I was in the pool for 4.6 hours on Sunday.
That’s insanity. It’s waterlogged insanity.
I think I’m becoming a Pool Goddess. But my boobs stay where I want them to. Most of the time, anyway.
And because I made the conscious decision that a wee bit of sunburn was better than a month’s worth of hives, I’m now sunburned. I’m still itchy from the 4th of July, but thankfully burned hives don’t itch. Thus I’m a bit raccoonish right now though. I sun worshipped like a skin cancer-ridden skinny bitch because it just felt so darned lovely on my skin I really couldn’t help myself. Then I sat upon the blue floatie which corresponds with my electric blue toenail polish and fried some more. My eyes look enormous and really blue surrounded by those little white circles, like I’m what happens when those Precious Moments figurines grow up and go bad. You ever notice that Enesco never let you see the ‘Bar Flies Need Love Too’ figurine. It’s just too upsetting.
Esteban looked at me yesterday and said ‘Why are you so WILD this year?’ and then mentioned that I’ve been to bars more times in the last year than I have in the previous 11 since I’ve known him. It’s all the fault of the Bad Bar. Or maybe Carissa. I’m blaming her. Couldn’t possibly be my fault. Nope. I won’t believe it.
Actually, I think it’s that Woman’s Peak thing. I’m ramping up, baby. I think I must be hitting that sexual peak. I think like a boy now. When I’m out watching people, I’m no longer judging them on their fashion sense but rather I’m looking for guys who are possible cast members of the constant sexual fantasy that goes on inside my head. It’s a strange thing really.
Actually, I kind of like it. It’s like when I was thirteen and thinking about sex ALL THE TIME. Maybe it’s from calling myself a Curvy Round Sex Goddess. My hormones are taking up the cause. You can almost here the little estrogen cavalry rushing in, tooting a very tiny little cellular bugle.
And is it just me or is every UPS driver damn sexy? Maybe it’s the shorts. I dig a man in proper shorts. I love men’s legs. I don’t know why, but man legs are pretty hot. They have to have a proper amount of hair. Hairless man legs make me squeamish. And they can’t be too hairy. It can’t look like they’re wearing pants. Oddly enough, I’m not into terribly muscular legs, either. Just nice, slightly downy, mildly muscled man legs. UPS driver legs. Russell Crowe legs. Lifeguard legs. Groowlll. I’ve got to stop that now.
I do know one thing though. If this keeps up, I’m going to be answering my door in my adorable boxer shorts and busty camisole, and inviting the paper boy in for ‘coffee, tea, or me’. Gah. I’m so turning into my mother. Next thing I know, I’ll be moving out of the house and shacking up with a biker named Ace, who has his name tattooed onto the top of his left hand, so he doesn’t forget who he is when he’s drunk. Actually, in her case, she shacked up with a John Lennon clone hippy, we stopped eating meat for two years and I forgot what white bread tasted like.
Not many people consider falafel a comfort food.
Esteban will be attending some dork fest down in Milwaukee this weekend. He’s leaving tomorrow and that means one thing for this wild girl:
Kegger!
No. Not really. But I am taking a vacation day on Friday for some girl on girl action.
Girl golf, people. Get your minds out of the gutter. Penny and I, sans The Lovely Carissa, because she is without a babysitter, will be hitting the links. And then I will be driving to Milwaukee to shop at my favorite mall ever. It has a Pottery Barn, a Barnes & Noble, a Franklin Planner store, a J.Jill, a Marshall Fields WITH a Prescriptives counter where they can custom blend your makeup for you for value added yuppie smugness, a Coldwater Creek, a Crate & Barrel, a Restoration Hardware, a Body Shop, a Godiva chocolatier, an Eddie Bauer with an Eddie Bauer Home section, and’wait for it’ wait for it’ TORRID the Curvy Round Punk Girl Store! Wooot! I think that when I die, I want my ashes to be scattered at that mall because it is my idea of heaven. If they had an Ikea, maybe, just MAYBE it would be perfect and people would have spontaneous consumer orgasms when they walked into the door. Maybe.
I’m quivering with anticipation. I was telling Ward and June about my shopping extravaganza and she asked ‘Is that where the Cootchie store is?’
I was stunned. My mouth literally dropped open, bringing in at least a cup of pool water. Did I tell her about the porn store adventure? What the heck?
‘What?’ I asked.
‘You know, the Cootchie Mama store.’
‘OHHHH! HOOTCHIE MAMA store!’ I exclaimed.
Then I had to tell her that she shouldn’t call things Cootchie Mama in public because it’s not a very nice word and maybe the girls at the Hootchie Mama store would pop a cap in her ass if they heard her say such things.
So anyway, the Hootchie Mama store is looking for a new name. But I will be visiting there as well.
I have to post this now because Heidi is getting upset. Hi Heidi. Hope you’ve got your motivation now.
