREAKING MAIDEN NAME HAS BEEN A BIGGER LIE ALL MY LIFE than that whore Catherine fibbing about no Russian Army conscriptions. And worse, Mr. PANSY is undoubtedly my damn brother once removed. Aacckk!!

So, Heinrich Kkkhhhhaaaacckkk lived and died in Russia. His son, Heinrich Jr., grew up and had a son named Carl Kkkhhhhaaaacckkk. Heinrich Jr. and Carl (and rest of family) came over to America where Carl grew up and had my Dad and now I are here! Not in freezing Russia/Black Sea area. Ta Daaaa!!!

The reason my Stupid Elderly Baby Sister and I did not know this sooner is that even though Carl told his children this story, he had 11 kids. I theorize that by the time they got to my Dad (in the middle of the litter) and all the younger ones, the older ones said some smart-ass thing like "Oh, Dad! Not that tired old story Aggaaaiiinnnn!" And not until early 2005 did this information come down from my dad's older siblings, who continue to refuse to die. But my own Dad knew this story and never passed it on to us!

We also think we have French royalty bloodlines, so I might be some sort of princesska. Sure I are! I think the reality is probably more this way: we are the offspring of the King's daily prostitute or such. Actually, most white folks with genuine lineage they can prove do come from royalty, sideways or other ways, since the regular folks hardly made a dent in the ground with their graves much less on paper anywhere. Churches, thank God!, used to be very important and are often the only source for lots of information. And then they have the nerve to go and get burned down or flooded or blown up by war! Had they not HEARD of "backing up files" in the olden days? You would think those lazy monks could have spent at least some of their time copying the records over instead of all of their time torturing my heretic ancestors.

I have actual proof of being directly related to John Alden. And Pansy gets VERY tired of people saying "Who was John Alden?" Go fucking look it up you stupidheads. Didn't any of you retain one speck of information from school? I also can be a card-carrying DAR (if I put up some bucks and take oaths that are probably politically incorrect but my mom did at least get us on their rolls) and there were both Yanks and Rebels involved in that War of Northern Aggression, etc. All from my mother's side.

I say she married "down" into that German rabble. Heaven knows I married "down" into Mr. Pansy's rabble.

MRS. PANSY.......In-Cest La Vie

Cheerleader Road (of death) Trip

2008-02-09T15:19:00.001-08:00

Cackle! The Pansy Wimmin (Pansy and Baby Pansy) were going to San Jose for a cheer competition WITHOUT supervision! Oh, joy! First a visit to Mapquest and then they Roar Off in their rockin' 1972 Dodge Charger (no hemi, dammit). They leave at O-dark-thirty for the 9am start of the competition but begin to suspect things aren't as they should be when they drive by cattle feedlot after cattle feedlot with all the lovely ambience and odors involved. This don't look nothin' like them Fancy Freeways Californee is All Famous About?!! They drive on anyway since there is no way in hell Pansy can possibly figure out how to get onto better roads. She's just grateful that she appears to be heading westish. And she barely knows that and ONLY with the help of Baby Pansy who says "Mom! Everyone knows the sun comes up in the east. Geeez." Potty mouthed bitch said "Geeez!" Mama Pansy don't allow no swearing from her fucking little smart-ass daughters but she didn't smack the little shit up side her haid since Pansy also don't want bruises to mar the photos.

The Pansy Wimmin drive and drive and drive. They turn onto "San Antonio Road." An hour later they understand that they are very likely in actual fact headed for San Antonio, TEXAS. In a blue haze of swearing, Pansy whips the Dodge Charger around and peels out...almost taking out a minivan full of other lost cheer moms and their weeping cheerleaders. We confab in the road awhile and, naturally, Pansy takes control of the situation. We caravan to a lone bedraggled looking mini-market kinda place and walk inside. The owner/counterclerk/whatever is a full-on FOREIGNER. Very nice but absolutely not one word of English in his repertoire. Literally. I look around for a map to buy. No such luck. Then the situation goes south.

Into the store walks the most gawdawful, hideous, creepy looking, skinny, chain smoking, filthy, stinking, white trailer trash, at least 85% tattooed (because he did not take off his pants although we all know that was going to be on the menu eventually), stained wifebeater wearing, cheerleader mom raping (and then the cheerleaders too), murdering, shallow grave digging, dirtbag pedophile Pansy has ever seen. And believe me, she has not only seen a lot of them she has dated most of them, too.

He is totally Every Frankenstein in Every Nightmare (EFEN) of every mother everywhere on earth. EFEN [for the Stupid Impaired: F*IN as in FUCKING] Creep discerns the dilemma of all these wimmin wearing dark denim pantsuits decorated with glued-on sequins, "jewels", beads and metallic decorative appliques (the official Cheer Mom uniform), surrounded by their glitter-spackled, hairspray shellacked, made up like 12 year old whores Cheerleaders.

He asks "whose rockin' Charger is that?" Oh no no no no no nooooooooo!?!? Pansy is going to be his First Victim! She tries to shove a couple of the Other Cheerleaders forward as appetizers but NOoOOOoooOOOO....the goddam, back-stabbing, selfish, hairy (on their heads, don't know about their "personal patch" areas), old whores all point to Pansy and scream "It's hers!" And then they try to make a run for it out the front door.

Where they are brought to a very abrupt halt by......the 18 BARKING PIT BULL DOGS F*in owns and has brought with him in his filty, beat to shit, used to be white but now is mostly rust, cracked windows everywhere, bumpers long gone, pickup truck, that has shovels(!) in the bed and a rifle rack with 2 rifles in the cab. The 18 Barking Pit Bull Dogs are literally: on top of the truck cab; inside the truck cab; in the truck bed; on the sidewalk beside the truck; at the front door of the mini-market; and NOW the damn other hags have let a couple of the dogs into the store!

F*in laughs, has a long coughing spell with LOTS of sputum (a word Pansy despises more than the prospect of going on a "date" with F*in), laughs some more and yells at the dogs "Now git on back inter the truck, y'all" (which makes Pansy wonder yet again perhaps she actually did drive all the way to San Antonio, Texas). And then F*in has another long wet hacking coughing session. Finally he spits out a big wad of chew and says: "Y'all wantin to be goin to the high school for that there cheer contest what just started up a few minutes ago?"

HOW IN FUCK DOES HE KNOW ANY OF THIS? I mean, sure, he can tell we are a bunch of cheer people but dear lord he knows way too much so now we know he really IS our nightmare come to life and in Living Color. Mostly red blood running in the bed of his pickup truck and our soon to be occupied shallow graves.

He proceeds to tell ME, the obvious Boss and Person In Charge, all about how to get to the high school. All up close and personal if you know what I mean. Which high school we are miles from and Mapquest is now being added to Pansy's list of Taking You Out With Her. And then.......HE LETS US GO! We run like crazy wimmin, clutching our children to our heaving bosoms but then we stop that since Heaving Bosoms will definitely kindle F*in's baser interests. We get in our cars and burn rubber like rubber has never been burned before.

Because now we are all late and Baby Pansy's group is up first. I get through a traffic light that turns red for the minivan behind me so they squeal to a dangerous sideways stop. Baby Pansy and I see them ALL (moms and girls) throw their hands up in total despair because all is lost for them. Pansy knows to just pull over and wait for the traffic light to go back to green and so she does. The minivan comes roaring through the intersection, Pansy peels out and we continue driving like crazed cheer moms for the high school.

We arrive and leap out while simultaneously grabbing our supplies of: more glitter, more hairspray, more whore makeup, and backup supplies of extra glitter, extra hairspray, Lots of Extra whore makeup. Baby Pansy's group has just finished warming up and when they see her they all scream and cry and so now us Pissed Off/Stressed Out Cheer Moms have to trowel Much More of their whorey makeup onto their tear-stained faces as well as shovel more glitter/hairspray all over their pin-on, fake, over the top, 80's style, rilly curly ponytails. They do their routine pretty well and make the first cut.

Now we all get to do the Most Important Part of any cheer competition: stand around for hours and hours, bored out of our gourds, pretending to cheer and care about and be all "we are just here for the fun and camaraderie" with the skank competition bitches. They know and we know that all any of us wants is to pound The Others into the ground with OUR way hot pyramids, scorpions, arabesques, tumbling routines, synchronized standing toe touches into a backflip immediately into forward flips, and SMILE GIRLS SMILE. Plus, everybody knows all those Other Cheating Cunts use filler bodies for their lame-ass tumbling runs. That means they have "ringer tumblers" who cannot cheer or do pyramid stunts or contribute in any meaningful way whatsoever except to fill the performance mats with glitz and shouts until they are up for their tumbling runs. They are sooooo fake. And they are all built like hairy draft horses.

It is all over. We finished third (out of 4) so naturally we get a HUGE ASS trophy, ribbons for all, little trophies for all, and diabetic comas from all the sugary junk foods we have been devouring. The Other Cheer Moms (never Pansy!) ate so much they busted out the seams in their Official Cheer Mom dark denim pantsuit uniforms. We scrape off most of the glitter and makeup from our exhausted little Cheer Whores and everyone changes into comfortable traveling clothes.

Pansy and Baby Pansy stagger out to their rockin' Dodge Charger. Which will not start. No matter what. Because when they started out this day it was dark and Pansy left the headlights on all day long. Groan. Everyone is gone. I don't know how THAT happened, but it is true. Everyone is gone, it is getting DARK and whooooo drives up? Oh, yes, you do so know who! F*in and his 18 barking Pit Bull dogs! Shit, shit, shit, shit!

He says "well, well, well! Lookie here! That rockin' Dodge Charger agin!" And proceeds to charge up the fucking dead rockin' Dodge Charger. Which took ForEver since F*in's truck is like some hideous 4-cylinder thing. Feel free to discuss amongst yourselves what kind of Pansy "small talk" she had to make with F*in for the 22 minutes this Charging Up the Dodge Charger took. And the Pansy Wimmin Roar Off into the night! Pansy thinks she really should have way more properly thanked F*in but frankly she just wanted to get away alive and without germs/diseases.

It is now dark, we have basically the entire long drive still ahead of us and we are starving. So we go to a drive-through Jack in the Box because I totally am afraid of turning off the rockin' Charger since it will die on us. And while we are in the driveup line some employee is out there taking a survey of customers. She asks Pansy questions! And Pansy is totally really ready to answer questions, too!

"Why are you here?"
Pansy: Because we really love Jack in the Box food!
"Where do you live?"
Pansy: Sacramento.
"And you are here in San Jose for what reason?"
Pansy: To eat at THIS particular Jack in the Box. It's our Favorite One!
"Really."
Pansy: Yes!
"Where are you going after this meal?"
Pansy: Straight back to Sacramento. We only come here for this Jack in the Box!
"Really."
Pansy: We do this about once a month!
"Really."

Pansy has to try to get her little jollies where she can. Now we are really ready to hit the road. But at the very last possible second, because At Long Last Finally God decides to fucking look out for us, Pansy observes the gas tank guage is on Empty. Who knows how long? Maybe since Sacramento at O-dark-thirty. She pulls into a gas station and realizes she is still afraid of turning off the car because it won't start again. She asks the 3 toothless Inbred Cousins O' F*in:

Do you have jumper cables in case my car won't start again?
Uhhh...nope.

Great. So Pansy decides she will just leave the car running while she fills up the tank. She asks:

Will the place explode if I keep the car running while I fill up?
Uhhh...dunno.

And they ease back to the far side of the gas station. This is quite confidence-inspiring but Pansy pretty much doesn't care by this point. She goes back to take off the gas cap and discovers........that sabotaging, evil, paranoid, son of a total bitch, bastard, cocksucker Mr. Pansy has put a locking gas cap on the car! And the KEY to the locking gas cap is on.........Pansy's chain ring that is in the car ignition and cannot be turned off because then for sure now the car will not start again.

Pansy begins the sweat-inducing, nerve-wracking, hand-trembling, bomb-dismantling process of removing the gas cap key from the key ring without turning off the car. Which takes her so long she is almost catatonic from stress over worry that she took so long to get the gas cap key that the car undoubtedly will just plain run out of gas, stall on her, and then Really never start again.

Baby Pansy actually gets worried until Pansy assures her: "This is what credit cards are for. If I have to, I will buy a new battery. We can also call a tow truck. (That was a lie because Pansy is positive that F*in would have shown up as the tow truck driver!) Hell, darling. Mommy might just go buy a car over there (Hummer dealership). That'll teach dad to fuck us up like this."

The gas cap key is liberated, I fill up the tank, and the Pansy Wimmin Roar Off. Headed home at long last. This time, though, they are going home on those Fancy Freeways Californee is All Famous About. This is working like gangbusters until they get to a toll bridge. Pansy never has cash on her. What little cash she did have this day was long gone on buying:

Important Cheer Clothing Accessories (sweatshirt that says "If Cheerleading Was Any Easier They Would Call It Football")

Cheer Jewelry (earrings shaped like megaphones)

Cheer Stickers (Honk If You're Cheerful!) and etc.

So the Pigs at the Rip Off Toll Station (what exactly about FREEways do they not fucking understand?) make Pansy fill out a huge form and give her an envelope and a copy of the form. To mail the toll fee........yes, the $2 damn toll fee!!!! The paperwork and envelope alone had to have cost more than $2! This exchange of information/supplies makes the huge and growing huger line of cars behind Pansy's rockin' Dodge Charger VERY CHEERFUL. Pansy knows they were Cheerful because they were honking and honking and honking. It was nice to have new Cheer friends.

We drive on. And on. And on. Where are we? Why is this taking so long? Pansy will never know but finally the Pansy Wimmin arrive back in Sacramento. To the demanding Mr. Pansy who wanted to know what took us so long. We were only 3 hours later than he expected us. He evidently is also completely as fucked up as Pansy is about MATH because he had not added in Pansy At The Wheel Exponential Expansion of the Known Universe factors. Then he wanted to know why Pansy was in such a godawful bitch mood.

He made Pansy earn the toll fee. The hard, 200 times in a row way. He even called Sweet Pansy a cocksucker! The prick.

Mr. Pansy Is One Sorry Ass

2008-02-07T10:46:00.000-08:00

Jamaica is hot. WAY hot. Hot as in caliente on the skin hot. If you are as hopelessly white as I am, you must go to a tanning salon before going to Jamaica. Or you will die. Jamaica is so hot that when we would walk out of our room each morning it was like going straight into a blast furnace. After about 10 minutes we would break out into a full body sweat. Which is why we really liked that the resort was clothing optional. None of that nasty sweaty clothes sticking to our bodies nonsense. Whew.

For some reason Mr. Pansy thinks he is NOT as hopelessly white as I am. He is even whiter. One year the sunblock lotion we used (SPF 5500) seemed different. It did not seem to seal our skin like before. Oh, well. Off to the ocean we go, to loll all day long on floaties. And drink. This place is great. Alcohol drinks are included in the cost. Mr. Pansy drank many, many, many beers. I drank many, many, many of whatever the hell caught my fancy. I am at the bar getting refills and the crowd is laughing and talking about some guy over there that has the most insane sunburn they have ever seen.

I turn to see that they are talking about MR. PANSY! And, indeed, he had one really fucked looking and hilarious sunburn. We both had been properly rotisseiring ourselves by rotating on a regular basis during the hours we were out on the ocean on those floaties...which were composed of the typical air-filled chambers along the length of said floaties. The newly-formulated sunblock, as previously mentioned, was indeed not like before.

I saved his reputation by crossly declaring that he was my husband and how dare they laugh at his terrible Red Stripe beer allergy? hahahahahahaha.

Any Way The Wind Blows

2008-02-06T17:47:00.000-08:00

So, Mr. Pansy and his Freak Friend are hitchhiking to San Francisco to catch a concert in Golden Gate Park by all The Really Cool Bands. It's free. Two skanks pick up the Hot, Long Haired College Boys and off they head for S.F. Turns out maybe the concert is just a rumor. Whatever, they cannot find the concert. So, like all smart young folk, they buy a gallon of, godsaveusall, Red Mountain Red Wine and go to the beach to drink it all. On empty stomachs naturally.

Driving home, Freak Friend has been placed in the front seat with Driver Skank. Second Skank is putting her moves (and nasty body parts) on Mr. Pansy, innocent wee little lamb. Freak Friend is feeling rough (surprise!) around the edges. Wanting to be a polite guest, Freak Friend removes his cowboy hat and thoroughly vomits into it. Then he tries to empty the hat out the passenger window. On the freeway. At freeway speeds. There apparently is something to the "wind, motion, time continuum, skanks will get their just paybacks" theory and the entire hatfull of nasty vomit goes swirling in the breeze......straight into the back seat of the car. All over Second Skank. But not innocent wee little lamb Mr. Pansy. His virtue is SAVED!

Mr. Pansy is some kind of really stoooopid dude and he tells PANSY about this misadventure of his. He will confess to any and all crimes because he is the most guilt-riddled victim of Severely Stern Germanic Parentage on earth. Turns out Pansy knows these fucking skanks. She is pleased that Second Skank had a Bad Hair Day. And Pansy hopes both Skank's hair and the Skankmobile still stink. Wait. Pansy KNOWS the Skank still stinks for sure.

Freak Friend later became a super cahuna with The Scripps Research Institute.
Mr. Pansy became the Personal HousePet of Pansy. Mr. Pansy got the better deal.

Mr. Pansy's Emergency Money

2008-02-06T15:27:00.001-08:00

Occasionally, Mr. Pansy tells Pansy he is going to be in Dallas. He says Dallas is a town in Texas. Pansy is not stupid. She knows full well Dallas is that hag bimbo Pansy saw with Mr. Pansy last week. But she lets Mr. Pansy go because then Pansy is left unattended and fuck knows Pansy loves to be unattended. Because she almost always...hell, she Definitely Always goes on some kind of a Full On Pansy Bender when left unattended.

Then, one night just before Mr. Pansy is going to go to Dallas he suddenly turns to Pansy and with a Really Serious Expression on his face and Very Somber tone of voice he says "Here is some emergency money for you while I am gone. In case you NEED it. Don't just spend it. It is for an emergency only." And hands Pansy a bunch of CASH. Well, well, well! I am quite touched by his serious tone. I have no idea what has gotten into him but he sure got to get into Pansy that night. Twice, what with that kind of up front cash payment!

Away flies Mr. Pansy in the big, shiny Magic Sky Machine and Pansy goes to work. It is the Staff Meeting day. During these meetings we mostly spend the entire morning bullshitting with each other, telling stories from our weekends and once in awhile actually attending to business. We all loved these meetings and the boss also really enjoyed these meetings since he then got to tell his wife all the new stories when he met her for lunch. Sexy Mexican, The Portugese and I contributed the majority of the stories that the boss told his wife. Imagine that.

This meeting is particularly special because I got to share my heartwarming story of Mr. Pansy making certain I had Emergency Money. It's not like he hasn't gone to Dallas before but somehow this time around he felt concerned for me. Maybe someone told him about that Full On Pansy Bender from his last trip. I don't know. But I do know whatever piece of shit tattletale that went to Mr. Pansy is on my For Sure Dead List forever.

Now the rest of the staff are giggling at the absurdity of this Emergency Money from Mr. Pansy. Excuse me---but I am not the one out of town away from anyone who knows me. I can personally go to the bank and withdraw every asset we have, including stock certificates, CDs, gold coins, pornographic photos for blackmail money. Oopsies! Those are the ones HE has of ME to use against ME! Nebbermind! I have his credit cards (left at home so they won't get stolen!) I can max to the limit with cash advances. Hell, I have access to our house title documents if I should decide to sell the house or merely take out a second mortgage. I mean, really! I could be in Mexico living la vida loca within 24 hours. And yet he gives me Emergency Money!

The staff take guesses at how much cash Mr. Pansy had stuffed in my paw. I did not tell them he got to pleasure himself twice with me since that would be too much a clue for them. The guesses ranged from $200 to what the boss thought would be reasonable: $500. When I told them the actual amount they, to a person, dropped their jaws and we all piled into my car for a road trip. To the local Dairy Queen. Because what Mr. Pansy gave me for Emergency Money was $20. I kid you not. What was he thinking?

Pansy Was PUNK When Punk Wasn't Cool

2008-02-06T12:34:00.001-08:00

Pansy's hair is indestructible. It is as thick as a horse's ass. Ummm....horse's TAIL. And nothing she has ever done to it has killed it. Not even chemo. Oh, sure, the chemo (that did fuck squat for getting rid of Pansy's cancer) took it all out. But Pansy's Hair grew right back when she started the chemo that "never" works but IS working. Because Pansy's Hair is one fucking tough mutha. Like Pansy. Nevertheless, one dark night her thick locks went..........awry and then things really got hairy.

The first time Mr. Pansy ever saw Pansy she had golden blonde ringlets in a Shirley Temple kinda look due to a permanent she had installed in her hair. The next day she had a golden blonde Prince Valiant hairdo. From chemically straightening her hair. The very next day she had permanently dyed her hair a jet black color. The day after that she chemically stripped the black out of her hair and tried to color it her "natural" color. Of course by now she has no idea what her natural color ever was. The color she put on turned out kinda light brown. So the NEXT day, Pansy decided she would put blonde highlights into the brown. Using one of those "kits in a box" of bleach-and-highlight.

No one told Pansy that when you bleach hair, the product must not dry out. Or the bleaching process stops at wherever it is in the process. Well. Pansy, as previously explained, has Fucking THICK hair. And she wanted LOTS of blonde highlights, so she pulled lots and lots and lots of her hair through the showercap holes. She applied the bleach to her Fucking THICK hair which soaked up all the product. The product probably was dried before she even finished putting all of it on her hair. At any rate, after the prescribed waiting time, Pansy rinsed out her hair.

WHAT THE HOLY FUCK!!??? Her "blonde highlights" were the most amazing technicolor stripes of red, black, brown, blonde, white, and Most Spectacularly: Bright Screaming Orange. And all those colors were on each strand of hair from root to end. It is now 1:00 a.m. and..........now Pansy SWEARS she was not under the influence of alcohol, drugs, psychosis, or donuts....she had to go to work the next morning. And even for her, this hair was just too much. Yes. Pansy is shamed to this day at her cowardice. She would pay Seriously Big Bucks NOW for such a fabulous hair effect.

Pansy did have an immediate solution to the problem. She would simply cut off, at the roots, all the funky hairs. After all, she has the Most Fucking THICK hair in the universe. No problem. All the hairs are cut off. Pansy goes to bed.

She wakes up and now it's REALLY WHAT THE HOLY FUCK!!??? Oh, dear god. Now she has spikes sticking up all over her stupid damn head, through her so-called Fucking THICK hair. And the spikes are all those many and glorious technicolor/flourescent colors! She actually puts a fucking scarf over her hair and goes to work looking like a goddammed Russian Babushka grannie freak!

The next day Pansy seeks professional help. No, not the kind you all know she really needs. No psychiatrist has ever been willing to see her without HUGE bucks being involved. She went to a hair dresser. He said he could cut all her hair off to the spike length but no more of that chemical stuff of any sort for at least a month. Pansy leaves the hairdresser's looking like a shaved Porcupine/Pomeranian. Which is Totally NOT as fucking fun as being a shaved Beaver. A shaved "whatever" that has many, many SPOTS of all those glorious technicolor/flourescent colors sprinkled throughout her entire Fucking THICK HEAD.....of hair.

Pansy never touched her hair again. Except for that "naturally red" coloring she has to use every 9 days because her goddam fucking Thick Hair (EVERYWHERE on her body) also grows faster than a witchtit nipple in the cold. She was 19 years old. The only time since then that she even trims her hair (on her head) has been when her hair (on her head) would get caught in doors as she whirled out of the house for another assault on the world.

When Mr. Pansy Was Just 21......

2008-02-04T17:49:00.001-08:00

It was a long, long time ago......

We lived in a college town where all of the bars would give a free pitcher of beer to people ON their 21st birthday. My, how times have changed, eh? Mr. Pansy made the rounds of all the bars in town (at least 5 as I recall), returns to our abode about 4pm and crashes into bed. He did not notice the frantic preparations Pansy was involved in that were for his surprise birthday party that night.

The party is roaring from the start. Loads of people are there, getting loaded. My, how times have NOT changed, eh? Around 8pm people start asking "What about what you promised us on the invitation, Pansy?" I had no idea what they were talking about because even though I was chaperoning the party I have to breathe, too, and some of that sandwich smoke had gotten into my lungs. Plus some beers had gotten into my stomach. But the lying partygoers all claimed I had promised to wear my tie-dyed dropbottom longjohns and do fancy snapping tricks with my leather bull whip. So Pansy is forced to go rustle up the outfit and do her whip tricks. No, she cannot do them anymore (but she is willing to try) and if you weren't there you don't get to know what all said whip tricks involved.

And then, like Pansy in longjohns doing whip tricks is not enough, the demanding people start asking "Where is Mr. Pansy?" Pansy had not even noticed he was not in attendance. Evidently it was a good enough party without him. Into his room she goes and finds him "eating a sandwich" [euphimism for smoking grass]. She snuffs out the "sandwich" [still talking grass here] and tells him there is a party going on and for him to get his birthday ass out there. He had truly not noticed the 50+ people nor heard the loud music blaring in the 4-room abode. That was some good "sandwich" [Mexican grass] he was eating [smoking].

A party attendee had brought a birthday cake which most people consumed. Except for Mr. Pansy, Pansy and about 3 others. "Suddenly" the crowd is really getting weird. Weird enough for even Pansy to notice. A couple of investigative questions later she finds out the stupid cake bringer had put lots (lots of lots) of LSD into the frosting. This is not good and Pansy strongly recommends against such nefarious behavior. It wasn't cool then and it ain't cool now. Seriously.

But an even bigger nuisance is now she has to fucking babysit this completely stupid in the head crowd and be the "trip guru" for a whole bunch of people who are now starting to wander outdoors---in real life, not just mentally. She finds and herds back to the house a group of about 12 that were in the nearby gas station mini-market getting things for their munchies. Another clutch of 11 are playing with a water hose. Back into the house they are shuttled toward towels and sheets to dry off with. Then a whole bunch are missing and Pansy finds them in a supermarket. To get to the supermarket they all had to climb the 6-foot fence in our "backyard" which means I had to fucking climb the fence, too. There they all are, in the cereal aisle, demanding (some were kinda scared) to know why there were so many frogs loose in the store. After I magically and ceremoniously "sweep away" the frogs to clear the path for them (which was hard to do because there were NO FUCKING FROGS there), they obediently followed me back home, over the 6-foot fence.

You all do recall that Pansy is dressed in tie-dyed, dropbottom longjohns and carrying a leather bull whip.

After awhile Pansy figures out how to keep them safely corralled by putting Mr. Pansy's motorcycle (which lived indoors in the kitchen area) against one door and she stood guard at the other door. During the vast majority of this party Mr. Pansy kept retreating to the bedroom for a nap or a "sandwich" and sometimes a drink.

There was plenty to drink, too. Because that afternoon Pansy had ridden her bicycle [with full fenders, kickstand, and genuine leather actually-for-horses saddlebags slung across the back fender] to the liquor store (about 2 miles away) to purchase 21 bottles of liquor as a birthday gift. She walked into the store, told the clerk she had a friend turning 21 and wanted to buy him a nice selection of adult beverages. Clerk and Pansy went up and down the aisles with Pansy pointing out various bottles like she had any clue on earth what she was doing. Pansy and the clerk "sophisticatedly" discussed the merits of this or that product and eventually she acquired and paid for 21 various liquors. She loaded these all into her saddlebags and rode away to her home. The bottles made a merry clinking sound as she pedalled along. The clerk never asked for ID, didn't even blink an eye. Pansy was 19 years old. NO "old hag" remarks, Please. Pansy has heard them all. Over the years Mr. Pansy has been mistaken for: Pansy's younger sister; Pansy's younger brother; and he has been carded at least once in every decade of his life. He was last carded about 2 months ago for a beer. I am not joking.

Eventually all the cake frosting victims came "down", the munchies were conquered, luckily no one got sick or arrested. But the party had to come to an end somehow and yes, Mother Pansy was the one who called it to an abrupt halt. When she found Mr. Pansy and a guest, at 4am, drinking the very last drops of the very last of the now-empty 21 bottles of booze from her precious toy poodle's food bowl. Anyone knows it is totally foul to be messing with a dog's food bowl. The darling puppy might catch a germ. Retch.

Then Pansy had to go to work at 10 am that morning. She looked pretty roughed up. But that's what happens when you get too wild popping a bull whip around like that.

Everybody's Crazy About A Sharp Dressed Pansy Man....

2008-02-03T21:33:00.001-08:00

ZZ Top was coming to town. A bunch of our Harley Owner's Group (HOG) decided to go as a group. A week or so before the concert the promoters called a couple Harley dealerships and asked if the HOG people would come down early on the day of the concert for a promotional contest. I don't know why they wanted Harley people but the contest involved...OMG...Dressing Up! Pansy went into a freakin' tizzy and got extremely loaded. When she sobered up she got seriously loaded for bear. That is some kind of saying that is so old even Pansy does not know what it means but it is supposed to connote something along the lines of: "you are going down, sucka." Pansy so fucking OWNS Dressing up. Everyone knows Dressing Up is HER turf. We did not know what the "categories" were going to be but since when do facts deter Pansy? I truly did not know what the categories were going to be but I guessed (because I have Superior Instincts For Nonsense) they would involve ZZ Top song titles. Contest Category Winners were to be determined by "audience applause o-meter."

Finally Day of Contest/Concert arrives. What is up for grabs are "upgraded" concert tickets for each of the winners of 3 categories (ding, ding, ding!): Sharp Dressed Man (male); Legs (women); Tush (men for some stupid flatassed reason). Please note 2 of the 3 categories were for men. Fuck that. Pansy is Manned Up beyond even manly HOG dudes so this was going to totally be a no-brainer.

First Event: Sharp Dressed Man
OH, please. The dickwads are prancing around in their "best" vests/leg leathers. What about "Sharp" and "Dressed" do they not understand? Maybe they couldn't figure it out what with them having their heads up their asses and all. I take off my Harley leather outer jacket and levis/leg leathers. What I am wearing under the jacket and over the levis/leathers---because Layer Your Clothing is a Pansy credo---is a really FINE woman's suit: a down-to-my-knees Zoot suit kinda jacket on top that is showing cleavage down to There and a long, mid-calf skirt slit up to There. All black and white with black/white patent leather 4" high heels that are styled to look like men's dress shoes with spats. Plus a big black straw sunhat suitable for Kentucky Derby Day with lovely short white First Lady style gloves. Way fucking Sharp and Dressed. I get Set One of upgrade tickets.

Second Event: Legs
For women only. The contest people tried to tell me I can't win "twice." I said "Watch me." Of course, I wasn't going to take the winnings AGAIN but for fucking cryin' out loud....the other bitches are mincing around in JEANS! Oh, sure, some had embroidered jeans. I commanded some men to hold my hair back while I barfed from boredom. Then I got up on the stage and took off my long jacket and long skirt to reveal that underneath I was wearing a lovely strapless, backless, black lace bustier type bra and a seriously short black leather miniskirt--also slit, but this time slit all the Way Up To THERE. How else can anyone choose the winning legs if you ain't showing 'em? I give my second set of upgrade tickets to Second Place Woman.

Third Event: Tush
The men's buns are supposed to be judged for something. I have no idea what the poor audience is supposed to applaud for since the men are all wearing dumpy jeans and leathers. Onstage I go again despite the contest organizers' pleas and somewhat pathetic attempts to physically restrain me. I guess by now they realized I might do ANYTHING and they weren't sure they had enough liability insurance. Well, if you want to win a Best Buns contest......what's a Pansy to do? She pulled off her short leather miniskirt to reveal a Very Vivid Bright Blue Harley thong and black lace-top thigh high stockings. She did keep her lacy bra/bustier thing on. But the outfit did not seem "complete". And Pansy is psychotic about "completeness." So she magically found in her thong/panties (gasp!) a long, long, long Pearl Necklace. Which she wrapped around her throat while extolling its warmness. Score Set #3 of upgraded concert tickets. Which I gave to the only male who had not fainted dead away.

It was a pleasant concert.

Pansy's Hot Magic Pocket

2008-02-01T19:14:00.000-08:00

Just a lame story that began long, long ago:

The Portugese Washer Woman got sick at work one day. Her heart was racing at over 200 bpm and then would go down to about 50 bpm and she was sweating and then in chills and it was pretty scary. So I drove her to the hospital ER where they checked her out. I got to check her out, too, since they made her strip down and put EKG patch thingamabobs on all of HER thingamabobs and boobs and Personal Patch, too! As these things usually go with a young female in perfect health she was diagnosed as only having a stress/anxiety attack. During the long hours we were there I thought to amuse her by showing off my nifty new purse which has loads of pockets.

A purse with loads of pockets is Pansy's Most Biggest Fetish. This purse has pockets on all its surfaces, inside and out and even along the strap. Then I found a pocket that had somehow magically escaped all my prior inspections of the purse, which was 1 week old. And I find money ($10!!) inside this brand fucking new pocket! HOT! But how can that be? As my Portugese phrases it I had the most beatific look of unadulterated joy, glee, lust and possibly even had tears in my eyes.

Well, all I had done was turn the stupid purse over so many times I was now into "reruns" on the pockets. Which caused an expression to make its way onto my face that was 100% polar-opposite of my Happy Face. I was stupefied, angry, feeling sexually frustrated and possibly even had tears in my eyes by this extreme letdown over NO HOT MAGIC POCKET. AND no new fucking $10, neither! Shit. Hey, I was upset over my Portugese and we all know how fucked Pansy is with MATH so her losing count of pockets under that day's stress is not inconceivable.

Portugese started laughing at (definitely not with) me so hard she literally almost fell off the hospital bed. I am mortified, which so rarely happens that she laughed even harder. Then I am laughing and we laughed/cried for at least an hour straight. We could not answer the questions of the medical people and they, like, got all fucking negative on us, man. Stupid uptight straights.

This event somehow set Cosmic Forces into motion and Every Day for, I swear, the next 3 weeks in a row whatever I was wearing somewhere on it would be a Hot Magic Pocket and in that pocket would be MONEY. Sometimes $5, usually just a couple/three $1 bills, sometimes coins....but always at least $1. Money in my pockets, day in and day out.

Then the Hot Magic Pocket moved to Sexy Mexican and SHE kept finding money in her clothing pockets. One day she found TWO new pockets she had never known about before that day on the back of her skirt--which she had owned for several months. And coins in the pockets.

Finally the Hot Magic Pocket moved to the Portugese. Which was a very good thing because she is probably Half Gypsy too and they will get all freaky and definitely voodoo on you if they get too pissed off. So Sexy Mexi and I were relieved Portugese was getting some action, too, even though we were not allowed to participate in said Hot Magic Pocket action with the Portugese. She is also a major teaser bitch in case I have not mentioned this nasty trait of hers before.

Eventually the magic got used up. This was about 2001. Then, just this past couple of weeks......YES!! I have been finding money in one pocket or another of my clothing pockets.

Mr. Pansy never gets Hot Magic Pocket Action.....except with Pansy, any time he wants some! And even when he doesn't want some Hot Magic Pocket Action. Okay--that last sentence was a total, complete fucking lie. Mr. Pansy Never Doesn't Want some o' that Pansy's Hot Magic Pocket Action. He has even specifically, out loud, said to her: Feel free to wake me up any time you want to give me some hot pocket action.

#5 Pansy Walks Into A Bar And...

2008-02-01T10:38:00.000-08:00

It all began, long, long ago:

Mr. and Mrs. Pansy are riding their two Harleys to Reno, NV, for a romantic long weekend to celebrate their 25th Wedding Anniversary. They stop at a turnout to enjoy the majestic vista overlooking Nevada. Pansy notices her helmet visor is not snapped on all 3 snaps. The middle one needs to be popped back in. She leans her head forward a bit and Mr. Pansy pushes on the snap. It won't go back in. He says he's going to have to "pop it a good one". In hindsight, Pansy (who knows he deliberately mumbles to trick her into all kinds of bad decisions) now believes he said "I am going to pop you a good one."

Anyway, Pansy agrees to the good popping plan and again leans forward a bit, which makes Mr. Pansy go "off sides" and he HIT her helmet visor with every single muscle fiber and bitter emotion he evidently has built up over the past 25 years. Pansy's head snaps backwards with great force, stopped only by the base of the helmet hitting her across her upper shoulders, sending them into a instantaneous major muscle spasm while also simultaneously snapping her lower jaw shut so forcefully all four of her front bottom teeth get immediately chipped off by the top teeth. To Mr. Pansy's deep regret her tongue was not also injured and, in fact, it became quite agitated over this "accident."

Okay, Pansy is willing to believe she led Mr. Pansy on with her jukey move but what she had INTENDED to do was take off her helmet so he could snap the visor fully on. After repeatedly rinsing and spitting the tooth chips out, Pansy becomes aware that all this happened while we have been near a parked Highway Patrol car officer in the same turnout who did NOTHING to investigate this suspicious situation! I think he even winked at Mr. Pansy.

We continue on into Reno, arriving about noon. We have always been, and will always remain, Turnip Truck Escapees so we immediately hit the casinos empty stomached to get those free drinks because we can never learn our lesson about that combo. About 3pm we wander/stagger back outside where there is a bunch of crap everywhere....what is it called? Oh, yeh. A shitload of goddam blinding SUNSHINE everywhere which makes us start cursing like drunk people who have suddenly gone blind. I think we said something like:

Me whispering: SHIT! I CAN'T SEE FOR FUCK! WHAT THE FUCK?
Mr. Pansy whispering: SHIT! I CAN'T SEE FOR FUCK! WHAT THE FUCK?

Plus we need to curse about the probability that we will ever again find our hotel.

Me whispering: HOW THE FUCK ARE WE GOING TO FIND OUR HOTEL EVER AGAIN?
Mr. Pansy whispering: I DON'T KNOW WHERE THE FUCK OUR HOTEL IS.

Which did not attract any attention from the nearby policeman looking at us. I think he winked at Mr. Pansy, too. Right then a young, under 25, male goes be-bopping by wearing headphones which are connected to NOTHING but he is a bopping and grooving. And he has something tattooed on his forehead.

Me whispering: WHAT THE FUCK DOES HE HAVE ON HIS FUCKING FOREHEAD?
Mr. Pansy whispering: "SHIT FOR BRAINS"!

We do not die because Space Cadet Boy (who could have taken both of us down with one hand tied behind his back) fortunately is too messed up to hear/understand these old people, one of whom is partially toothless, on the sidewalk who evidently have had bullhorns implanted in their mouths. Because they, too, were currently alcohol impaired enough to also have shit for brains. We eventually found our way back to the hotel, and back to the casinos and free drinks, etc. and eventually even back to our home.

About 4 months later I am going to the dentist for my regular checkup and comment that in the past week or so I have had a "buzzing" in my upper left front teeth. Dentist checks all the teeth and yep only those 2 are "buzzy". He ponders this and says:

DDS: Have you bitten on hard food lately or got hit in the mouth somehow?
Pansy: Oh, of course! Mr. Pansy really socked me one a few months ago and all my bottom teeth are chipped, too. Can you kind of file them smooth?

Various medical and educational people in California are MANDATED abuse reporters and he and his nurse get all freaked out. They start quizzing me and getting out forms and taking notes. hehehehhehehehe. I explain the situation and since they have not heard this particular "abuse cover up story" before they decide to go along with it. But they did, several times, even as I am walking out the door, assure me if I "ever need to talk we are here for you."

The diagnosis was that my teeth roots had been bruised and there was nothing to do but wait to see if they died or recovered. I skipped around for weeks singing "All I want for Christmas is my Four Front Teeth" since all would need to be replaced to make them matchy-matchy. I was Extremely disappointed when the $2000 repair job did not come to pass since my teeth recovered. So now I still have those snaggly front teeth. And the bottom teeth got filed smooth....which I should have refused to have done because then I would be so much closer to being my dream animal: a land-based Great White Shark with those nifty serrated teeth. Then I could just smile at the family jewels when I felt Mr. Pansy needed to see things my way.

I hate it when Mr. Pansy wins one. Which he won only because we had been going to this dentist for 25 years.

Pansy Pain Button

2008-01-30T11:25:00.000-08:00

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?

Show Pansy Your Boobs!

2008-01-30T11:07:00.000-08:00

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?

#4 -- Pansy Walks Into A Bar...

2008-01-29T10:43:00.001-08:00

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.

Pansy Au Natural

2008-01-28T22:54:00.001-08:00

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.

When Pansy's Whip Sings...

2008-01-28T22:46:00.000-08:00

.....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.

#3 -- Pansy Walks Into A Bar And...

2008-01-28T22:36:00.001-08:00

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.

#2 -- Pansy Walks Into A Bar And...

2008-01-28T17:45:00.000-08:00

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.

#1 -- Pansy Walks Into A Bar And...

2008-01-28T10:34:00.000-08:00

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 LOVES AMERICAN RED ROSES

2008-01-25T08:55:00.000-08:00

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%.

Payback Is A Bitch Named Pansy

2008-01-22T17:18:00.001-08:00

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......"

Was That A Masked Donkey?

2008-01-21T15:17:00.000-08:00

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.

Pansy's Porn Career

2008-01-20T14:34:00.000-08:00

So. Based on "improperly interpreted" misconceptions about Pansy's Pubic [giggle, I mean] PUBLIC behavior it has come to her attention that some people believe she might have been a porn star in her younger years. It doesn't really help that "Pansy Palmetto" is indeed my porn name. Which name does give off that vibe to those whose radar sensitivities are less sensitive due to testosterone poisoning. Those guys (like Toothless Drunk, SproingEye Boy, and too-many-to-count others) will be graciously dismissed by Miss Pansy on the polite premise that they are simply hopeful that Hottie Pansy is just dying for some of the tall cool drink they have to offer! How she wishes she COULD be so polite and forgiving but for fucking cryin' out loud: what is this SHIT about maybe having been a porn star "when I was younger"? Like I couldn't be a porn star RIGHT FUCKING NOW? Pansy may never get over this insult! In fact, I am so upset I am going to go get some comfort food this instant! Milf and cookies sounds pretty good.

Meanwhile, among the many and foul secrets I have kept from Mr. Pansy, the following story would be the worst. One day I was calmly sitting around (well, that sounds like the Worst Lie but it isn't) and I suddenly ("suddenly" is one of my signature traits it would seem) decided I really needed to do something different for a Christmas gift for Mr. Pansy. I found a Krazie Texas Lady (is there any other kind of Texas Lady?) whom I paid to co-create this secret. I then spent (over the next couple of months) 4 full days and 8 half days working on the secret. The children were in on it. They learned to lie early in their lives. From their Certified Montessori Trained mom. When Mr. Pansy would leave for work on Saturday (he doesn't have to do THAT anymore) at 7:45am, within seconds the girls and I would whirlwind through the house and race away to the Krazie Texas Lady's house, which had a doorbell with the tune "The Yellow Rose of Texas" and loads of candy and toys. The girls loved her house. Then we would dash home, arriving seconds before 5:30pm and the unsuspecting Mr. Pansy--from his supposedly hard day's work. Ha! His day was not nearly as grueling as mine had been. To flesh out this Worst Lie/Secret involved the most pain I have ever been put through and contortions just about beyond my gymnast's abilities. The gift was a calendar. I was each month's pinup. It was really hard work. I nearly got an ulcer over the deceptiveness required to keep it secret from Mr. Pansy. I designed all the concepts, did my own hair, makeup and clothes. And none of that retouching, soft focus lens crap either. When you do YOUR calendar just remember: start with light colors of makeup and work your way over to the deeper shades. It's easier to darken up than lighten down.

Signed,
Greatest Liar Of All Time (GLOAT--which is way cooler than being just GOAT)

You, too, can have a porn name: the name of your favorite childhood pet and the name of the street you lived on.

Mr. Pansy Chainsaw Massacre Stories Nos. 3, 4, 5

2008-01-20T11:35:00.000-08:00

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.