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Lime green flowered capri pants… they’re a bad thing

The problem with being a slacker is that so much happens in between entries that I can barely bring myself to write about. Here’s the Low Attention Span Version:

Went golfing with Penny and Mary. I sucked Bob Dole’s Penis for the first 5 holes. Actually, I rock out like No Doubt during the driving portion of the hole, mostly because I hide betwixt my curves a veritable powerhouse of Grrl Golf plutonium or something. Probably the ‘or something’. I got to feel all important when my golf bag began to play Beethoven’s ‘Ode To Joy’ and had my golf chicas say ‘Is that you?’. And it was. Or more specifically, it was Jake, calling to tell me about Lesbian Day at Ikea, which is apparently Friday. In case you’re wondering. I then proceeded to kick serious golf ass on the remaining four holes. Eat that, Tiger Woods.

Then Penny and I went to swim at Club Parentals. It was lovely. I showed her my blue toenail polish. She was impressed. I showed her how to pick up a dive stick in her teeth. A moment was shared by all. Then we scootled to do various Make Beautiful kind of stuff, and then met Mary for dinner at the restaurant where my mom works. She wasn’t there because it was her birthday and I am a bad bad daughter, eating dinner with my friends on my Mom’s birthday. Bah. She went out of town, so just you stop crucifying me on the Carrie Fisher Tree of Shame, ok? Just stop.

I had a combination of grilled chicken ravioli and wild mushroom ravioli with a rose’ sauce, if you must know. And Hogue Riesling, which is fabulous. It doesn’t taste like a grown up wine, so I’m all for that. I think if they bottled Kool-Aid and put a snooty label and some year vaguely in the 90’s, I’d be really happy because there wouldn’t be all this pressure to drink stuff that tastes vaguely like fermented hair spray.

We will serve no Sharkleberry Finn before its time.

And I got to feel uber important, as I got called during dinner no less than 7 times. I think the other diners thought I was maybe a rock star. I might have been able to pull it off if the lady who used to change my diapers wasn’t waiting on us.

Anyway, then we were all off to the Bad Bar. We met up with Carissa and a ‘pity invite’. I brought along Mo, who was kind of a pity invite, too, although a very fun pity invite. I slammed three Malibu and Diet Cokes in rapid succession and then cut it off because I was going to Milwaukee the next day.

Interesting Fact: You know how they were claiming that they didn’t have the Tootsie Roll song? Well, apparently when you’re really inebriated, the ‘Tricky’ song by Run DMC sounds a lot like the Tootsie Roll song, despite the fact that they don’t actually ever use the words ‘Tootsie’ nor ‘Roll’. Maybe it was the voices of Saint Malibu and Mother Kahlua talking to me, jonesing for some chocolate. I don’t know. I never claimed to understand how things work, people. I’m just telling you how it is. Imagine my surprise and disillusionment.

We didn’t stay out very late. Mo spotted a man who looked just like Johnny Knoxville. Well, maybe 90% Johnny, 10% Bam Margera. Still very attractive though and he was even chewing gum and had those little pouchy black eye circles that Johnny sports. I tried to get her to go over and mount him. ‘Mount him!’ I kept prodding her all night. She blatantly refused. He left, later, unmounted, and Mo almost started crying. I tried to be optimistic ‘You never know, a guy who looks like 90% Jimmy Fallon might come in. And then you’ll be listening to your older sister, now, won’t you?’

I dragged her out of there at midnight. Then I went home and called Jake, because if he can call me right when I’m teeing off at a very pretty golf course, I can call him and wake him up on a Friday night. He was awake anyway and we had a late night discourse on Trading Spaces. He thinks Vern is swishy. I think he’s just a nice guy. We both think Frank’s last name is Swishypants, though.

Saturday morning, I got up early and buzzed out of town after burning a CD with the damn Tootsie Roll song on it, having been smoked YET AGAIN. I call the CD ‘Dip Baby Dip’, which is appropriate. It’s totally a mismosh of songs. I always throw three songs on a CD that kind of ruin the feel. I swear, it’s a damn curse. Or I forget the song that I was building the entire mix around and it’s sitting there, like a bathroom without a toilet.

Wow. Where the hell did THAT metaphor come from? Man.


As I was driving down, I noticed this guy totally scoping me out in his rearview. And then he waved. I was perplexed because I hadn’t even applied the Slutty ‘Ho lipstick, which has been known to bring men to their knees and cause them to grope the lipstick wielder with impunity. But then I thought, ‘Hey, that looks like Scotty Boom Boom’s car’ and it looks like Scotty Boom Boom’s head.’ So I picked up my phone and dialed Scotty Boom Boom.

And the guy in the car ahead of me picked up his phone.

Weirdness. He was going to Gen Con aka Dorksville.

I blew off the highway a bit later to take a pee, so I didn’t get to travel throughout Wisconsin viewing Scotty Boom Boom’s taillights (wakka chicka wakka chicka). Instead, I ended up getting into a major hour-long traffic jam in Mequon. It wasn’t a complete loss though. I did get a chance to floof my hair and apply the Slutty ‘Ho lipstick and then distract other drivers. Oh, and some kind of large butterfly or possibly cicada lighted upon my arm for just a minute and it was a beautiful thing. Truly extraordinary and breathtaking.

I managed to free myself of the horrible traffic jam just north of Milwaukee by taking the rest of the route through town along the lakeshore and in view of the mansions that decorate the lakeside there. God, it makes me feel like white trash, me in my Intimidator and $5 tube of lip-gloss. But at least my fingernails matched my lipstick. Just like Lurleen says in her fashion advice column back home ‘Tube Tops and Aqua Net Ain’t Just for Formal Events Anymore’.

I went immediately to the Hootchie Mama store, nary three blocks from Esteban’s hotel and the Gen Con Central. Even over the downtown pollution, I could whiff the geek pheromones.

I found only a few things. I absolutely fell in love with a $7 lime green pair of Capri pants with little white bead fringe on the cuffs. I brought them into their questionable changing rooms, which amounted to basically a very thin piece of 18 inch burlap hung in a 20 inch doorway.

That is when I remembered another important life lesson.

Just because it’s cute and cheap doesn’t mean that it’s a good idea.

Lime green Capri pants with white saucer-sized flowers and Curvy Round Sex Goddesses do not mix. It was a fashion crime of bulbous proportions. I did the world a favor and just said no. Then I fled the store without even a single purchase. Ah well. Hopefully, Torrid, the plus size punk girl store, would have more fun stuff.

I swung by the Hilton and picked up Esteban, then took him to lunch, as he had begun to suckle upon my leather seats. Then we went to the mall and he was a very excellent mate. He waited outside of Torrid while I literally tried on their entire line of fashionista wear. Final Bootie: a t-shirt with Tinkerbell on it, a t-shirt with ‘Warning: Too Much Girl For A Punk Like You’ on it, a Tinkerbell necklace, and a fairy pen for Kim V. Then I dragged him to the Franklin Planner store where I pouted until he purchased several Franklin accessories for me, including a lovely suppository shaped lavender pen. The way to a woman’s heart is through her Planner. It’s very true. They should change the slogan. That ‘What Matters’ thing is dead in the water.

Then we went to Starbucks and I got a Venti Tazo Chai Frappuchino, which is so good that it tastes exactly like sin. I sucked it up too fast and got a damn brain freeze. GD luscious sin-tasting frozen nectar.

And then we went home and watched Margaret Cho’s special and I made an apple cake with my free-floating anxiety due to the fact that I was in the same town as a Krispy Kreme and didn’t stop by. Operation Hottie is a cruel mistress.

Sunday was slackerosity. I went to Target and pouted until Esteban bought me a bike. And a helmet. And a gel-padded seat to protect my fine round bottom. And a Pink CD. Save your emails, I’m fully aware that I’m spoiled, thank you very much. But I’m od’ing on Just Like a Pill. Which is appropriate, non?

Oh there was more but life is too short to write long entries. I’ll tell you about jury duty tomorrow. Now, back to some serious slacking.


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