Fanciness and Pantslessness
A girlfriend of mine wears dresses pretty much 24/7. Shout out to Mel. Anyway, I thought to myself, “Self? Why would anyone in their right mind wear dresses? I mean, sure, she looks adorable, but JEEEEZE, what a pain in the ass. Am I right fellas? Up top? Wait, don’t leave me hangin.” And then I walked away, because the only person to talk to themselves, supply an answer AND expect a high five… is an insane person. And I do NOT want to be around that.
Oh, wait.
So, a few weeks ago (ok, like a month or two) when it was say, oh… maybe one hundred and twenty five degrees… in the shade, I thought to myself, Hmmm, a dress would not touch my legs. A dress would allow me to wear flip flops as (massive finger quotes) sandals. It is just ONE piece of clothing. I would be thismuch closer to being naked in a dress. SOLD, motherfuckers. So I started wearing dresses and seeing the brilliance of Mel.
I mean, it is a total win win. I like to be pantsless. WIN… and I don’t have to shave or anything, thanks to laser hair removal. Best freaking money I ever spent. Well, it is a tossup between the laser hair removal and the cock shortening I had done. The doctor put quotes around “clitoral augmentation”… but we all know what’s going on here.
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I feel pretty!
Also, Target online sales. Yes, like 4 dresses for less than 60 bucks and I am wearing one right now. Y’all wanna see my cleavage? I’m looking right at it and … oh, holy shit… it’s sparkly.
Curious.
I just spent the past five minutes (ok, more like ten) looking for a link to point to so I could scream, “MOAR GLITTAH!” And it would be appropriate. Well, as appropriate as talking about Vampire sparkle peen dildos. Whoever knows what I am ranting on about, please send a link. POSTHASTE.
Meanwhile….. Imagine me shaking a cold white sparkly vampire vibrator at you while shouting that it needs, “MOAR GLITTAH!” Also, imagine that I am old, Asian, male and I have one of those long beard with seven hairs and gnarled hands holding said glitter peen in one and a knobby walking stick in the other.
Wanna make out?
Boundaries? We don’t need not STEENKIN Boundaries.
For those of you not aware… or those of you new to this page. I am a divorcee. That sounds good just rolling of the tongue. Deee-vors-ayyyyyyyyye. Twice over. Yep. I have made a career out of getting married and divorced. If by career you mean, shacking up for almost a decade each with two separate dudes… giving 110% and getting shit in return. And no… I’m not fucking BITTER.
Not bitter… am wizened. And by wizened I mean, burnt the fuck out.
Over the past holiday weekendishness… Nugget and I went down to see Marly in the Houston area. We (Me, Marls, Nugget and Tonda) all went to see Poison and Def Leppard Saturday night and it was a gloriously hot and humid Houston evening. With so much big hair, tight pants and camel toes as far as the eye could see.
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This makes me uncomfortable.
We drank many tepid sweating beers and danced our asses off up at the back of the pavilion. It was fun and on Sunday as Nugget and I drove back towards Dallas I got a bee in my bonnet to go to my parents’ house.
We got into Dallas around 5ish and I left for their house no later than six o’clock in the pm. The visit, from Sunday evening to Tuesday early afternoon, was lovely. We chatted, we smoked, we ate, we looked at picture books and we jacked with their computer. It was a very nice little piece of downtime for me and I was so happy to just be there. I slept y’all… OMG I slept like a log lyin in the forest. It was glorious.
As always, as things are with my folks, talk turns to money and how things are. We have been planning for their mortality since the early 90’s. Yes, we are a bunch of morbid fucks, but we are well prepared morbid fucks.
They asked me about something that gets my back up every time I think about it.
Daddy: Susan, how is that credit card coming that Paul* is paying on?
self: He’s paying on it.
Momma: Susan, why don’t you close that card?
Daddy: That would really be the best thing.
self: Y’all, it’s my card. I worked hard for that credit limit. The only way to close it would be to transfer the balance. And I’m not putting that balance on anything else.
Daddy: Why don’t you ask him to open up a credit card and transfer the balance?
self: I could do that.
Momma: But?
Daddy: Yes… but? I seem to remember that you don’t want to open a line of dialogue with him.
self: You are correct sir.**
Daddy: Why not?
self: (blank stare with slow blink… waiting…)
Daddy: Well, hell, I know why NOT…. I am just thinking that it would probably be in your best financial interest to at least ask him.
self: I’ve been thinking about it for a while. But (whining) I dontwannnnaaaaaa!
Momma: Awww… what’s the worst that could happen? He would say, “No.”???
self: I’ll think about it.
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Engh!
So I thought about it. I only use that card in very short bursts (very few and far between) for large ticket items for work then I turn around and pay them off before the next statement goes out. It is nice to have a card like that. I DO have a “just for work expenses” card… but this one is for the yearly stuff like that trip I took with MPI to St. Louis. I put the hotel on it because they always keep a hold on a credit card for the balance and it is a big chunk of change. I also used it for a charge for my chiropractor, as soon as I got reimbursed from TASC I paid that off too. So I don’t really want to close it. It could be years before he pays it off (it’s part of the divorce decree… I’m not just expecting him to pay off something out of nastiness, y’all), and I don’t want to have something “Closed by Request” on my credit… don’t think you can have it closed with a balance owed anyway.
He sent me an email yesterday like he is some mind reader or something, so I took the chance to reply to him to ask him to let me know when he had a free few moments because I had a question.
He called me last night as I was leaving the office. We were on the phone for almost a half hour.
I don’t know what the deal is whenever I speak to him. All the sudden I am this… child. On one hand I feel this vague satisfaction that I don’t have to answer to him (or anyone), but on the other I feel like I have done something wrong and I have to wait for him to tell me what it is… so I just have this awful undefined guilt hovering above me. I don’t really like to be this dramatic (unless I am totally kidding… because, then it’s funny… this? Is just tragic) but it feels like PTSD. It is a major source of anxiety. And to be blunt, I don’t like it one bit.
Long story very short. I asked him about opening up a line of credit to transfer the owed balance, he said something along the lines of, “No.” and then he asked me about our old bed… the California King Select Comfort (first bed he ever slept on that his feet didn’t hang off the end). It is sitting in the garage, I’m not using it. My friend wanted to buy it. But I haven’t heard hide nor hair from her since plans were made and cancelled at the beginning of August. So he said no to opening up a line of credit, then asked me about the bed. He wants it. It was purchased for him after all. But… um. I’m sort of feeling railroaded here.
I called my parents.
Mama: Hi Sue!
self: Hi mama… um, about calling Paul…
Mama: Yes?
self: So, yeah, I just got off the phone with him.
Mama: And?
self: He said he wasn’t opening up any lines of credit right now… and he wants the old bed.
Mama: So he said no … AND he’s getting the bed?
self: That’s about it.
Mama: Wow… he sure knows how to play you.
self: Yes ma’am… Apparently.
Holy fucking shit I am so freaking awesome at boundaries!
He wanted to come pick up the bed over the weekend. I .. well, I didn’t want him to. To be honest, I didn’t want him to know where I live. Sure he can find out as it is a matter of public record. Whatever, I didn’t want him invited into my home… even my garage. I mean, I did well enough to skirt around the topics of him wanting to have lunch to catch up (NO, you gave up the privilege of being my friend when you stopped acknowledging me as a person and I was YOUR FUCKING WIFE) and also wondering if we “got disconnected on FaceBook”… Cha-Right (ditto). So I didn’t know how many more lobs I could evade before I lost my shit and started yelling in a high pitched voice***.
He sent me a text on … Thursday or whenever asking if Sunday, late morning, would work to pick up the bed. I told him I was not going to be able to do it over the weekend. He said he would touch base with me later this week…. (breathe)… and actually texted, “Until then….” Like he’s freaking courting me. I know, I’m insane. We’ve covered that. I’m aware. And I am probably just putting way to much thought and anxiety into something that should be a non-issue. But I just can’t muster up enough “Don’t Give A Shit” to cover this instance.
I take it way too personally when he does stuff like calls and asks me to pick my brain on blogging because he wants to start his own. THIS?! after not paying my own site any mind for almost a decade. A freaking decade y’all.
Apparently it wasn’t important.
I just rolled my eyes so hard.
Also? I am having trouble uploading a .gif of Lurch dancing. Because it makes me happy, that’s why. So imagine that …
Oh… about…
Hmmm…
HERE.
Link: You know you wanna click right here…
Just cut my finger wide ass open with a plastic knife… OPENING A BANANA. For reals, yo. Because I am a special kind of stupid.
![]()
Mah Fingah!
*Mr. X
**Yes, I totally tried to sound like Phil Hartman portraying Ed McMahon.
***Yes, it is as attractive as you think.
I feel pretty!
Also, Target online sales. Yes, like 4 dresses for less than 60 bucks and I am wearing one right now. Y’all wanna see my cleavage? I’m looking right at it and … oh, holy shit… it’s sparkly.
Curious.
I just spent the past five minutes (ok, more like ten) looking for a link to point to so I could scream, “MOAR GLITTAH!” And it would be appropriate. Well, as appropriate as talking about Vampire sparkle peen dildos. Whoever knows what I am ranting on about, please send a link. POSTHASTE.
Meanwhile….. Imagine me shaking a cold white sparkly vampire vibrator at you while shouting that it needs, “MOAR GLITTAH!” Also, imagine that I am old, Asian, male and I have one of those long beard with seven hairs and gnarled hands holding said glitter peen in one and a knobby walking stick in the other.
Wanna make out?
Boundaries? We don’t need not STEENKIN Boundaries.
For those of you not aware… or those of you new to this page. I am a divorcee. That sounds good just rolling of the tongue. Deee-vors-ayyyyyyyyye. Twice over. Yep. I have made a career out of getting married and divorced. If by career you mean, shacking up for almost a decade each with two separate dudes… giving 110% and getting shit in return. And no… I’m not fucking BITTER.
Not bitter… am wizened. And by wizened I mean, burnt the fuck out.
Over the past holiday weekendishness… Nugget and I went down to see Marly in the Houston area. We (Me, Marls, Nugget and Tonda) all went to see Poison and Def Leppard Saturday night and it was a gloriously hot and humid Houston evening. With so much big hair, tight pants and camel toes as far as the eye could see.
This makes me uncomfortable.
We drank many tepid sweating beers and danced our asses off up at the back of the pavilion. It was fun and on Sunday as Nugget and I drove back towards Dallas I got a bee in my bonnet to go to my parents’ house.
We got into Dallas around 5ish and I left for their house no later than six o’clock in the pm. The visit, from Sunday evening to Tuesday early afternoon, was lovely. We chatted, we smoked, we ate, we looked at picture books and we jacked with their computer. It was a very nice little piece of downtime for me and I was so happy to just be there. I slept y’all… OMG I slept like a log lyin in the forest. It was glorious.
As always, as things are with my folks, talk turns to money and how things are. We have been planning for their mortality since the early 90’s. Yes, we are a bunch of morbid fucks, but we are well prepared morbid fucks.
They asked me about something that gets my back up every time I think about it.
Daddy: Susan, how is that credit card coming that Paul* is paying on?
self: He’s paying on it.
Momma: Susan, why don’t you close that card?
Daddy: That would really be the best thing.
self: Y’all, it’s my card. I worked hard for that credit limit. The only way to close it would be to transfer the balance. And I’m not putting that balance on anything else.
Daddy: Why don’t you ask him to open up a credit card and transfer the balance?
self: I could do that.
Momma: But?
Daddy: Yes… but? I seem to remember that you don’t want to open a line of dialogue with him.
self: You are correct sir.**
Daddy: Why not?
self: (blank stare with slow blink… waiting…)
Daddy: Well, hell, I know why NOT…. I am just thinking that it would probably be in your best financial interest to at least ask him.
self: I’ve been thinking about it for a while. But (whining) I dontwannnnaaaaaa!
Momma: Awww… what’s the worst that could happen? He would say, “No.”???
self: I’ll think about it.
Engh!
So I thought about it. I only use that card in very short bursts (very few and far between) for large ticket items for work then I turn around and pay them off before the next statement goes out. It is nice to have a card like that. I DO have a “just for work expenses” card… but this one is for the yearly stuff like that trip I took with MPI to St. Louis. I put the hotel on it because they always keep a hold on a credit card for the balance and it is a big chunk of change. I also used it for a charge for my chiropractor, as soon as I got reimbursed from TASC I paid that off too. So I don’t really want to close it. It could be years before he pays it off (it’s part of the divorce decree… I’m not just expecting him to pay off something out of nastiness, y’all), and I don’t want to have something “Closed by Request” on my credit… don’t think you can have it closed with a balance owed anyway.
He sent me an email yesterday like he is some mind reader or something, so I took the chance to reply to him to ask him to let me know when he had a free few moments because I had a question.
He called me last night as I was leaving the office. We were on the phone for almost a half hour.
I don’t know what the deal is whenever I speak to him. All the sudden I am this… child. On one hand I feel this vague satisfaction that I don’t have to answer to him (or anyone), but on the other I feel like I have done something wrong and I have to wait for him to tell me what it is… so I just have this awful undefined guilt hovering above me. I don’t really like to be this dramatic (unless I am totally kidding… because, then it’s funny… this? Is just tragic) but it feels like PTSD. It is a major source of anxiety. And to be blunt, I don’t like it one bit.
Long story very short. I asked him about opening up a line of credit to transfer the owed balance, he said something along the lines of, “No.” and then he asked me about our old bed… the California King Select Comfort (first bed he ever slept on that his feet didn’t hang off the end). It is sitting in the garage, I’m not using it. My friend wanted to buy it. But I haven’t heard hide nor hair from her since plans were made and cancelled at the beginning of August. So he said no to opening up a line of credit, then asked me about the bed. He wants it. It was purchased for him after all. But… um. I’m sort of feeling railroaded here.
I called my parents.
Mama: Hi Sue!
self: Hi mama… um, about calling Paul…
Mama: Yes?
self: So, yeah, I just got off the phone with him.
Mama: And?
self: He said he wasn’t opening up any lines of credit right now… and he wants the old bed.
Mama: So he said no … AND he’s getting the bed?
self: That’s about it.
Mama: Wow… he sure knows how to play you.
self: Yes ma’am… Apparently.
Holy fucking shit I am so freaking awesome at boundaries!
He wanted to come pick up the bed over the weekend. I .. well, I didn’t want him to. To be honest, I didn’t want him to know where I live. Sure he can find out as it is a matter of public record. Whatever, I didn’t want him invited into my home… even my garage. I mean, I did well enough to skirt around the topics of him wanting to have lunch to catch up (NO, you gave up the privilege of being my friend when you stopped acknowledging me as a person and I was YOUR FUCKING WIFE) and also wondering if we “got disconnected on FaceBook”… Cha-Right (ditto). So I didn’t know how many more lobs I could evade before I lost my shit and started yelling in a high pitched voice***.
He sent me a text on … Thursday or whenever asking if Sunday, late morning, would work to pick up the bed. I told him I was not going to be able to do it over the weekend. He said he would touch base with me later this week…. (breathe)… and actually texted, “Until then….” Like he’s freaking courting me. I know, I’m insane. We’ve covered that. I’m aware. And I am probably just putting way to much thought and anxiety into something that should be a non-issue. But I just can’t muster up enough “Don’t Give A Shit” to cover this instance.
I take it way too personally when he does stuff like calls and asks me to pick my brain on blogging because he wants to start his own. THIS?! after not paying my own site any mind for almost a decade. A freaking decade y’all.
Apparently it wasn’t important.
I just rolled my eyes so hard.
Also? I am having trouble uploading a .gif of Lurch dancing. Because it makes me happy, that’s why. So imagine that …
Oh… about…
Hmmm…
HERE.
Link: You know you wanna click right here…
Just cut my finger wide ass open with a plastic knife… OPENING A BANANA. For reals, yo. Because I am a special kind of stupid.
Mah Fingah!
*Mr. X
**Yes, I totally tried to sound like Phil Hartman portraying Ed McMahon.
***Yes, it is as attractive as you think.