Nasty Little Thoughts

Checking In

2011-02-22T17:12:00.000-08:00

I stopped by today for the first time in over a year. All of a sudden I have a google account. Who knew? Took a bit of finessing to get back in. But I was encouraged to see I am still getting traffic. So thanks to whoever is continuing to stop by. I may even begin to post anew.

I Need YOU....

2009-10-14T10:47:00.000-07:00

To go sign this petition. If I don't get my weekly captain fix, I'll get cranky. And you all know what I'm like when I'm cranky. So (cue cheesy Faberge shampoo commercial music....damn am I dating myself or what??) Go tell your friends and they'll tell their friends and they'll tell their friends too!

God will then smile upon the earth, surveying Tuesday night's TV lineup, and He will smile upon seeing "Deadliest Catch", and He will declare that it is good.

Imitation Catch

2009-10-01T07:59:00.000-07:00

There has been a drought on the Discovery Channel, a black hole of programming that has spanned the summer months, and that I hope has now come to an end. You see, somewhere in TV land is an executive who approved the decision to replace "Deadliest Catch" with "Swords:Life on the Line".

Mr. Executive, this blog's for you.

"Swords" is patterned after (blatantly rips off "Deadliest Catch".) Only the boats are smaller, they bring in one fish at a time (on the off chance the lines aren't tangled and sharks don't eat the fish), and the captains, well, they seem to be lacking in the TV personality department. Which is fine when they're fishing but not so great when they're on my TV.

The success of DC was not formulaic. You can't pull out boat B, insert Captain D and continue to have the show everyone's crazy for. It's the interplay of the captains to whom the viewers have pledged allegiance and the boats we root for. Kind of reminds me of knights at the Renaissance Festival. Take away one element (boat, crew, captain) and the whole shebang goes awry.

"Swords" just isn't "Deadliest Catch." (And to whoever put the pun in the title....raspberries to you. If someone hasn't caught on yet, Swords follows long-liners....hence "life on the line").

At first I dismissed the show altogether, sight unseen. But after an interminable absence of DC, I gave in and watched the marathon. (Forgive me Father, for I have sinned...) It was boring. At first I was wondering...That kinda looks like the girl from Perfect Storm....The captain of the Hanna Boden....Who played her? Amy Irving? No, that other actress.....Oh yeah, the owner of the Hanna Boden ripped off Johnathan when he tried to buy the boat. Why would you write a contract on a napkin anyway?...Oh well, God don't like ugly....She's captaining a boat whose previous captain died on board? Ewwww! Oh I remember....Mary Elizabeth Mastrontonio!!!!

As you can see, the action did not hold my interest.

Then there's the dirty rotten scoundrel captain. Who follows people and steals their fishing. Of course he tore his boat to hell by the end of the season. The idiot. And to keep things lively, he robbed his crew blind!!! I can do basic math, and if boat A brings in 24000 pounds and pays its crew $1800 a piece, how come DRS brought in 50000 pounds and his guys got $800????? MUTINY!

The memorial to the crew of the Andrea Gail was touching. No joking about that, I was teary eyed and covered in goose bumps.

And then the final episode played out, with a sad little captain's wager, that not all the captains were in on. Seems nobody wants to play with DRS. (Time to spin the wheel and buy a clue.)

The best part of the experience, in all honesty, was watching "Deadliest Catch" come on after the final credits rolled.

Please, Mr. Executive, let the rumors of DC not airing be lies. Beseechingly I've tried to get info, but someone's buttoned up his lips and thrown away the key...or the twitter account anyway. In the 80's Coca-Cola had to eat crow and admit that new coke sucked. It was so bad as I recall that I had to drink Pepsi. (I live in the south. We are not Pepsi people.) They brought back the original. Please follow suit. Give your viewers "Deadliest Catch" and not a cheap, counterfeit imitation. I really do not want to turn to "Whale Wars" for my boating needs. But I will if I have to.

I can understand your desire to try to replicate success. But when it comes to copying "Deadliest Catch", no one says it better than Nancy Reagan, "Just say no."

An interesting observation and some updates

2009-08-21T13:18:00.000-07:00

I've gotten in the habit of lunching with my sister at a local sushi place once a week. No, I don't eat sushi, but at lunchtime they have bento box specials which are cheap, yummy and most importantly NOT raw.

One of the items in the bento box is miso soup. I don't like miso, which is made from soy. And if a hot steaming bowl of soy broth isn't tempting enough for you, they add chunks of tofu. Blehk!

Have you ever stared into a bowl of miso soup and watched it swirl all on its own? If you look closely, and if you can look at some conveniently placed Japanese wall art, the miso settles into the design of the Japanese countryside. Snow covered mountains and everything. As with most things, I have a theory on this phenomenon.

Maybe, just maybe miso soup is primordial soup, the stuff from which all life began, and each miso induced landscape contains it's own civilization.
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Okay, now down to business:

Metro is on marriage number two. His wife sings in a band and calls him their "manager, roadie and stylist". I kid you not.

The EX has moved to the NE side of town in a ridiculously large house and is still with PsychoBitch. He got a big time promotion/new job a while back, so now he's keeping up with the Joneses.

Willis and I see each other every few months or so. He's looking for a job again and having baby's momma issues.

Mad Hatter (aka Red Headed Stepchild of Fate) is back from his duties with the Airforce. He is married and though living in town, is sadly out of touch=-(

Mr. 1956 (shudder) managed to find me the very first day I signed up on twitter. Now that he's "following" me, I tend not to be a big "tweeter".
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During my prolonged absence from the blogosphere, I have had several personal losses. So I'm taking the time now to remember those friends and family that are no longer with us.

Mark T. Eppley--Thanks for all your mechanic expertise. I'll do anything I can for Junior.
Paul A. Gonzales--Hey, Big Poppa P! You still need to help me find the right someone.
Rischelle M. Martinez--Your suffering is over. No doubt you got your wings.
Delmer L. "Sonny" Tidwell--Hey, Dad. It's been nearly a year and I still can't do all the tricks with the Directv remote.

I love all of you and you are all missed terribly.

Deadliest Addiction

2009-08-18T08:01:00.000-07:00

So, I realize I've been absent and haven't updated in a coon's age. Lots has happened, and I promise to update you all eventually. But first things first.

Hi. My name is Trisa. And I am addicted to "Deadliest Catch".

Now can someone, anyone explain why???

Those of you who have read previous posts might remember my tale of nearly drowning in a lake in a thunderstorm as my loving family called out, "We'll pick you up on the way back", and sailed away. Ever since, I have had a dislike? fear? phobia? of boats. Put it simply, I leave them alone and they don't strand me in large bodies of seaweed producing, electric current carrying bodies of water.

So, number one, I don't like boats.

Number two, I don't like crab. In fact, after much watching of the show, I have decided that crab are like the cockroaches of the sea. No matter how many of them get killed each year, the little (okay incredibly large and frightening) bastards just keep breeding. This fear is also explained in a previous post. Crab....icky poo!

What keeps me tuning in?

Well, there is the lure of Alaska itself, I guess. It is the only state rivaling Texas on the badass meter. (Ok, we are NOT going to mention that Texas had to change it's state anthem because we can no longer claim to be the "biggest and grandest". Damned Alaska.) In fact the Discovery channel seems to have gone the extra mile to OD the general public on Alaskan programming. You've got "Deadliest Catch" and all it's previous incarnations, and there was the "Alaska Experiment", and some others that I can't remember. But run a topic check with the keyword "Alaska" on your Directv remote and you'll get a better idea of what I mean.

And I mean nothing against Alaska itself. Seems to be a pretty place. Hey and it's not stiflingly hot there, so you know, the possibility of not having heat and humidity wreck havoc on my hair does in itself have a certain charm. But is that why my remote automatically stops at the slightest glance of safety guard orange??

Could I be living vicariously and getting off on the adrenaline rush each week as death is cheated? Not so much, I think. I am one of the most tightly wound people I know. Risk is not an option. I actually stop my vehicle and look both ways before proceeding through an intersection. I am the designated driver. I do not feel the need for speed. Nor do I wish to throw myself out of a perfectly good airplane or hurtle down the side of a mountain with toothpicks strapped to my feet.

Okay, so it's not the boats, the water, the crab (eeewwwww), the wilderness, or danger that brings me back. What the hell is left??

One word. Captains. Yep. I'm not telling on myself here in front of God and everyone, but I enjoy watching me a little Captain. Possibly, if I told the truth a little Captains. Nope, you won't get it out of me. My lips are sealed. Ziiiippp! And throw away the key. But what gives?

The show doesn't exactly showcase the finer aspects of these guys. There's world class swearing and riotous fit throwing. (And any of you who know me, can appreciate that I'm probably taking notes at this point during an episode. If there's something I pride myself on, it's sharing my innate "Trisa-ness" with the world around me.) There's questionable habits galore. Smoking and chewing (I can only assume that's the only reason anyone would be spitting in either a cup-o-noodles cup or into an empty soda bottle). And they kiss mothers and wives with such mouths?? There's lack of grooming in general...to the extent that any contestant from "Survivor" on day 39 may very well be in better shape than the guys on the Bering Sea. Although this is just a theory and I have not tested it.

But why the attraction? I dated Metro for God's sake. I seem to like my guys highlighted, manscaped, manicured, pedicured, well dressed and sweet smelling. Why would I develop a deep seated need to weekly subject myself to the opposite?

I think the answer is positively primeval. Ever heard the song, "I'm still a guy"? It is an anthem for all those "real" guys out there, the "Bubbas", the one's who've hung onto their mullets, and have rough hands from earning an honest wage.

Just like that the mystery of the Captains (and deckhands to be honest and fair) may be unraveled. Not many places in today's world is a man just that. A man. Centuries of programming for us females has led us to be drawn to the "Man's Man". The rough around the edges, hard worker.

Face it, ladies, Hollywood actors are pretty and all that. But do you think one of those can pluck you out of the ocean before you freeze or drown? Probably not. Can your fave movie crush protect you from Nature gone Bad? Nope I don't think so. Feminism be damned; at the end of the day, we want to feel safe and protected. Davey Crockett may have "killt him a bair when he was only three", but that was TV, people. Metro has his merits, but he's not exactly gonna be able to defend my ass when civilization falls or a lost grizzly comes rampaging through my surburban neighborhood.

That's why I think I tune in again and again and again.... Because for that hour each week, I get to enjoy manly men doing shit you couldn't pay me enough to attempt. (Not only would my hair get messed up, and without a doubt I would break nails, but let's be real, I don't do gore. I threw away my tennis shoes last week in lieu of washing them after they came in contact with a dead koi fish in my uncle's backyard pond.) "Deadliest Catch" sort of renews my faith that not all guys have gone soft. (Not to mention, if they have the know all to fix a leaky boat or fashion a grappling hook out of spare materials, they can probably fix my broken dishwasher and replace the loose boards on the front fence.) Whereas my grandmother was drawn to John Wayne, I am attracted to the boys of the Bering Sea.

And let me stress, that for me, not just any fisherman will do. I don't give a rat's ass about all the boats and guys Discovery channel tried to shove down my throat for shark week. I care not for the sword fishermen. I don't tune into the other channel that has "Hooked on Mondays". I am not hanging out with the local shrimp fishermen of the Gulf. The crab fishermen have a little something extra, a certain je no ce quais. Whatever it is, I like it. And Discovery Channel should give me more of it. Year round.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a date with some Captains. You see, I found season 4 on DVD at Target. Coupled with my "Time Bandit" book, I am ready to face the off season.

But if any of you, Captains or otherwise, have your own theories on my addiction, please let me know.

As Requested

2009-03-17T09:47:00.000-07:00

Hi, Everyone! Much has happened since I last updated. I finally got fed up with corporate living and quit my job. Now I'm an unemployed student planning to enter nursing next year.

Last week I received an anonymous request for more information on Mom's cornea transplants. So far she's had just one eye done because of unrelated health concerns. However, she is much better and is planning the second surgery later this year.

Corneas are received from cadaver donors, and unlike other organs, no matching of tissues or blood types is necessary. The operation itself was about two hours long and performed out-patient. Mom had very little pain and no bad side effects from the procedure, other than a couple of stitches popping, which is very minor in the later stages of healing.

Originally, Mom was myopic/nearsighted, and wore very thick glasses. In the 80's, she was accepted into an experimental study of radiokeratotamy (RK). In this first corrective surgery, her corneas were cut into pie shaped slices, in the hopes that as they healed, her corneas would be reshaped and vision would improve. Each of her corneas was scored with 16 pie pieces, which, despite immediate improvement, turned out to be an overcorrection. Consequently, Mom became extremely presbyopic/farsighted. Also, due to the scarring, she had a lot of haloing and light distortions and also lost depth perception, particularly at night.

Since the transplant, vision in that eye is greatly improved. She uses that eye almost exclusively, and has a dummy lens in her glasses for her "bad" eye. She is looking forward to the upcoming procedure. To have such positive results after being told by the Lighthouse of the Blind that her vision was incorrectable and no reputable surgeon would touch her scarred corneas, Mom is thrilled. To someone facing similar vision issues and legal blindness, she reccommends that you find a specialist and look into the possibility of corneal transplants.

Such procedures are only made possible through the generous donations made by family members facing difficult circumstances. I know firsthand what it takes to be such a donor, as I donated tissues and corneas following my father's death this past December. I urge you to educate yourselves on the donation process and to give it some consideration. You can check out www.lifegift.org for more information.

a little R&R

2006-07-25T07:17:00.000-07:00

I'm on vacation! Having a wonderful holiday here in Holiday, Florida. For those of you trying desperately to find that on a map, let me save you some trouble. There's a string of hamlets across the bridge and down the road from Tampa, of which Holiday is one. It's kind of like a bunch of suburbs without the city. Most unusual.

As promised though, I am updating both Nasty Little Thoughts and the Reading Room. Why has it been so long without an update, you might ask.

Life. You know, John Lennon once defined life as what happens when you make other plans. I planned to blog regularly and take my writing class. Instead, I've had to deal with the reality of my mom having corneal transplant surgery and a promotion at work. While the money is nice, I'm now the boss, and my hours suck. I'm working 65 hour weeks, which doesn't leave me time for a social life, school or my writing.

Now, here I sit in Holiday, looking out at the morning glories and banana trees, contemplating a morning dip in the pool. Ain't life grand?

I do have some plans while I'm here. Shopping at the HSN emporium. I might need a second suitcase so I can bring home all the bargains! (It's for employees, but it's good to know people, like my hosts Susie and Craig.)

Greek food in Tarpon Springs, another of the small communities out here. It's what Susie calls the sponge capitol of the world. I dunno about that, but I can certainly appreciate Greek men. The beautiful ones anyway.

The sunset festival on pier 60 (which is on Clearwater Beach.) It looks like there'll be lots of stuff happening there, boats to ride, weirdos to watch, unending photo ops.

And of course, before I head home, I gotta get some pictures of the manatees in the Tampa airport. When I get the pics, you'll understand.

I'll write again soon, so stay tuned.

I am still alive...

2006-07-16T21:08:00.000-07:00

Sorry for being so neglectful of the blogging lately. I got promoted at work and am working 60 to 70 hour weeks, which isn't leaving me much energy to be creative. Hell it isn't leaving me much energy to do more than sleep and maybe go to the grocery store on the weekend.

But I have not forgottten you!

Next week I will be on vacation in Florida and hope to get in a couple of posts. Particularly the one about my freak lasagna tongue severing incident. Don't give up on me, I'll post more soon!

On Eagles' Wings (Assignment 2)

2006-05-12T21:45:00.000-07:00

Maggie jerked awake at the piercing sound of the telephone, her heart heavy with anticipation. She knew it was bad news; it was always bad news when the phone rang at 2:30 in the morning.
She sat up and turned on the light while reaching for the telephone, silencing its banshee cries, "Hello?"

"Maggie," she recognized the voice of her aunt Lindsay, "it’s Gram. She’s in the emergency room. Everyone needs to come."

"What happened?"

"The doctors aren’t sure yet. But her blood sugar is over 600 and she’s in a coma like state."

"I’ll be there as soon as I throw on some jeans."

Maggie hung up, pulled on her clothes and grabbed an ice-cold Dr. Pepper. At such an early hour, she knew there would be little more than her own thoughts to keep her awake for the hour drive to the Belle County hospital.

She’d driven the roads enough during her college years that she could practically make the trip blindfolded, and the miles of country highway passed without Maggie being aware of them. She turned her thoughts inward, remembering Gram’s battle with her health the last few years. Gram’s shriveled leg, a souvenir from a childhood bout of polio, had lost all strength and stability, forcing Grampa to put her in a nursing home. Her mind fell victim to Alzheimer’s at the same time, and she increasingly lived in the past, forgetting the identities of her children and grandchildren. She never forgot Grampa, though, Maggie reminded herself. A small smile crossed her lips whenever she thought of Grampa’s letters to his future bride. Every one of them addressed the same way, "To my best gril". Grampa never had been much of a speller.

Most recently, Gram had suffered a stroke, leaving her partially paralyzed and unable to swallow. To avoid Gram slowly starving to death, the doctor surgically inserted a feeding tube, and a couple days ago Maggie had gone with Aunt Lindsay to learn how to administer the feedings.

The young nurse from the nursing home had led Lindsay and Maggie into a conference room, "I’ll let you watch the video first and then answer any questions you have. But it’s
quite easy. You’ll see."

Maggie was relieved to see the nurse was right. They simply had to attach the end of Gram’s tube to a plastic bag, which, much like an IV, would dispense the formula.

"You can use any flavor of Ensure," the cheerful nurse had pointed out.

Maggie came out of her reverie when she saw the hospital perched on top of the hill. She pulled in and parked outside the ER, noticing several familiar cars. "Looks like the gang’s all here," she told herself as she went inside.

"Any word?" she asked as she neared her grandfather.

Grampa looked up at Maggie and took her hand, "She’s still in the emergency room. Her body rejected the feeding tube and her digestive system has shut down. Her blood sugar is 640 and she looks like she’s in a coma, but she’s in ketosis. They’ll be moving her upstairs shortly."

Ketosis, Maggie thought, like on the Atkins plan. The blood sugar goes high and speeds up the metabolism. Maggie remembered when she was dating Randy; his breath was always peculiarly sweet, a by product of Atkins induced ketosis.

The sliding glass doors whooshed open, and Maggie watched as Gram was wheeled out. Her eyes were glassy and stared without seeing; her mouth gaped open, her breathing labored and her lips dry and cracked.

Doctor Lyons walked over, nodding to the family. "Mr. Vincent, could we have a word?"

Lindsay and Maggie escorted Grampa to the bank of plastic molded chairs the doctor had
indicated. The three of them sat with their backs to the darkened windows.

"Mr. Vincent, Laura’s very sick," he paused. "And, well, sir, there are some decisions that have to be made." Dr. Lyons continued, "If the worst happens, do you want us to resuscitate?"

Grampa sat quietly, unable to respond.

"Daddy," Lindsay spoke, while reaching over to take his hands, "you and Momma have Living Wills, don’t you?"

They did. Maggie had seen them herself. Neither of her grandparents wished to be kept alive artificially.

Silent tears streamed down Grampa’s face as he rose and headed back to the family. "Let’s pray," he suggested and everyone joined hands.

For three days the family held court at the hospital as Gram’s body continued to shut down. They knew she couldn’t last much longer, yet they stayed to honor her as she neared her journey’s end.

"Let’s sing," Lindsay suggested, before everyone headed back to town for the night.

Clasping hands and encircling the bed, the family sang, starting softly and crescendoing with faith and love, "And He will lift you up on eagle’s wings, bear you on the breath of
dawn . . . "

A nurse came in to hush the family, but instead of interrupting them, she stood in the doorway, a silent witness to spontaneous worship.

"Make you to shine like the sun and hold you in the palm of his hand."

As the notes of the hymn drifted away, so did Gram’s spirit, the collective voice of her family carrying her to heaven with grace and love on her own personal set of eagles’ wings.

The Agony of the Feet

2006-04-10T20:16:00.000-07:00

What is the opposite of a fetish? An aversion? Let me introduce myself; my name is Trisa and I have an anti-fetish/aversion to feet. Can we agree that I won't show you my toes if you will please not show me yours? Seriously, I don't like looking at women's perfectly pedicured and painted toes, and my skin crawls at the thought of spying some gnarly, hairy man toes.

That's why I feel so strongly about men wearing appropriate footwear. The Jesus sandals of the 90's were bad. Sandals and/or flip flops with socks, while keeping the toes hidden, looked absolutely ridiculous! But now there's a new terror afoot.

Man mules.

I have only in the last couple years been able to bring myself to wear backless shoes. Just like I don't want to see gnarly, hairy toes, I don't want to catch sight of any crusty heels either. Women can wear hose though, and camoflage their weaker foot attributes. Not so with the opposite sex.

When a man slips on a backless tennis shoe, sans socks of course, and goes out in public, it is surely a sign of the coming apocalypse. It is a clear indication of all that is wrong in this world. And I attribute it to W.

He can't steer a bicycle; I have no doubts that velcro, much less actual laces, would prove challenging. Think about it. When he's giving his fancy speeches, you never see the backs of his shoes.

This public service announcement was brought to you by Nasty Little Thoughts.

Through the Looking Glass

2006-04-04T21:23:00.000-07:00

It's been a day full of surprises. First, in the Reading Room, I reviewed a book and got feedback from the author. (Yes I know it was the author cuz I have stat counter and could ID her from her host. )

But truly how can you be sure of the veracity of anything said on the internet? How can you now without doubt that your best internet friend isn't a raving, lunatic, psychotic predator??

I popped in to read one of my favorite blogs today and had the rug pulled out from under me. It is (or maybe I should say was) a semi-kink blog that I would read on a fantasy level. Basically it was about a married couple Patty and Fred and their mutual kinky interest, and how despite their personal trials, and their unconventional lifestyle, they kept on keeping on because of the awesome totality of their love for each other.

It was all a fucking lie.

Patty decided to "come clean" and share that she's really a raging alcoholic, and that the blog is a fictionalized interpretation of events that have happened at some time in her past.

I'm shocked. Not quite pissed yet, but I'll get there. Not that she owed me anything; I didn't participate in chats or comments, just lurked, read some, enjoyed some and was made uncomfortable by some.

However, Patty advertised the blog as a true life account of this relationship.

Why has she decided to tell the truth now? Or at least the new and improved truth of the day?

She apparantly had been part of a forum and had created this extensive family life, complete with tragedies such as the heart attack of her husband and death of her child. The forum pitched in to support one of their own and set up a paypal account for her. (I have no idea how much they raised.) She has spent the money.

And now she wants us to believe that she is sorry and that she's giving away all her worldly goods and tithing (not my word, hers) to charities, leaving herself with not enough to live on. She posted a pic to show us what a terrible housekeeper she is. And she talked about how hard it will be for her to get mental health care even though she is supposedly a nurse (but really can we believe anything at this point?)

I won't publicize her mess by sending you to her site. I know I won't be back.

I promise to all my loyal readers and to those who've found me just by chance, that any story I've written here, all the exes I portray in these pages, my friends and family, they are all real.

It's not the most exciting life around, but it's mine, dammit. I really couldn't make this shit up.

He's alive!

2006-03-20T21:40:00.000-08:00

After being MIA for several months, SourBob is back in action! Maybe not as sour as he used to be, but still funny as hell. You know, the kind of funny that has you thinking long after the punch line's been told.

And he's addictive, people. When I stumbled on his site, I spent 2 nights reading everything in the archives. (So I was up til 2 a.m....I still had Ex induced insomnia, so it was time well spent!)

If you can appreciate my sense of humor, if you relish the thought of someone other than yourself being verbally ripped to shreds, if you have a mean, sarcastic streak, you have to check him out!

Hey, Nuckles, I posted the link on the right in the links section, but just for you, I'll include it here too. www.sourbob.com

Just a thought or two

2006-03-14T20:23:00.000-08:00

By now you've all heard about W running down the Scottish policeman with his bicycle, causing enough damage to said policeman to keep him out of work for 14 weeks. Come on, people, if the man cannot control a bicycle, should he really have access to the big red button?
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Think back to American history in high school, you know, the pilgrims and religious freedom and all that jazz. Didn't we already declare our independence from King George?
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The really scary thought is that Buckshot Dick is only a heartbeat away from the presidency.

Made in Heaven? (edited)

2006-03-05T21:13:00.000-08:00

Following is Assignment 1, edited with paragraphs and everything.

When I first saw Metro walking across the parking lot that warm December evening, my soul leapt in recognition. They say people come into your life for a reason and I instantly knew that he'd been sent into mine. Ours was no chance internet rendezvous.

If you'd asked me what I was looking for in a partner, I couldn't have told you. But meeting Metro was like having someone tailor-made to meet the secret specifications I'd had since hight school.

You could go down my list and check everything off--tall, blonde, all-American, fun loving and popular. "Where has he been all my life?" I wondered.

Dressed simply in a crisply ironed black button down shirt, with the collar of a white T-shirt peeking out, and my favorite, Levi's jeans, Metro was a throw back to high school chic. His hair was purposefully spiked; not even his Members Only jacket seemed out of place. He was matching head to toe, and he smelled of Calvin Klein's Eternity.

We ate gyros, watched the belly dancer and did some Greek folk dancing before heading to Starbuck's for coffee. Conversation is a gift for Metro and I was put instantly at ease. Hours passed as we talked about anything, everything and nothing of consequence at all. We were two soul mates reunited, however briefly, and we had catching up to do!

As it turns out, he and I had grown up close to each other but attended rival schools and our paths had crossed at various school events without us ever meeting. Even in our adult lives, we found coincidences. For instance, my school offers tuition discounts to Metro's company and my assistant's brother works for him.

Listening to my stories, his hazel eyes sparkled and the ends of his mouth turned up in a grin. Several times we found ourselves laughting out loud and begging the other to continue. for us, time stood still. we'd entered an alternate universe, a place between out two worlds, totally separate from our regular personas and responsibilities. We were free to bask in the pleasure of simply being with each other, which to me was a therapeutic experience. All worries and insecurities were cast aside and any aches that had plagued me earlier in the day were forgotten.

"This is too good to be true," I told myself until I stepped into his embrace. At 6'4", his hugs enveloped me and were a full body experience; no place ever felt as good or as welcoming as the circle of his arms. I know what it must have been like for the prodigal son, how relaxing it would seem in his father's arms realizing that he was finally home again. Each and every hug ws such a homecoming to me, one full of warmth, acceptance and safety.

That night was a glimpse of what I really wanted to find out of life: casual ease, quick laughter and the sheer joy of the experience. Metro was a gift I'd received at one of my darkest hours and I followed his light back into my own life. When next I see him and feel my sould leap with joy, I plan to hug him tight and welcome him home.

Guest Speaker

2006-02-28T19:39:00.000-08:00

My friend was a guest speaker this weekend, outing herself and her very unique situation to members of the general public for the first time. I'd link you to her blog, but not everyone is on 360. So, I'm posting her latest entry below.

Way to go, Les!
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The (re)Birth of an Activist

Today I spoke as part of a GLBT panel to a church about what it’s like to live my life as an interracially married, polyamorous, bisexual woman. In college, I had helped found the Gay Lesbian Association (GLASS) in 1991, when I was young and idealistic, and felt I could change the world. I was part of the group and helped write the by-laws, and as part of the Student Senate, I helped push for approval of the group’s existence on campus. Somewhere after graduation between dual careers, moves, and babies I lost the drive to be vocal. I wish I could say I was in the closet, but really, I was still in denial about my sexuality.

I didn’t know what to do with those feelings, those longings, and I only knew two choices – lesbian or straight. I knew nothing of bisexuality, or of staying married in a mixed orientation marriage. I was taught it was either / or, not this and that. As I came out to myself and my husband, and stayed in the closet in order to keep my job, and feed our kids, I knew I couldn’t go to church again. It was a place, I had learned all too well, that even in the most progressive ones I’d attended, there was always a ‘hate the sin, but (at best) tolerate the sinner attending’ attitude when it came to anyone different.

This was like no church I had ever attended. It was in suburbia, mostly white, and it looked on the surface to be like all the others, this was truly a place that I had never even imagined could exist. Much less, already did.

I got to speak to them today. I had a chance to educate them about ways I am discriminated against, ways to be more welcoming on a personal level, and draw the correlation between the fight for racial equality to this struggle for sexual equality. But mostly, today, I became visible in the real world for the first time, as all of me.

I had previously only been out to select friends and family, telling them one at a time, and not ‘broadcasting’ it to the world. Today, I stood in front of two different sermons and said something like this.. Hi, I’m Leslie, I’m 37, married, 3 kids, a house, a dog, typical suburbia soccer mom, and I’m a polyamorous bisexual.

I know now that the way we change the views and the equality for those who are GLBTP is to be visible. The same way I’ve been visible with my husband. (Though that was hardly a choice even if I’d wanted to, to hide his race or our children.) That every day that we’re together as husband and wife, parents, co-workers, etc. The world sees us as people. Not as ‘that shhhh interracial couple’ in our neighborhood. Today, I began to stand up and be counted. Today I begin to believe again, that I can change the world, one day at a time.

The questions were varied; the acceptance was phenomenal. I spoke alongside 20-somethings who were all out and proud in college and part of their gay and lesbian student association that also does public speaking events. We talked about how to foster an accepting attitude with kids, within yourself, and within your communities, and how discrimination is pervasive - from no check boxes and no restrooms, to not being able to call someone your wife. I sought for the right words, and feel I left out so many of them. I hoped for the right way to make the members see it’s not about us versus. them in this world. I am not sure I said all the right things, or that I changed anyone’s mind. I certainly wasn’t as eloquent as I’d hoped. But I did convey the one thing that truly mattered to the members sitting in the audience who were just like me and had never verbalized it. You are not alone. I know I did this, because after each sermon, I had a spouse come up to me and say – you told my story. Thank you. So, today they walked out knowing they weren’t alone, and I know that standing up in front of that church and just being visible was enough. And they taught me, there are places where you can find acceptance and not feel alone.

If you want to know more about them, you can visit the church online and find a location near you at www.uua.org or feel free to email me. I am here to be visible and counted for all of us before who couldn’t be, and for those of us still to come, who maybe will be able to more easily now. I am here to say, we are not alone.

Leslie

Mutiny by the Talent

2006-02-26T20:49:00.000-08:00

It's been a disturbing weekend on the internet at Chez Trisa. Due to the sleuthing of a very loyal fan (thanks, Maria!), it has been brought to the fore that the Talent formerly of the 80's latino boy band, and currently of nothing except a record label he created for himself, is one shady, lying, untrustworthy, washed up has been.

Years back he and his producer/partner approached my friend Susie about a fan site she had on the net. They asked her to be the Talent's official internet presence, which she has done, for free, since 1998. For a good while, the label was run out of Susie's living room. Susie hooked him up with yahoo groups, myspace, and oodles of online music distributors. She's been the touch stone and source numero uno for most of his fans.

In October, Susie made the mistake of asking a fellow fan/friend to help out with redesigning his website. No, that's not exactly accurate. E told Susie how she'd love to help out with anything she could, since she's in graphic design, and therefore highly qualified in her own eyes; she'd give the website a professional tweak. Susie got it cleared through the label, and E came on board.

But, fellow readers, you may remember that there was Trouble in Paradise. E's sole agenda is self promotion. She does freelance graphic design and will be the first to stand up and say "I did this for ClientX and if you need anything call me." Or even better, "I'm trying to promote the Talent. I can help you improve your website too, just contact me." The girl has no shame. She pushed Susie out of the partnership and the label, which was fine because Susie still ran the Official Site. (She also owns damned near every permutation of the Talent's name that can be created for a domain name/fan site/yahoo group as well as the Talentlabel.com/net, forcing the label to relocate to .org.)

Now the shit has really hit the fan. The talent apparently has been working with E behind Susie's back to create a more professional website using his new stage name. In order to break the contract he was stupid enough to sign, and be able to work and support himself, the Talent is changing is professional name to Talontte. (Professional that is, if you think cut and paste template work is professional. E's website looks eerily like that of her design college.) And neither he, nor the producer, have the balls to tell Susie that they want to go in another direction. They've let her slave over an updated site for over months, knowing all the while that they were yanking her chain.

I don't know about you, but I don't think that's sound business practice, and it's certainly no way to treat your fans. Especially when they are your only source of sales and publicity, and control your entire internet presence.

After such shady dealings, it was time for some light to be shed on the situation. The sites you know and love have been taken down. The fan groups and street team groups are no more. In time, every reference to the Talent's music and sales will be gone. We dedicate ourselves to the new cause, of undoing every piece of work we did on behalf of him and his label. He and his "organization" do not get to continue to benefit from Susie's hard work if they intend to throw her out like so much trash.

Talent, when you were penniless, who did you call for rent money? Producer, while you've been busy playing doctor, who's run your label, insuring some sort of profit? E, how many backs have you stabbed to get to the bottom of your own corporate ladder? Let's face it guys, if Talent was gonna be a superstar, by now, he would be; if Producer wanted to run a record label, he wouldn't be in med school; and if E had any talent, she wouldn't have a day job and be doing graphic design on the side.
Talent told Susie this morning, "It's my name on the fucking web, not yours....they're my fans, not yours." There's no disputing that, but what good will your name do you when it's not on the web anymore? To quote Andy Dick, "Game on, bitches!"

Punked--Diddy Style

2006-02-25T14:12:00.000-08:00

Here in Houston there's been a steady increase in celebrity sightings and events. More movies are filmed here. There's the occasional preview. And of course, celebrity hosted sports parties.

Last week, for example, Houston hosted the NBA All-Star's Game. (The game itself got no hype...I didn't even know it was happening. For some reason basketball season hasn't even registered this year; but I digress.) There were apparently several celebrity parties in the area because of the game. And news of celebrity sitings spread quickly.

So as I was heading south to Roxy's birthday party, the freeway was a parking lot, and looking down onto the streets in the Galleria area was frightening. Nothing was moving. Police cars blocked all the exits. What could possibly shut down the roadways?

Maybe traffic is being diverted because of the parties? Maybe W is in town again, trying to act cool and put in an appearance at the game or party? But no. The lookie loos were out in force trying to get a glimpse of any stray celebrity.

My friend D, who does contract work with several companies, was invited to go to P. Diddy's party. The company forked over 20 grand for VIP access and face time with Diddy himself. In the traffic melee, D's new car was sideswiped, but trooper that he is, he went to the party, knowing he was meeting bigwigs and wanting to impress.

But Diddy was a no show. What size balls does it take to charge people 20 grand to come to your party and then not show up? Even Joe Millionaire shows up at the party when he plans to collect the small sum of 10K. I guess Diddy was otherwise engaged during filming of any "Making the Band" episodes that talked about meeting your professional obligations, and not letting down your investors. Could he be more unprofessional? Could he have said "Fuck you, Houston!" any louder?

Bend over Houston, and get out the lube; you've been punked...Diddy style.

Hodge Podge

2006-02-16T19:48:00.000-08:00

We just completed the annual Valentine's-but-Trisa's-still-single CiCi's extravaganza. That's right, for the third year running, I went out with my friend and her family. (Thanks guys for including me again!) It's unorthodox, sure, but it beats sitting at home moping because the flowers that were delivered were not for me.

Actually, this time was rather different. It was Old School week at CiCi's. We ran into a family that used to attend my school, so the adults and 15 year old manned one table, while the younger set shunned us entirely, except of course when they needed change for the video games.

I'd been trying to find GiGi actually. She's a published author and I'd read a couple of her books and wanted to get more. But could I remember her penn name? Nope.

Rest assured, authors out there, it is not an easy feat to take your real name, run through the internet and come up with your pseudonym or body of work. I was to the point of assigning the task to Susie when GiGi walked into CiCi's and saved me some work.

Coincidentally, at the table behind us was GiGi's son's teacher and family, and two tables over was another family from my school. I knew everyone! It was a rare but cool moment.
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For those of you who rushed out to hear Eva sing, I apologize. College, work and a serious round of diabetic complications kept her from performing. Maybe she'll get another offer...Easter tunes anyone?
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If you've been wondering what's happening with my writing class, get in line and have your ticket punched. I am still waiting for the curriculum materials to arrive. I have written the autobiographical letter, but in the interest of maintaining a smidge of anonymity here, I probably won't post it. But I will post the second half just as soon as I find out what it is. Tell me though, should I give my instructor/mentor the address to the blog? Does he need to know me that well? Will he be frightened away if he is exposed to the inner workings of my mind? Sound off and give me some advice.

Coming Soon...

2006-02-03T20:29:00.000-08:00

For Valentine's Day, you are in for a real treat. My sister, Eva, has her first paying singing gig! Normally she slings coffee at the Starbuck's but her store manager asked her to sing karaoke in the flower tent.

So if you're in the neighborhood of Beltway 8 and West Rd. on February 13 and 14, stop in and get your honey some flowers, balloons, candy and stuffed animal. And get yourself and earful of "Eva Sings Love Songs".

Danger, Will Robinson!

2006-02-01T22:01:00.000-08:00

I was at my local Starbuck's today and was extra excited to see they were doing samples.

"What are we tasting today?" I asked MushiMushi behind the counter. (I don't know why I bother because she never knows.)

"I don't know. I think hot chocolate." Well to be fair to MushiMushi, most of their drinks come covered in whipped cream, so I guess they do sort of look alike. But still, she works there, you'd think she'd know what she was giving away for free. (Ms. Trisa loves free!)

So I take the last sample, and take a not so tentative swig, since I remembered my sister talking about premium hot chocolates coming out today. Mmmmm....premium....chocolate...with whipped cream....

AND HOT PEPPER???

I gasped as MushiMushi says, "It's hot pepper hot."

No fooling? We're not talking spicy. (Which for some reason Starbuck's equates with Mexican hot chocolate, but I never had anything Mexican that tasted like that.) It was cayenne pepper, red pepper flakes, burn your tonsils off hot.

What an evil thing to do to poor hot chocolate.

Starbucks, I thought, well hoped actually, that you'd learned after your foray into the Mayan culture and tried to serve us chocolate mud. Remember the Chantico anyone? N-A-S-T-Y. But no. Now you've tried to one up Mexican and that's just not gonna fly. I suggest the taster from Starbuck's hop on over to Food Town and get some Abuelita's and find out what Mexican hot chocolate really tastes like.

What are they gonna try next? Jalapeno cream filled Oreos? May God save us all.

Big band grunge?

2006-02-01T21:53:00.000-08:00

My mother and I were at Olive Garden last weekend. I was chatting away, totally ignoring the banal noise pollution that passes as music at OG, when Mom shushed me, "Listen!"

So I tuned in. It sounded like Frank Sinatra or Harry Connick, Jr. I was excited to realize it was actually in English since they'd been going through an Italian musical phase. And then I noticed something vaguely familiar.

Hello. (In a big band jazzy finger snapping way.....You know like Dean Martin.) Hello. Hello.

What the hell song is this? I asked myself. Running the standards through my head, trying to think of one that matched, to no avail.

Hello. (It just kept going) Hello.

OH MY GOD IT'S FUCKING NIRVANA!!

Kurt Cobain was surely rolling in his grave cuz somebody done ripped off his song and Olive Gardenized it!

I looked and Mom and grinned, even the waitress laughed out loud when I said, "Hey, it's educational. You can understand the lyrics."

Properly enunciated, finger snapping, happy, jazzy Nirvana? What's wrong with this picture?

Back to school

2006-02-01T21:47:00.000-08:00

I got my first writing assignment today...well the first half of it anyway. I have to write an autobiographic letter to my instructor to sort of break the ice and enable us to get to know each other. Once my books arrive, I'll get the second half of the assignment.

Whoo hoo! Trisa is back in school!

For those of you who may be interested, I'll post my assignments. It's one way to make sure I'm blogging while taking this course. =-)

Oh, and I promise to pay more attention to the Reading Room, with bloglet and more updates, so please keep stopping by.

It's a girl!!

2006-01-26T20:34:00.000-08:00

Not that it's a surprise or anything, cuz the cousin and his wife have known forever and we've known the name now for a couple of months...but it's a girl!! Yes, dear readers, goodness shines on our family and on little Katydid.

I think I shall go off in search of pink margaritas. Care to join me?

Great Expectations

2006-01-22T14:20:00.000-08:00

Having attended two funerals in 6 months, I find myself totally disenchanted with the funeral industry. Maybe I just expect too damn much after watching "Six Feet Under" for 5 years.

At my cousin's funeral, there was no kind, caring brother figure to help us with our grief, nor were we allowed the luxury of a last goodbye. Instead, we were ushered like cattle, past the casket and out the doors. Do not pass go, do not collect $200.

Okay, so maybe we were behind schedule and just needed to get the show on the road. Nope. You see, we didn't have a funeral procession. No endless stream of cars, with lights on and a police escort to make sure we arrived en masse at the grave site. We were given a 3 hour lunch break and were told to meet up at the cemetery.

Odd? You betcha. The Old Masonic Cemetery, where my cousin was laid to rest next to my grandparents overlooking the lake, is in Chappel Hill, Texas. That's an hour away on a freeway that is currently under construction. Mid-afternoon. On a Friday. I hadn't been there in 8 years, needless to say, I missed the turn and was well on my way to Washington on the Brazos.

It boggles the mind how one can get the Time Crunch lunch at 12:30 (served in 15 minutes or it's free!) and still be late 2 1/2 hours later, but I have done it.

The family held back the start of the service since neither myself nor my cousin's ex-wife had arrived yet. Twenty minutes later, I ran into my uncle's ex-wife, who had been sent to find us.

So we're all assembled, ready for some appropriate, thought provoking scripture or poem and the cult leader who runs my aunt's church, steps up, reading from the burial manual, lots of disjointed phrases. We left not spiritually moved, but damned confused and pissed that we'd driven so far for nothing.

And then I noticed the lay out.

The funeral director had laid the astroturf carpet across my grandparent's graves. People were standing on top of my grandparents! (Not sure about you guys, but I was taught you NEVER walk on a grave). So we've disrespected not only my cousin, but also my grandparents.

I took a private moment to pluck three flowers from the spray of yellow roses I bought ($107!!), laid one on the casket and two across my grandparents' headstone. Others followed suit, plucking my arrangement bare. The children even picked out the greenery!

I had thought we'd get a dignified, service. One like I saw on TV, with the staff caring and considerate of our needs in such a difficult time. I got a Nazi task master.

Even at the graveside he urged us to leave. "There's just 2 hours til dark, and I've got to get him in the ground."

Fisher and Sons should definitely open a franchise.

Second chances?

2006-01-16T21:40:00.000-08:00

Guess what I did the first Monday of the new year? I went on a date!! Yes, I know you guys were losing faith in me and my lovely dating stories. I have sorely neglected the "dating mis/adventures" part of my blog; thank you for hanging in there.

A while back I mentioned that I had gone to dinner with a guy for pancakes, but I really didn't go into detail. Well, he had read the blog and while things just didn't work out, he didn't deserve to be blogged.

Lately, we'd been chatting and discovered we had vacation at the same time and made plans to get together for a movie. What the hell, I thought. Puppy deserves a second chance. Our date was set for New Year's day, after he got home from church.

As you loyal readers know, there was a death in the family, and I was forced to reschedule. (Looking back, I think God was saying, "Don't do it..." But do I listen?)

So we met at the theater to see "The Family Stone", which I'd heard was absolutely hysterical. Just what the doctor ordered for my grieving self, a nice romantic comedy.

With a terminally ill Diane Keaton.

Yep...she had breast cancer and this was her last Christmas with the family. (This hit a little close to home, and I did cry, but not over the movie.)

Afterwards, I suggested we go out for frosty beverages, cuz my spirits needed a little lifting. "Well, I already ate before I came," he tells me. (Mind you, we met for a 4:30 matinee).

But I convinced him to accompany me to Chili's, where I had a fair margarita, good chicken strips and a not so shabby back rub. (Thanks, Puppy.)

But I dunno....it just didn't seem right that he tried to kiss me in the parking lot. My cousin had just been murdered; I was looking for a little distraction and polite conversation, not a sexual encounter.

"Puppy, I need you to slow down," I told him. And he did. He came to grinding halt number 2.

After the first date, you see, we did dinner and a movie and he got all happy hands with me in the dark. I was freaked out; I'd known him all of 2 1/2 hours. And he tried to kiss me, which wasn't well received after damn near being felt up at the theater.

But it gets better. We had plans the next day to go out again. This is what my answering machine said,

"Trisa....uh.....well....uh....this is Puppy. Well....uh....you see....I'm at my sister's....cuz there's this family thing...and I forgot about it....uh....and...uh....I don't know when I'm gonna get home....uh....but....uh....I'll call you."

Me thinks the boy does not take kindly to any sort of rejection, be it minor or major league.

Technical difficulties (please do not adjust your set)

2006-01-14T22:07:00.000-08:00

Sorry for the run on appearance of today's post. I couldn't get blogger to start new paragraphs. As soon as I can figure out the kinks, I promise to edit Life Goes On.
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Normally, I would delete this posting, since the problems have been solved, but I got some nice comments that I wanted to keep.

Life goes on

2006-01-14T21:12:00.000-08:00

A lot's happened since the holidays started and my original intention was to update you all on New Year's, but my cousin got killed and my heart just hasn't been into blogging, web surfing and chatting. But life goes on and so it's time for me to get into the groove and let you all know about the holidays.

While doing a little shopping, I found a set of 12 inch talking comedian dolls from the Blue Collar Comedy Tour, my brother's favorite show in the world. I am now hosting Jeff Foxworthy and Ron White as they await shipment to California. For some reason, the store did not have Larry the Cable Guy and now I am on a mission to complete the trio. My brother, believe it or not, wants to decorate his living room in a Blue Collar Comedy Tour theme. You know, you might be a redneck if your brother decorates his house with comedian action figures.

Speaking of my brother, through the miracle of myspace, he has been reunited with Roxy, who hasn't seen her dad in about 5 years. Many thanks to my step-neice and nephew for nagging him into doing the right thing!

My uncle's sister visited from Pennsylvania, and she kept putting the moves on Hippie. She's almost 70, still thin, and has a perpetual Joker's smile. She's also extremely competitive, put together a dozen puzzles during her stay, and kept kicking my ass in Scrabble.

My sister's boyfriend, whom we affectionately call Spiderman because of his uncanny resemblance to Toby Maguire, made his first housecall to meet my brother's second daughter Moxie, who has recently become a woman. She went from stinky, sweaty, gap toothed tomboy to quiet, prissy, purse weilding young lady in the blink of an eye. (She and Roxy could be twins, well, except they have different mommas, different yese and are 3 years apart in age.) Moxie's mom is apparently intimidated by the increased levels of estrogen, and moved the youngest child into her bedroom, giving Moxie a space of her own.

My cousin Mark took his brother and I aside at Christmas dinner and told us that this was his last Christmas to spend with the family. (Ironic, isn't it?) He had the misfortune of having some not so nice words immortalized on audio tape, which resulted in harassment charges from the ex-girlfriend and revocation of his probation. He fully expected to be arrested and sent away for 10 years.

My aunt led the children in an impromptu, a capella sing along underneath the Christmas tree, including the Christmas classics "Jingle Bells", "Away in a Manger", and "Amazing Grace"? JR performed his bit from the church's Christmas play, "Jesus was in the Old Testament." (Have I ever mentioned that I think my family is part of a fundamentalist cult? No Kool-aid for me, thanks.)

And then came New Year's Day, which pretty much knocked the wind out of our collective sails. My uncle has now buried 2 of his children. JR is without a dad. His mostly absentee mom is the sole parent. (Is it even possible to battle her for custody?)

Yet another holiday has become a shitty reminder of something bad instead of a joyous celebration. My grandmother was buried the day before Thanksgiving. Two years later, my grandfather was buried a week before Christmas. A few years ago, one of my students was killed in a car accident on December 14. He was only 3. The day of his funeral, my house was burglarized. And now, as we ring in each new year, we can remember murder.

Kitkat, has been arrested and is still in jail despite a measley 30 thousand dollar bond. She will be arraigned in a couple of weeks, and the family will be in attendance. My sister wants to personally hear the bitch admit she did it. I'll probably skip that one and show up for the sentencing. I do want to hear, "Guilty as charged. Lock her up and throw away the key." I don't think she'll be up for the death penalty though because I don't think she'll get murder 1.

JR is now back in school, with a lot of support from his teacher, principal, counselor and of course Aunt Trisa who tutors on Thursday nights.

I'm back to work and have been accepted into the writing program. Long Ridge feels I have the potential to write for publication! My friend Brandy nominated me for a Bloggie. Toe Boy has decided that Susie, Heather and I can handle his official internet sites, yahoo groups, etc.

I also am planning to expand my blogging efforts. I've often wondered just how much do I read in a year's time. So coming soon, I'll have a separate blog where you can see what I've been reading and my own personal reviews. I hope you'll stop by the reading room, and continue to check out all my Nasty Little Thoughts.

In Memoriam

2006-01-01T22:43:00.000-08:00

My cousin was killed yesterday. He was 26. While I didn't always see eye to eye with him, had no patience for the decisions he made and am jealous as hell that he has such a wonderful child, he didn't deserve to have his life taken away.

While ringing in the new year, he got into an arguement. He was stabbed in the heart and left to bleed out in the street. He had neither his cell phone nor his wallet and had to be identified through fingerprints.

The family convened at his parents today, enjoying in true family fashion an impromptu family reunion. We shared stories of happier times while we wondered about the impact this will have on his son's life. Yes, the negative influence is gone and the child will be spared watching his dad go to prison, but this 5 year old boy will never have his daddy to hug him again.

I have given my cousin a lot of hell here on Nasty Little Thoughts and felt it necessary to tell the positive just this once. And you can check out my neice Roxy's reaction too.

He had faith and at one time had been "on fire for God." He could fix anything and revived my transportation on many occasions. He loved laughter, music and fast cars. He appreciated the finer things in life. He was handsome and charming. He had friends that have proven loyal and true. And above all else, he loved his family, especially his son.

We'll miss you, Mark.

12-23-1979 to 1-1-2006

The reason for the season

2005-12-28T12:15:00.000-08:00

It has been holiday season lacking in holiday atmosphere. Christmas trees were hung upside down, which is rather sacreligious to me, right up there with inverting a crucifix. There's been an ongoing media debate over people's choice to say "Merry Christmas" versus "Happy Holidays." There was an online poll to see if Americans were putting up a holiday tree or a Christmas tree. The school I work for sent out a 20 something page memo explaining that any holiday decorations needed to not favor a particular celebration, putting a serious damper on my personal celebration. And I've decided that things have just gotten totally out of control. Hello, America, you can take politically correctness too far.

When the Christian majority, cannot openly celebrate the birth of Jesus, for fear of offending those of other faiths, I feel it's time to reevaluate. This country was founded on the belief of religious freedom and tolerance. Why is it okay for me to tolerate everyone else's celebrations, yet I must curtail my own?

Of course, religious leaders need to be held accountable for their part in this debacle. Many churches chose not to have Christmas day services because they the congregation deserved family time. Excuse me, but wasn't Christmas on a Sunday this year?

And what of Joel Osteen, the leader of the nation's largest church and media darling of the Christian community? He and his family were flying to Vale, Colorado this Christmas week to go skiing. Skiing? In commemoration of the birth of our Lord?

And then there's our newest Pope. The absentee Pope. Benedict was more outspoken before he was in office.

It's a sad state of affairs. Next year, whatever you celebrate, celebrate it openly and with pride. Church leaders, you should be ashamed of your actions this year. You need to remember the reason for the season.

Submission

2005-12-10T23:06:00.000-08:00

I have done the hardest thing I've yet had to do. I submitted one of my writings to the Long Ridge Writer's Group, seeking acceptance into their "Break into Print" program. For the first time ever, my work will face professional scrutiny.

As always, I'll let you know how it goes. Curious as to what I submitted? I reworked O-R-E-O. I feel it captures my voice and the irreverent tone I strive to keep up here at Nasty Little Thoughts.

Grab a frosty adult beverage and help me celebrate! Or get drunk enough to handle the rejection....

Mini update

2005-11-27T10:16:00.000-08:00

My cousin, Sperm Donor, has evidently kept in touch with Willis, who is reportedly newly divorced from wife #2 and still crashing with his parents at the lake house.

Is it truly evil of me to take pleasure in knowing that those who caused me grief are now suffering? Nah, you reap what you sow, fellas.

On a stick

2005-11-27T09:47:00.000-08:00

Last weekend, thanks to a stomach virus infecting my friend, her husband and 3 children, I received free tickets to the gastronomical extravaganza known as the Texas Renaissance Festival.

In theory the Renaissance Festival is your opportunity to step back in time, to explore 15th century living, buy handmade crafts, listen to period music and ogle your choice of men in tights or wenches with their boobs on display. And let us not forget the scotsmen wearing kilts, tossing their wood for my viewing pleasure....

Where else can you have your fortune read by a gypsy, tip a beggar on the street, watch shows by the mud man and Ded Bob, have your ears assaulted by the mad executioner meets "Eyes Wide Shut", drench a wench, drink honey mead, watch girls in chain mail bikinis and find out once and for all what really is underneath that kilt?

You can also get some pretty cool stuff, hand made soap, crystals, weaponry and armor, jewelry, staffs, period clothing and shoes, windchimes, gargoyles, beaded purses, stuffed plague rats, and just about any bizarre thing your mind can dream up.

But mostly, you get to eat. Leg of lamb, turkey legs, roasted corn-on-the-cob, beef stew in an edible bread bowl, gyros, empanadas, candied nuts, muffaletta sandwiches, fish and chips, schnitzel, funnel cake, stuffed pitas and scottish eggs. You can partake in wine tasting and beer tasting. And then there's the gourmet offerings that come on a stick.

Soft baked pretzels, fried alligator, roasted pork loin, fresh strawberries, frozen chocolate covered bananas, grilled chicken, grilled or fried muschrooms, grilled shrimp, souvlaki, rolls and the ever popular 11 inch sausage, which I don't personally recommend since I got sick, deathly sick, after eating one.

Which gets me thinking, what bizarre yummy would you suggest putting on a stick?

He Man Trisa Haters Club

2005-11-17T20:00:00.000-08:00

I was speaking with a friend yesterday and inquired about My First Felon, hoping for a nice juicy update or at least news of his continued pathetic life path. I was blown away to learn that dear old Con has gotten married to a complete and utter cow. (It's only fair that I admit to all current and future exes that I have excellent sources).

The girlfriend who helped land Con in the slammer, was the only person willing to support his habitually unemployed, mooching ass. Apparently, with a little shmoozing of his mom and inlaws-to-be, Mad Cow and Con had a nice Tahitian wedding. And I wasn't invited?

The really bizarre thing (besides all my exes marrying the person they date AFTER me) is that they seem to all live in the same damned neighborhood. Have they formed a club? Do they issue blazers ala Stepford Wives? Is there a secret handshake? Why would 3 men from different states, different lifestyles, and different career paths with only one thing in common...ME...get hitched and move to the same suburb? I am not a fan of country music, but I've got George Strait singing to me right now, "All my exes live in NAMEOFTOWN, Texas...."

Pear shaped

2005-11-08T18:19:00.000-08:00

Ages ago, before losing half of me taking Metabolife, my friend fixed me up with one of her coworkers. He called several times in the course of a couple of weeks and even offered to bring me some Nyquil and chicken noodle soup when I caught the flu. I thought to myself, I've got to meet this guy! He's so thoughtful!

Over the course of our few dates, I had to reevaluate my impression of him. For instance, he took me to eat at a trendy pasta bar (overpriced "gourmet" pasta served on disposable plates), promising me a surprise afterwards. We drove in circles for the better part of an hour. I kept asking, "Where are we going?"

Chuck kept answering, "It's a surprise."

"If you don't tell me where we're going, I can't help you find it." (Those of you who know me see the humor in this statement. I am the reason GPS locators are now available for the average vehicle. I can't find my way out of a paper bag with a map. I have absolutely no sense of direction. In fact, if you ever ask me for directions, do the opposite of whatever I suggest, and you should get there just fine. ) Chuck however, not having experienced the joy of Lost with Trisa, finally broke down and told me our destination was the water wall at Transco Tower.

My jaw dropped open, which I got to see reflected in the darkened window. We'd been driving circles around the damned Transco Tower. It is, in fact, the tallest building in Houston, one that I can reliably navigate by. And, as luck would have it, I'd seen the water wall on a school field trip. "We've been driving around Transco Tower all night," I told him.

"Yeah, but I can't find the park."

"It's at the base of Transco Tower," I answered exasperated. How could I be out with someone who can't even find Transco Tower? (Admittedly, I didn't have many standards at the time and would go out with just about anyone that asked, but damn, even I can find Transco Tower.)

Finally Chuck steered the car towards the building and like magic, we found Transco Park and the water wall. We got out and walked around for a bit. I'd never seen the water wall lit up at night; it is quite pretty and the sound of the rushing water totally blocks out the sounds of the city.

After a few minutes, maybe 5 or 10, Chuck just stood off to the side. "What's the matter?" I asked.

"I'm feeling sick," he answered.

Uh-oh. I instantly went into teacher/nurse mode. Where does it hurt? Do you have fever? Etc.

"It's just the sauce on the pasta. I get sick whenever I eat cream sauce."

"Then why'd you order it?!"

Instead of the semi-romantic visit to the water wall being followed up with a movie, as was the plan, Chuck cut the evening short and took me home.

A couple weeks later, on my birthday, he took me to dinner at a Mexican restaurant. He told me all about the special on the way over. Chuck, you see, would go to certain restaurants on certain days, would order the special and water, and would eat for less than $8.00.

We sat at the table and he ordered water while I ordered iced tea. He looked at me disapprovingly over his menu, but I concentrated on the vast array of menu items. When the waiter came, Chuck tried to seize control and order for me.

"I'll have the alambre," I said cutting him off and rubbed salt into the wound of his bruised ego by adding, "It's my birthday." Chuck ordered the special, the lunch sized portion.

The food was excellent. The conversation was lacking.

Afterwards, on the way home, he said, "I got you something," as he reached into the backseat and handed me a gift bag.

I reached in and pulled out the first item I touched. "Why do girls always go for the card first?" he whined.

After I read the card, I reached in and pulled out the next item, something in a small, rectangular box. I was shocked to realize it was lipstick. (What guy buys a girl makeup for her birthday?) Not only was it lipstick, but it was Mary Kay lipstick. I opened it, twisting it up so I could see the color, which was brown. And it smelled like melted wax.

"Oh, thanks, Chuck. I'd try the color on but I'm already wearing another color. I don't think they'll mix well."

"You like it? I can get another one if you want. A lady at work had a whole basket of the stuff on her desk and I just picked one." Impulse birthday shopping?

Here's a little clue for you guys out there. Girls want to pick their own beauty products. If you want to buy something for her, make sure it's a product and color that she likes. The same goes for perfume. These things are an intimate part of what makes a woman unique. Err on the side of caution and give her something else.

"There's more," he told me after an awkward silence.

I reached into the bag a third time and pulled out a videotape. Chuck had gone to the trouble of recording "Titanic" for me. Now, I'm sure you've seen "Titanic". It's a depressing movie. DeCrappio dies, which would normally be a good thing, but you have to endure the never ending cries of Kate Winslet, "It's a boat, Jack. Jack, it's a boat. It's a boat, Jack...." Nothing spells romance like cable theft on VHS.

Right after my birthday, we went out for dinner again. (All we ever did was go out to dinner because Chuck kept eating things that didn't agree with him. In hindsight, I think it was another manifestation of his ultra cheap ways.) Chuck's car had no door handle on the passenger side. When we got to the restaurant he got out of the car, hit the door lock and walked away. I was stuck in the car long enough to start to panic before he opened the door and let me out.

We ate (but I was too pissed to remember where) and we drove up and down Westheimer a few times looking at the places others were going, but Chuck would never actually go to. He said some inane things that fueled my anger and then took me home.

The next day, I called my friend and told her I didn't want to see him anymore, he was freaking me out and pissing me off. She said, "Well he was just talking with me about the four of us (including her husband) getting together this weekend."

"Oh really? He's making plans and not even asking me? You need to talk to him." I figure she got me into this relationship, she can get me out.

She asked him, "Have you spoken to Trisa about the weekend?"

"No."

"I think you really should speak to her."

"Why?"

"She doesn't want to see you anymore."

And here, Chuck broke down crying, "I would've done anything for love."

Love? Chuck, my boy, I have to confess. When we were seeing each other, the girls at work asked me to describe you. I couldn't do it. "Um....well, he uh....he's roughly pear shaped."

Un poco de todo (A little bit of everything)

2005-11-02T21:26:00.000-08:00

It's been a while since I've posted, in that time the Astros got their buts whipped by the White Sox, I've lost the title to my car (which I hadn't yet registered with the state), JR's mom's best friend stopped by my school looking for him, I took care of some long neglected yardwork, got the antique dresser almost completed (must find a new mirror) and commissioned the Hatter to bring life to a superhero I dreamed up. Whew! No wonder I didn't get to blog....

Toe Boy and the Talent are having issues with the Brazilian tour and have partnered with a local promotions company. I'm still doubtful that the show will go on, but time will tell. The Talent's website won an award and you know that's just got to piss off E. The Talent's CD's have also been received so that distribution can commence. Hopefully soon I can direct you all to your nearest record shop to get your very own copy.

I joined a writer's group on yahoo that is hosted by a friend. Mostly, it reminds me of those old Faberge Organic Shampoo commercials, you know, "where they told their friends and they told their friends and they told their friends, too." Most of the friends, however, don't seem terribly interested in writing and we haven't thus far been able to meet, share and critique. Which got me thinking.

If the group got together tommorrow, what would I take? So the last few days I've been saving my writings on disk (God forbid something happen to blogspot; I'd lose everything.) My plan is to then print it all and organize it into some semblance of order so that I can see which stories I've told and which I've omitted. Have no fear. There are more dating disasters to share. (And with a little luck, I'll be making some new dating memories soon.)

Speaking of dating, the BBW site is not proving itself to be terribly promising. The ex-wonderful dating site is trying to woo me back, but if I agree to the deal, I'll be taking the test over and starting a new profile from scratch. Thrill seekers, adventure freaks and those with a death wish need not apply.

The holidays are approaching and not only have I not bought one single present, but I have different furniture this year and can't even figure out where to put the Christmas tree! If you are on my Christmas list this year, please send gift ideas. And if you're planning on filling my stocking, cash is always good. Or silver sparklies. Or clothes. Or music. (You should know the list by now, it's always the same.) Or hey, just surprise me!

paraphrase

2005-10-19T20:35:00.000-07:00

In the immortal words of Bob Uecker (almost), "The Astro's won it! The Astro's won it! Oh my God, the Astro's won it!" And to quote Phil Garner, "Houston, we have a Series!" Hot diggity damn!

O-R-E-O

2005-10-19T20:13:00.000-07:00

I've identified a new sin: the cruel and unusual punishment of oreos. After thinking long and hard, I can't find another instance of a snack food, being so mistreated (well maybe the extinction of the tan m&m's comes close.) Oreos have been both force fed and shrunken--Oreo double stuff'd, Oreo Big Stuff, and Mini Oreos. They've been poisoned and flavored with mint, coffee, peanut butter and chocolate creams. They've been defaced with multi-colored fillings. They've been mutated for 100 Calorie Packs and Oreo O's cereal. The victim of such cruel abuse, the oreo has developed dissociative tendencies and has spawned Golden Oreos and Uh-oh Oreos. Traditionally oreos have been ripped limb from limp, having their guts eaten first; they've suffered the indignity of being drowned in milk. But these were sacrifices that oreos were willing to make, bringing enjoyment to the masses as nature's most perfect food.Things have gone too far. Oreos are broken and poured into ice cream, pudding, and "dirt cake". They're used to line cheese cake pans and to make Oreo Ice Cream Cones. They are smothered and covered in fudge and white chocolate. They've been copied by Hydrox and generic others. (Well, technically Hydrox was made first, but really it was just a cheap prequel to the oreo.) And, horror of horrors, innocent oreos have been battered and deep fried and sold at carnivals the world over.When will the madness end? When will the oreo be restored to it's reverential place as manna from heaven?

Cursed

2005-10-17T21:49:00.000-07:00

To every Astros fan out there, I sincerely apologize.

The 'Stros were up 4 to 2 in the eighth and I just wanted to see them win, to be able to whoop, holler and scream about the house like a lunatic, just like everyone else. But we didn't get to celebrate and I have to confess that it was because of me.

Despite an utter love and devotion to sports in general (I can't play for shit, but damn I'm good at the fanatic part), I do my favorite teams a favor when I pretend they don't exist. Because I am cursed. If I cheer them on, they will lose. Sometimes, I only have to know there is a game being played.

With all the hoopla about us finally making it into the World Series, and how beautifully poetic it would be for us to earn that honor today, of all days, 45 years to the day after the franchise was started, (in Chicago, who we'd coincidentally be playing in the Series), it was damned impossible to not know about the game. But I knew better than to pay attention, and when I put on the TV, I really thought it was late enough not to matter. For God's sake, we were up by 2 runs and were 1 out away from the World Series. 5 1/2 million people were on their feet, Nolan Ryan was rooting everybody on, Craig Biggio wasn't even breathing, and I turned on the damned game.

I'm sorry, Houston. I promise not to watch commercials promoting the game or sports updates during the game. I'll put my TV on BBC and watch Footballer's Wives or some such shit, just to keep my mind occupied so that I don't think about the game.

And if this turns out to be my last post ever, you know I've been abducted by some bookie where I'll be duct taped to a chair, my eyes held open with toothpicks, as I am forced to watch games and root for someone!

Kook Aid Siting

2005-10-16T19:59:00.000-07:00

I was out having lunch with my mother today and who do you think we saw? Mr. Who's Your Daddy himself, standing behind the bar of a mid-priced seafood restaurant. He never spoke to us and we never spoke to him. He seems to have found a job he's good at though.

He smiled at the pretty girls, watched the football game and spoke sports with the guys, and he walked aimlessly in circles around the restaurant. From observing his duties, I'm not really sure what his position with the company may be, apparantly he's not concerned with customer service, seating, orders, finances, or making adult frosty beverages.

But's that's all good, cuz I didn't leave him a tip.

If at first you don't succeed...

2005-10-12T07:38:00.000-07:00

A couple weeks ago, when I was enjoying my 4 day weekend courtesty of Hurricane Rita, I woke up about 2 a.m. missing the Ex terribly, crying, the whole pathetic 9 yards. But why? It wasn't my birthday, his birthday, the anniversary of us meeting or breaking up, not even his wedding anniversary to Psycho Wife.

As I lay on my air mattress in the cubby hole (the name for my temporary room while we had the houseguests from hell), I did some mental calculations and discovered that we'd been broken up one day more than we had been together.

I know how pitiful it sounds, but it's true. I am still not over him. Dating is supposed to help with that and I haven't been doing much of that lately and I fired the service I'd been using. They were matching me with adventure freaks or those with death wishes. I just want someone to catch a movie with and maybe shoot pool every so often. What to do?

Let's face it. I'm a big girl and barring the reintroduction of ephedra into my favorite over the counter diet aid, I'm probably going to stay a big girl. Why not look for someone who wants a big girl? So I joined a site specifically for the single BBW (that's big beautiful woman). I'll keep you posted on the results.

And maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to get over the past.

Manic Monday

2005-10-08T14:11:00.000-07:00

I hate public speaking. So much so, in fact, that I took speech as a night class in college because I would be required to do less actual speaking due to time constraints. So what will you find me doing Monday morning at 8:30? PUBLIC SPEAKING!!

My company decided to have a company wide training day and not having enough actual trainers to send to over 2000 locations, it was decided to group several schools in one location and have the directors teach the classes. Hey, lucky me, I'm not a director, I thought with glee. Poor Boss Lady, she's gonna have to teach. And I laughed inside at the thought. You see, my boss lady is not exactly a people person; she's not current on her people skills. When the EX used to call me at work, he'd hang up if she answered just because he didn't want to deal with her shit.

The joke it turns out, was on me. Our school was chosen as a host site and Boss Lady therefore would be way to busy playing Happy Hostess to teach. So she nominated me! I don't remember putting on the job application that I would be willing to lead a group of my peers in a professional development exercise or even mentioning that it sounded like one hell of a fun way to spend a Monday morning. Yet, dear readers, I will be standing in front of a group of my peers making a total jackass of myself in the all too near future.

But Trisa, you say, you are a teacher; surely this won't be that hard. I am a pre-school teacher. Or I was until about 3 years ago when I entered management. And it is not the same teaching adults as teaching 3 and 4 year olds. To them, I am infallible. Words rhyme, things match, the sun rises and sets just because Ms. Trisa said so. But to colleagues...I have to prove myself more knowledgable than them (or at least be able to fake it.) In my field, there's not much more irritating than being trained by someone that you doubt has ever seen the inside of a classroom. I've been out of the loop for a while, and it could affect my credibility.None the less, I will be soliciting volunteers, asking questions and referring to my flip chart on Monday as we delve deeply into the moving topic of child guidance.

When first notified of my trainer status, I was told to participate in a conference call on ethics, which I did and got all prepared only to have my topic change the following week. What qualifies me as a trainer? Well I attended 2 conference calls and watched part of a DVD presentation. Yeah, buddy, I think I'm ready to take on the world. NOT!

So as you go about your Monday routines, think of me and my public speaking hell.

Free at last

2005-10-01T18:42:00.000-07:00

I know my posts are pretty sarcastic and pessimistic, but today I have to break with tradition. Today my houseguests from hell moved out!! Please join me in a celebratory frosty adult beverage (make mine a 'Rita).

I can once again sleep au natural. I can leave my purse in the front room an know that I'll still have money when I next look for it. I can sleep on my bed (on the wonderful mattresses that were a Christmas present from my mother to the Ex and I). I can banish the smell of pets and cigarettes. I can clear out the secret stashes of lotions that my cousin could only have used for one thing. I can come home from work and listen to the sound of silence. I can answer the phone knowing it will be for me.

Yessir, things are looking up at Casa de Trisa. And I feel I should make one thing crystal clear. There is no room at the inn. Friends and family of mine, you know I love you, but no, hell no, hell fucking no, you cannot come live at my house.

Sperm Donor

2005-09-27T21:37:00.000-07:00

My druggie cousin and his druggie titty-bar dancing ex-wife share joint custody of their son. J.R. just turned 5 and started kindergarten and he's so proud of his school. Two weeks ago I went to a spaghetti dinner with J.R.--he had invited me as I was reading his school newsletter, "Would you like to go?"

Of course I went and dined on cold spaghetti, limp salad and 5 meatballs. Then I got the tour. I saw his classroom and where he lines up to catch the bus and we played on the playground.

And then came Rita.

My cousin, J. R.'s dad, evacuated to Arkansas with him. Today I got the news that they aren't coming home. My cousin says he's found a job and is gonna stay out of state.

I am livid. Too mad to even be hurt. You see, my cousin can't stick to any form of commitment. His marriage didn't last a year. He dropped out of rehab twice. He quits his jobs once people start telling him what to do. And he's been an absentee father for most of J.R.'s life.

When the baby was 18 months old, he started attending the school where I work. No matter which parent he was staying with, or which set of grandparents might be caring for him, he came to the school everyday. I started watching him on weekends and more than once had him for extended visits when his parents were too busy, drunk, high or just plain stupid to properly care for their son. Being single and not having kids, I have accepted J.R. as my own and I worked hard to give him stability whenever possible.

In February, his mom called me at the school and asked if I would take him home with me because she had to work late. She said she would pick him up from the school. J.R. got sick that night, and was throwing up every half hour. But I couldn't reach his mom (titty dancers don't usually carry their cell phones at work.) I called his grandmother instead and she picked him up and cared for him. His mom never came back.

We heard through friends that she had decided his dad needed to be a parent for a while. In the last 7 months, J.R. has seen his mom occasionally, when his other grandparents have him for a visit. She will not however call or answer calls to anyone in our family. She doesn't even call to talk to her son.

How can a mother turn her back on her child? She is living with a new boyfriend and his family doesn't know about J.R.

And his dad? He jumps from job to job and woman to woman. Even while living with his parents and J.R., he wasn't parental figure. He would take off to party, leaving the child in the care of his granparents. When my cousin's behavior became so erratic and $1500 was stolen he was thrown out of his parents' house. He left his child behind.

My aunt got insurance for J.R., got his immunizations and after much persuasion, convinced my cousin to sign guardianship over to her so that she could enroll him in school. I have been going over several times a week to tutor him, making sure he would be ready for kindergarten.

And now my cousin, the non-custodial parent of the child according to the court papers, has taken his son and left the state without attempting to notify the child's mother. My cousin, who was due to appear in court in October because of not paying child support, and who is facing a year in jail and the loss of his license, has fled the state. I believe there are warrents out for him on the child support charges. My cousin, who was convicted of a felony when he stole a roll of quarters to buy drugs, and who is on probation, left the state without notifying his probation officer. He was lucky enough to get probation and avoid a ten year sentence because he agreed to complete a rehab program at Cenikor. He walked out of the program twice without finishing it. My cousin, the convicted felon, who can't find a job in Texas, suddenly has a job in Arkansas?

I am having a difficult time accepting this. My hands are tied. Short of notifying his probation officer, the other grandparents and the attorney general, there's not much I can do. Not that I won't do what I can. In my eyes, my cousin forfeited the right to be a dad a long time ago. He's had 5 years to step up to the plate, and for 5 years he was content to let the rest of us raise his son.

Have you ever seen the movie "Parenthood"? Keanu Reeves says that you have to have a license to drive a car, but "any but reeming asshole can be a father." A couple of years ago there was an advertising campaign with the slogan, "It takes a man to be a dad." My cousin has fathered this child, but he has fallen far short of being a dad.

Hurricane Rita II

2005-09-23T12:37:00.000-07:00

Thursday we froze extra water supplies and started cooking food. A brief trip into town proved that the city of Houston has rolled up the sidewalks. Nothing was open. Any supplies you had not already gathered, you would have to figure out a way to do without. My sister-in-law left Clear Lake Wednesday night at 10, heading for San Marcos. After 15 hours, they'd made it as far as Brenham (which is normally a 2 hour drive and well short of their destination). They tried to come back as far as my house, since the freeway was open coming into town (according to the news anyway) but were stopped by authorities one exit up the freeway, turned around and again headed north. After 24 hours, they finally reached safety. As of 1:30 a.m. the storm was predicted to hit slightly to the west of us, sparing us the worst of Rita.

Friday we tried again to scout for supplies. One convenience store was in the process of boarding up the windows when my uncle ignored the "Store Closed" signs, went inside and negotiated for coffee and sugar. At home we cleaned the house, hung quilts over all the taped windows (trying to keep the house cool if we lost power), filled the tub and washer with water, packed pictures and important papers in an igloo cooler, secured the garage door with c-clamps and parked the extra car horizontally in the driveway up against the garage door. The front gate we "locked" by pushing a cement block up against it. And the wait began.

Rita steadily altered course throughout the day, heading for Port Arthur. We were told to expect winds up to 80 mph and heavy rains. Between 1 and 5 a.m. we did get some fierce winds and a little rain, but nothing like we expected. The power blinked on and off during that time, but never went out completely.

This morning I went out to check out the school and neighborhood. A few limbs were down and it looks like we had a leaf blizzard. I saw one street sign that lost the part with the street names on it and a couple of twisted mailboxes. But for the most part, everything looks secure, albeit deserted. I've found one Texaco store open. A Big Lots store next door to my school had the roof cave in. Pretty much, I'd say we've been lucky.

I've heard from friends in Florida and Oklahoma that the city is remaining closed til Wednesday because there will be no gas or grocery supplies in the city for a while. My friend Leslie left me her car and a set of keys to her house when she evacuated and called to let me know to go to her house and get whatever groceries I might need, so I think we will be more than fine. We have power, internet, water, A/C and Direct TV. If we could shop and eat out, this time off would be a vacation. As is, we are stir crazy, totally suffering from cabin fever and anxious as hell to get out of the house.

Hurricane Rita

2005-09-23T12:08:00.000-07:00

By now you know I live in Houston and in a couple of hours I should start getting the beginnings of hurricane Rita. I'm in the NW part of town and am not part of a mandatory evacuation. Instead, my family and I hunkered down to man the fort right here at home.

Monday, when my friend called telling me to evacuate NOW, I laughed because the storm wasn't anywhere near the Gulf of Mexico. It seemed silly to evacuate when we didn't know if it was even heading towards us. But the outlying areas and Galveston Island started evacuating on Monday, heading north right into Houston.

Tuesday, parents at the school where I work had started asking if we would close for Friday. We had no answers at that time, but were hoping to be able to close in order to avoid having to shelter children at the school whose parents might not be able to get back to them. I decided to stop at the grocery at 9:30 that night to get water and batteries, "just in case". I was stunned to find the parking lot totally full a half hour before the store should have closed. My aunt in Tyler called to invite us to come to her house, but we've never had to evacuate and chose to reserve that option for a worst case scenario. 72 hours before the hurricane's expected arrival the freeways were clogged with evacuees, gas stations were running low, and emergency supplies, ice, bread, milk, eggs, water, and batteries could not be found. I bought canned and boxed goods and began to wonder how bad things were going to be.

Wednesday, my birthday, I hit a discount store for a few more food items, candles and such. Still no bread, batteries or flashlights. When I got to the school, my boss told me we had a bunch to do because we were closing for the rest of the week. WHAT?? I've worked for the company 16 years and have dutifully opened in floods, snow and ice storms. It is unprecedented for my company to close all locations in a city the size of Houston. We secured what we could, backed up the computers, taped windows, turned the fridges to the coldest settings, took pictures of all the office equipment (polaroids with the serial numbers written at the bottom), and wrapped them all in trash bags in an attempt to keep them dry. The kids mostly went home early, driving and catching planes to Austin, Dallas, San Antonio and even Shreveport and Arkansas.
As of 4 a.m. late late late Wednesday night or early Thursday if you'd already gone to bed, Rita was expected to roar straight up the port of Houston.

Banana Appeal?

2005-09-20T21:42:00.000-07:00

I visited the Black Eyed Pea this week. With my bbq crazy, meat loving family staying here, I've been craving vegetables. So off I went to the Black Eyed Pea. My veggie plate was yummy....green beans, glazed carrots, whipped sweet potatoes, broccoli rice casserole and black eyed peas. After such a yummy veggie fest, what could possibly follow? A fruit course!!

I ordered banana pudding, which has been renamed "banana appeal". To whom does it appeal?? After waiting 10 minutes, my dessert arrived and I knew something was wrong immediately. The pudding didn't look like it was completely set. Maybe the long wait was because they were whipping up a fresh batch.

But no. When I tasted it, I noticed the texture. It was lumpy. Maybe it wasn't mixed well. Maybe it had been made with curdled milk. I really don't know, but I sent it back.

"Is something wrong?" the waitress inquired.

"Pudding isn't supposed to be lumpy and chunky." Seriously...think of canned pudding with cottage cheese stirred into it with 3 slices of banana suspended in the mix and crushed nilla wafers on top.

"That's the vanilla."

Ummmm....no. That's just nasty. You have to work really hard to make something as good as banana pudding as bad as banana appeal.

If you're at the Black Eyed Pea anytime soon, I suggest you get dessert on the way home.

Oops...I did it again.

2005-09-14T21:33:00.000-07:00

About 3 years ago, I woke up to the phone ringing. My aunt was calling to tell me that my cousin had been run over and she didn't think he'd make it. She couldn't really give me any information but apparently the girlfriend had run over his head a couple of times. By accident.

HUH?

It was a long, stressful day at work as I waited to hear if my cousin would live or die and as I hoped for answers to questions like, Is the bitch in jail? How do you run someone over twice by accident? and Why the hell did she do it?

Bitch says she'd been out partying with my cousin who got drunk and belligerent so she was gonna leave his ass at the club. He followed and tried to get into the truck, somehow falling. She didn't see him fall and kept going. THUNK!

She wondered what that was. Did she hit something? Maybe she should go back and check it out....so she put the truck in reverse. THUNK!

Still not realizing what had happened she left my cousin there where he was picked up by EMS an rushed to a hospital. His skull was fractured. He lost sight in one eye and hearing in one ear.
He's 30 years old and permanently disabled. He's on anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medications. He's got post traumatic stress disorder and can't sleep due to the flashbacks. And to cope with it all, he drinks. Sometimes three 12-packs a day...sometimes three 20-packs.

And the Bitch? She's still on the streets, sometimes dancing in titty bars and sometimes prostituting herself to support herself and her young son.

Try as we might, we can't get her put away. Seems that it wasn't an intentional act on her part, so we can't go for attempted murder or vehicular manslaughter. The best the lawyer tells us we can hope for is that she'll be convicted of leaving the scene of an accident and failure to render aid.

The scales of justice sure as hell need to be recalibrated!

Aftermath

2005-08-31T19:27:00.000-07:00

Hurricane Katrina hit the Gulf Coast Monday, decimating entire towns, and what was I doing? Entertaining the dance lady at the school.

While she was very chipper and happy (in the way that only underfed, blonde cheerleaders can be), passing out cookies to the children, and begging the parents to spend money on dance lessons and leotards sporting the school logo, life took a turn for the worse in much of the Gulf Coast area. Entire towns have been decimated, many were orphaned or widowed and many more were left homeless.

Metro's grandparents own an apartment building on Jackson Square in the French Quarter. Surely Metro thought ahead to evacuate Dr. Grandpa. I worry about him.

GIJoe's hometown in Mississippi has been erased. His family might have gotten out or gotten rescued, but we don't know. And he's stuck in Iraq.

One of the families at my school has missing loved ones. The missing were expected here in town Monday night but they didn't make it. Now the family is trying to get back into Louisiana to find their relatives, a futile quest with the roads impassable and not knowing where to look. Are they still in New Orleans? Are they among the 25,000 in the SuperDome? When they left New Orleans, did they make it to another town where they might be holding up?

Another of the families at my school has had 5 houses of relatives from the New Orleans area seek refuge at their house. We are currently trying to collect food, clothes and school supplies to help them get settled here in Houston. How many more will come?

The refugees at the SuperDome will be bussed to the Astrodome here in Houston over the next couple of days. It's not the Ritz, but it does have electricity, air conditioning and running water. Houston area schools have opened enrollment for the children to be put into our schools without the usual paperwork. Food stamp offices have been processing the displaced, giving them priority status and immediate assistance. Citizens of the city are even opening their homes to strangers. Of course, all around you can see the Hurricane Relief Funds. Elementary schools and churches organizing food drives and dinners for those in need. And my favorite radio station had a request telethon.

Despite it being an alternative rock station, for the right price anything could be heard on the Buzz today. "Little Nicki" commanded the Prince-ly sum of $500 while "We are the World" went for $1000. New Kids on the Block also got a feature but I missed it. How much does it take to buy airplay nowadays? The Buzz is also having an auction. The proceeds are all going to the Red Cross who is asking for cold, hard cash.

W. flew over the remains of N.O. today and he even cut his 5 week vacation a wee bit short to do so. You know it had to be so comforting for the stranded and newly homeless to look up and see the plane go by. Seems I remember other politicians visiting disaster areas and actually setting foot on the ground and shaking some hands, possible even saying some comforting words. Maybe he waved from the airconditioned luxury of his private plane.

Please do what you can to help those whose lives were devestated by Katrina. Give money if you can, donate food and clothes if you can. Involve yourself with the cleanup efforts. Help to rebuild. Pray. Pray for those who were lost, pray for those who need rescuing and pray for those who are starting all over again.

More updates

2005-08-26T19:45:00.000-07:00

Ooops! I realized some updates that I overlooked.

My wonderful dating service has been fired. I think I've eliminated enough "matches" to know that their system just isn't working. I can hear you telling me to give them another chance. I have. So far I've given them 300 second chances.

Becky, my unisex match, never responded to my requests to communicate. Go figure.

E, the self-obsessed, self-promoting graphic designer that I worked with briefly has some legal issues brewing. How I'd love to get a ticket for that debacle.

The record label and I have parted ways. Actually, E created such a rift that the staff polarized on both sides of the issue. Half stayed "official" and the rest of us moved on to new projects.

After a long cancellation, rearranging schedules and possible bribing of officials, Toe Boy and the Talent are touring Brazil. I'll admit that I did not think the tour would happen. But the boys always have been full of surprises.

Whatever happened to...

2005-08-24T17:55:00.000-07:00

It's update time on Nasty Little Thoughts, your opportunity to find out the latest news (all right it's mostly gossip) about selected characters featured here.

Hippie was put on notice on Monday that his services may be required at Cape Canaveral to fix the shuttle. If he's going to Florida, he better take me along.

The Ex, Mr. I don't ever want to be married again, is living in the 'burbs with his wife and their children.

Metro has made room in his 5 year plan for his wife and step-child and they are also living in the 'burbs.

Susie has taken a supervisor's position and is once again working the night shift, leaving her lots of time to enjoy Florida living.

The Golden Unicorn is leaving Houston to start a new relationship. Will she be starting a new blog?

LoanOfficerSix, an old internet friend, only stuck with blogging for 2 posts. Knowing that he's a talented writer, haikus being a particular strength, maybe he'll write again. I know I'll keep watching.

Brandy became a private nanny and is going to school. She's been preoccupied with creative writing assignments lately and she's defected to MySpace. Hopefully she'll remember her blog every now and then. PeachyPie has moved her blog to MySpace as well.

RHSCF is now in Germany. I've even seen pictures to prove it. He has asked that he be known by the new moniker "the Hatter", an homage to his collection of fedoras. Construction of gaming table version 2.o should be commencing soon.

Ruben continues to be an inspiration through his illnesses. If you like digital photography, visit him on Flickr Friday. He'd love to include your pics in the slide show.

My big dysfunctional family continues to stay at Trisa's flop house. Estimated (and very much prayed for) time of departure is mid-October.

Did I forget your favorite character? Drop me a line and I'll update you best that I can.

I've been asked to go to MySpace, but you know, if it ain't broke, don't fix it. Me and my Nasty Little Thoughts are staying right where we are.

Good eats?!

2005-08-12T19:35:00.000-07:00

I grew up thinking my diet was limited. Mom's recipe repetoire consisted of ground beef, chicken, pork, canned tuna, noodles, sauces, green beans, corn, peas, ranch style beans, and potatoes. Sounds rather limited and repetitious at first glance, but Mom had skills (not Julia Childs kinds of skills, but she had a good 20 meals that were her stand bys and sometimes we'd throw all caution to the wind and make frozen pizza.

As I've grown up and paid more attention to the eating habits of others, particularly those I date, I am grateful for Mom and her old faithfuls. I'm glad she insisted on a green vegetable with dinner and didn't allow the serving of two carbs in one meal. She managed to give me a sound nutritional foundation and over time, I've expanded upon it.

Not so for everyone, however. The Ex would not eat tomatoes, onions, peppers or pickles and was scared of green peas. The man would eat salsa, ketchup and spaghetti sauce, but wouldn't eat the actual ingredients used to make salsa, ketchup and spaghetti sauce.

Thinking back, I've witnessed bizarre eating ever since I can remember. My grandfather would fry cornbread batter like a pancake, tear it into pieces, dump them in a bowl, and slop it up like breakfast cereal after adding a generous amount of buttermilk.

My brother got up one weekend morning, and decided not to wait on our parents to rise before having breakfast. Since they would sleep til 11 or later on the weekends, you can't really blame him. I heard him digging through the fridge for a while, and when he came back from the kitchen he had a sandwich--peanut butter, American cheese and cold left-over pork & beans.

My aunt (Hippie's first wife) had a weird snack that she turned me onto. She would eat nacho flavored Dorito's spread with cream cheese. (Have you ever had nacho flavored Dorito's? They quit making them for a while, but I have some in the house right now....In fact, earlier today I was hankering for some cream cheese.)

My sister was a total food phobe from the get go. She wouldn't eat foods that were mixed together...casseroles, mixed fruit/vegetables, soups, etc. She was totally hung up on textures and refused things lumpy or bumpy...tapioca pudding would send her into hysterics. She will not eat things that jiggle to this day. No custards, jellies or jello. But she'll eat sushi and oysters on the half shell, which just doesn't make good sense to me.

Her friends, founding members of the Kook Aid gang (about whom I keep promising a post and just never seem to do it), had truly frightening eating habits. Chiquito would eat any food (except onions and peppers), and the longer it sat out the more appetizing it became for him. He'd buy fast food in bulk, leave it in the bag on the counter and eat it for days, soggy buns, wilted lettuce, reheated mayonnaise...nothing would stop him. He had a never ending bowl of dip made from velveeta and wolf's chili. He'd nuke it and eat on it, leaving it out to congeal and form a protective layer across the top, only to nuke it and eat it again a day or two later. If it seemed he were ever in danger of running out of dip, he'd just add to the mixture already started in the bowl. My stomach and intestines are cramping in revulsion even as I type.

His sister, having equal food hang ups, refused to eat the meal I'd prepared and went into the kitchen to cook for herself. She started by scrambling some eggs. Then she added some of the mashed potatoes I'd made. And a can of tuna. And parmesan cheese. And then she topped it with ranch dressing. AND ATE IT!

A friend of my mom who stayed with us for a while, once offered to cook dinner since we so kindly gave her homeless ass a place to stay. She announced that she was making spaghetti. After an hour or so, when dinner wasn't ready yet, I went into the kitchen to see what was so complicated about spaghetti, especially since we had prego in the pantry. I arrived in time to see her pull a roasting pan out of the oven. She removed the lid and the noodles and tomato sauce were simmering alonside smoked sausage links and corn on the cob. My father took pity on us kids and took us to Denny's.

My friend's husband, who won't eat vegetables, puts jalapenos on his baked potatoes and hot sauce on his toast. My ex-roommate would eat cereal with water in it because he hated milk. Another roommate ate vanilla ice cream topped with Tony Chachere's cajun spices. (I myself prefer orange sherbert sprinkled with Nestle's quick.)

The other night Hippie at a hamburger with a fried egg on top of it. And the list goes on.

So here's a challenge for you. Do you have a weird food episode to share? Can it top the scrambled eggs or spaghetti I've mentioned above? Come on, tell us all about your good eats.

Hotel California...Texas Style

2005-07-31T20:16:00.000-07:00

You may not know that about a year and a half ago I agreed to help my mom buy a house. She has health problems and with me being here with her, she should be able to pay off the house before she retires. Before we moved in though, we made a solemn promise to each other that noone would live with us. No boyfriends, no friends, no homeless coworkers. We were buying this house with the absolute irrefutable understanding that there is no room at the inn.

Several times my mom has provided shelter to a wide variety of unfortunates. In fact, the deacon at our church has nicknamed her "Mother Homeless". Where did Dad stay after his IRS problems? He moved in with Mom. When a girl at my work was evicted with her 2 children, they stayed with Mom. When my sister's high school friends' parents moved to another city and they didn't want to go, they stayed with Mom. When a writer friend of Mom's wore out her welcome elsewhere, she stayed with Mom.

But in buying the house, we were making a clean start. Just me, Mom and my sister (when she isn't bunking with her boyfriend.) Absolutely noone else.

But July 4th weekend, my uncle called Mom and said he needed to move, and Mom said, "Well come on then."

WHAT? WHAT ABOUT OUR PROMISE? NOONE LIVES WITH US!!

My uncle, who is going through a nasty divorce, just had the engine in his truck seize so he had to buy a new car, owes money on taxes, can't pay his rent and has brought all his worldly posessions, his oldest son who is disabled due to a car accident (and that is a future blog, I promise), his dog and his bird to live in my house.

At first I felt bad, and my uncle said it would be only for a couple of months, so I moved out of my room, into the den attached to Mom's room, rolled out the air mattress and tried to make myself comfortable.

But the rent and grocery money we were told about hasn't happened yet. The dog is covered in fleas. The bird flings seeds everydamnwhere. And now my cousin is stealing money from our purses.

And they are probably staying until December.

I just want to be able to come home from work to my quiet house. I want to be able to walk across the floor and not trip on the dog. I want to watch tv and not have constant conversation. I want to be able to drive the car and not be poked and tickled. I want to sleep in my bed!

God help me, I'm living that Kirstie Alley/John Larroquette movie about the houseguests from hell that never leave.

So now I find myself pricing condos and thinking that it's time to check out of Hotel California. But like the song says, "You can check in but you can't ever leave."

Escape from Korea

2005-07-22T21:16:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, there was the Redheaded Stepchild of Fate, and when he grew up he joined the military and got shipped to Korea for 2 years. I met RHSCF before his stint in Korea, right when I was discovering the Diskworld novels of Terry Pratchett. RHSCF was my mental image of Capt. Carrot, tall (well taller than me), kind of silly and clumsy, but surprisingly smart and insightful.

RHSCF and I had been communicating by email and IM (God I love the internet!) and we'd made plans to renew our friendship when he returned home on his next leave, which is currently happening by the way, and is serving as a pitstop for him before his next assignment in the land of beer and schnitzel. Yep, RHSCF is going to Germany.

But first he had to get out of Korea.

The military, in it's infinite wisdom, took care of the travel arrangements for RHSCF and approximately 499 other servicemen and women who were looking forward to leaving Korea behind. Due to fly out on Friday, the outprocessing started on Wednesday, and on Thursday morning, RHSCF showered, put on his travelling clothes and started to prepare for the journey.

And here enters Murphy's Law.

Armed with a duffle bag of reading material, our hero settled in to wait for his plane, which was delayed repeatedly. After a few hours, the plane could be seen just a couple hundred feet away at the airport gate. (RHSCF had by this time begun and completed reading Dan Brown's Digital Fortress.) The anticipation and excitement had built so that the passengers had to be reminded that it is illegal to walk on the tarmac. They were eager to leave and were worrying about their connecting flights in Seattle. Hungry and cranky, they were ferried to the plane in small groups. It took an hour and a half for the crowd of 500 to finally board the plane.

Within 15 minutes all passengers were asked to depart the aircraft for some minor repairs. Groaning, all 500 returned to the airport. Of course, there were more delays, and then the eventual announcement that the plane could not take off since it had rained earlier in the day and the runway was still wet. To quote RHSCF, "We can send a man to the moon using 30 year old technology, but an airplane can't take off with a wet runway."

At 11:30 all military personnel were reminded that curfew was at midnight and that they were expected to be in their hotel rooms by that time. That left RHSCF 30 minutes to grab some food (he hadn't eaten since early Friday morning) and find a hotel. The mission was a success but only because he had the foresight not to follow the majority of his colleagues to the restaurant on the base.

Next morning, Saturday, he showered and prepared to be at the airport for his 7 a.m. flight, and found a message at the front desk that it was pushed back to 11. At the airport, a cautionary message was delivered; anyone getting belligerent would not be allowed on the plane, and by the way, the flight's been delayed until 4.

He hung out at the airport reading and trading books with his fellow travellers until once again, they were called to ferry across the tarmac and board the plane. He settled in, with the hot air of the A/C blowing on his face despite all attempts to muffle it with a pillow. Bringing his discomfort to the attention of the flight attendant who seemed to be ready to burst into flames himself, but for a completely different reason, RHSCF asked that the heat be turned down.

"Heat? We don't have heat..."answered the befuddled steward.

Airplane air conditioners run on much the same principal as the one in your automobile. When the engine is idle, you get hot air. Finally, with the assistance of the protests of several hot, sweaty, cranky passengers, some of whom hadn't showered in 48 hours, the steward was persuaded to turn off the A/C.

Then the pilot announced they were going to start the movies. For 5 hours, our fine soldiers sat captive on the plane, some watching movies and some sleeping until the announcement that they once again needed to evacuate the aircraft, which needed to be repaired with a part that was 4 hours away in Seoul. It was 11:30 and curfew was extended to 1 a.m. After a much needed alcoholic beverage, RHSCF checked back into the hotel.

Sunday, our weary travellers were told to quickly board the plane, the pilot was determined to get the bird off the ground, and he was racing a rainstorm. The preflight check began, passengers buckled up and found themselves airborne and headed for Seattle and what is arguably the worst airport ever.

But there was more rain ahead so our friends found themselves dumping fuel and on their diverted way to Anchoridge. Only by shedding excess weight (ie fuel) could the plane be made light enough to land safely and stop on a possibly wet runway. (Sounds to me like the airlines need all weather tires.)

Once in Alaska, RHSCF quickly cleared customs and made his way to the Delta counter, armed with a letter explaining the dilemma and need to trade in 3 day old tickets for current ones. After making it to the head of the line, he was told to go to the phone kiosk and call the 1-800 number for assistance, so he lined up behind 30 other guys trying to get home.

"Yes, hello, I missed my connecting flight and the US government is going to buy me a new ticket," he explained after finally getting to the phone. "My confirmation number is..."

"I'm sorry sir, but I can't find you in our system. Please go to the ticket counter for assistance."

At the ticket counter, a nice attendant, who had been watching RHSCF bounce back and forth like a tennis ball in a championship volley, told him to go to the first class line, where he could get immediate assistance.

"Are you flying first class?"asked the buffoon manning the first class counter.

"No, but that nice man over there told me to come and see you."

"I'm sorry. I can't help you. You need to get in that line over there."

Having arrived in Alaska at 10 a.m. RHSCF waited 5 hours in just as many lines, but he emerged victorious and with a valid ticket! The problem was that his original travel arrangements included a flight on Delta and a flight on American Airlines. So he had an AA ticket with the Delta lable.

When he landed in Houston, his dad was there to give him a big bear hug, "God you stink."

"Yes I do. I've been travelling nearly a week, haven't showered since Thursday morning and I've been wearing these clothes since Wednesday. Take me home!"

And what a marvelous place home has turned out to be for RHSCF. He's got steady meals, frequent showers, a vehicle, friends galore to reunite with and of course, a love interest. Hey, every adventure story's got to have a love interest.

I invite you all to leave a little message to help me welcome home my friend Matt, aka RHSCF.

Food funnies

2005-07-14T20:03:00.000-07:00

A while back my sister and I drove over to our local Popeye's for some spicy cajun style fried chicken. As we pulled into the drive-thru, we noticed that the menu was all dark. So we pulled on up to the window to let someone know that the lights were out.

"Our menu was stolen," the worker informed us. What?

"Last night, some kids took our sign and our menu."

Sure enough, as we drove away, we noticed a definite lack of identifying signage. But the question that weighed heavily upon my mind...What does one do with a stolen Popeye's menu?

Another time, we decided to order pizza since noone was really in the mood to cook. I called our neighborhood Pizza Hut. "Yes, I'd like to place an order for delivery," I said and when I proceeded to order a large pepperoni with extra cheese I was interrupted.

"We ran out of crust."

WHAT? "You're Pizza Hut. How can you run out of crust?"

"They only make so many crusts each day."

"Well don't you think you should make some more?"

"The one's who make the crust have already gone home."

So I called Domino's instead.

And yet another time I called out for pizza, "Yes, I'd like to place an order for delivery."

"We can't do that; the driver didn't show up."

So you don't have a backup driver?

Once I even went to an upscale seafood place and ordered shrimp gumbo. When I sent it back, the waitress wanted to know what was wrong.

"Gumbo," I explained as I stirred the clear broth bringing one lone little shrimp to the surface, "gumbo is not hot water with a shrimp in it. Gumbo should have vegetables, onions, tomotoes, okra, spices....This is just hot shrimp water."

"The owner knows gumbo. And likes this gumbo. We've been complimented as one of the best gumbos in town."

"I grew up on the Louisiana border and was weaned on cajun food. And let me tell you, that aint gumbo."

"Would you like something else?" No, not really. I just want what I ordered.

A boy named Becky?

2005-07-14T19:57:00.000-07:00

Remember the Johnny Cash song, "A Boy Named Sue"? My dating service maintains that Becky, with whom I was recently matched, is a guy.

So I've decided to get to the bottom of this myself. Today I sent off the first of four service approved communications. I will, of course, update you all once I receive a reply.

Soldier of fortune?

2005-07-01T23:02:00.000-07:00

You may have figured out by now that I work at a school, at least for the time being I do, and being single I've noticed that I don't meet single guys at work. I meet parents and the male ones almost always have a significant other. So when GIJoe was really nice to me and offered to get me a discount on a washer/dryer set (he was working at everyone's favorite discount mega store at the time) I just thought he was a nice guy trying to do a nice thing for someone who took care of his kids.

But no. He had ulterior motives which became plain to me at a much later date.

A couple weeks after my breakup with the EX, I was talking to a friend and she mentioned that GIJoe had just separated from his wife. Since misery loves company, I was surrounding myself with people whose relationships had fallen into the shithouse right alongside mine. I said something about telling him I said hello, and the next thing I knew he was IM'ing me from Mississippi. We chatted a while and he called so we could talk some more.

After a few days and long distance phone calls, in which I mourned the loss of the Ex, Joe got frustrated and said, "Why is it you women want to dwell on the past? I mourned my marriage long ago. It's time to move on."

Stunned that he'd talk to me like that when he'd always been so nice, I did a very uncharacteristic thing. I shut up.

He had a plan for me, you see. I would move in with him in Mississippi and run a 24 hour child care service for military personnel.

I argued that I didn't want to work 24 hours a day and have no life and he told me I'd make enough money I could hire other people to do it. Yeah, but as owner, I'd ultimately be on call and responsible for everything that happened. 24 hours a day. No thank you.

Conversation moved on and we started reminiscing about when his kids were at my school. "I always liked you." Oh yeah? This was music to sooth my recently rejected soul.

"Why did you think I offered you my discount?" Music sounding a wee bit flat at times.

"I always wanted a woman like you." What do you mean 'a woman like me'?

"A big, freaky, white woman."

WHAT THE HELL?

Let me tell you guys, if you want to insult your woman and you don't mind the consequences, you will get a lady's attention when you call her "a big, freaky, white woman."

I can't deny the big and white part. All you have to do is see me and you probably say to yourself, Self that's a big white woman. But freaky? GIJoe only knew me from a few phone calls and from the school. In what way am I freaky?

"I always assumed you were bi."

WHAT THE HOLY HELL?

Why would you think that, I asked him as the orchestra that had been playing soothing music was hit by a mack truck. "Because I wanted you to be."

Seems Joe has a fetish for big, bi, white women. Joe is most definitely non of the above. However, wishing for a thing doesn't make it so. Shortly thereafter, he gave me an ultimatum; I could get on his train to paradise or not.

Guess which one I chose.

So now he's been sent to Iraq and has a fiancee...well, she has a ring anyway. But he's got this girl keeping the home fires burning.

Last week I got an IM from him telling me all about how Iraq sucks, the desert sucks and GIJoe is headed home in a few days.

Really? That's great. Are you coming to town? Are you bringing your lady love with you?

"How do you know about her?"

Our friend mentioned her and that you might be getting married and I thought if you brought her to town, we could all meet.

"I'll be coming alone."

Actually, when he comes to Houston, he won't be "coming" at all. At least not on this train.

Things that make you go HMMMM...part 2 (updated)

2005-06-25T08:37:00.000-07:00

I received notification that my fabulous matchmaking service has found me another match, so I zipped over there this morning to check it out.

Trisa, we'd like you to meet Becky from College Station.

HUH?

Apparently having run out of male options, they've decided to start sending me women?

I sent off a little note pointing out this obvious oversight, and will post the reply once I receive it. It's sure to be worth the read.

For those of you who may be new to my dating saga, here's what I'm looking for.

*********************************************

As promised, here is the official response from the absolutely fabulous matchmaking service who has matched me with men my father's age and older, the Ex's roommate, rock climbing/skydiving adventure freaks and now even a woman.

"Thank you very much for your email. I have reviewed Becky's account and I'm happy to verify that this match is listed as male. The only thing I can think happened is an error in setting up their account. I have e-mailed this match to verify this and will work with them to correct any error that may have occurred."

Exorcist: Part Deux

2005-06-17T19:51:00.000-07:00

After my "trip into the bowels of hell" (thank you Ruben for the wonderful image) as I watched the Dominion a couple of weeks ago, I was assured by several people that I just had to see Exorcist: The Beginning, the other version of the movie, the one the studios actually endorsed. I absolutely refused to waste any more money on this endeavor and managed to get a copy from someone who works with my mom.

Let me go on record as stating that, yes The Beginning is better than Dominion. But come on, folks, if you've seen Dominion, you know it doesn't take much to improve upon it. I'd say watching water boil, doing one's taxes and even getting a little Martha Stewart and making a mosaic out of someone else's toenail clippings would be better than Dominion.

Just how much better is The Beginning? There was no mysterious Philippino character. The natives didn't speak on camera, so you didn't long for English subtitles. The exorcism did include the use of holy water. And I myself didn't spend a dime to see it!!

Other than that though, it pretty much sucked ass. So here are the reasons why you should not see Exorcist: The Beginning:

1. No Max Von Sydow. Max is still not with us and neither should this movie be. I think congress should do something useful and pass legislation prohibiting any Exorcist movies that do not star Max Von Sydow.

2. No Linda Blair. Again, there's a girl with wavy brown hair, and yes, this time she is posessed, but the symbolism was too much. Over and over we see a young girl (reminiscant of Linda Blair) skipping and waving happily into the freshly falling snow. Does Merrin save her? Nope, she dies. Then the female doctor Sarah, in a surprise twist (lolol) turns out to house the demon instead of Joseph...or is it James? the one who didn't get eaten by the hyenas that jumped out of the well. Anyway...does Merrin save her? From the posession yes. But her head bleeds out in some bizarre form of ebola and she dies. Strike 2 for Fr. Merrin. All this leads to his eventual encounter with Reagan, just another in a string of dark, wavy haired women in his life....

3. Vatican conspiracy. Are you ready for this one? The vatican ordered a Byzantine church built on the exact spot where Lucifer fell when he was cast out of Heaven. (How this spot was determined, I have no idea.) Needless to say, the place definitely has a negative atmosphere.
Good and evil went to war and everyone associated with the church was killed except for 2 priests.

4. Problem is, these "priests" weren't dressed as priests. They wore the shield of the Knights Templar, which supposedly has Masonic ties, and yet that's a whole conspiracy theory left untouched in this movie.

5. British military in shorts. Yep, I still think grown men look damned silly wearing shorts, knee socks and Sunday go to meeting shoes.

6. Butterfly fetish. The British major had a severe one. And at the climatic moment right before he blows his brains out, all the pinned specimins came back to life and were flapping their wings, yet unable to fly away from their glass display boxes. I think this was more symbolism, pointing to man's inability to free himself from evil.

7. When Merrin enters the church it has been defiled and the crucifix is hanging upside down. It stays that way throughout the movie. HUH? Seems a little bit much like tempting fate to leave it upside down. Why didn't one of the 2 priests fix it or at least remove it??

Renny Harlin directed this time around. And frankly, he should have known better. In the special features on the dvd, he tells of how challenging it was to make the movie with a cast on his leg. Seems he was hit by a taxi and broke his leg in Rome.

Now if that aint God's way of saying not to make such a flaming pile of shit, then I just don't recognize flaming piles of shit. These are modern times, He's not always going to address us with burning bushes. Sometimes, you get run down by a taxi cab just cuz the Almighty needs to get your attention.

Funeral rights?

2005-06-15T20:34:00.000-07:00

When I was in college I lived with my grandparents. At some point my grandfather took me a walk. "I want to show you something," he said as we headed around the block.

We ended up at the local funeral home which was less than 2 blocks away. He introduced me to the funeral director with these words, "When the time comes, don't worry; everything's already planned and paid for. He knows what I want and will take care of everything. All that needs to be done is to call the VFW." My grandfather was so prepared for the inevitable that he had footstones already engraved for him and my grandmother. As I recall, they lived on the front porch for many years.

My grandfather, like so many of his generation, was a WWII veteran. Many times the family has accompanied him to reunions of the 755 Tank Batallion. We've heard the stories of him almost seeing Pompei (he chose not to go!!), being so drunk he rolled up the hills in Italy and intimidating POW's with a lion (ok, it was just a lion cub and it really belonged to the French Foreign Legion, but you should see the pictures!) He did tours in Africa and Italy serving as a radio operator before returning stateside and starting the family.

About 8 years ago, my grandfather died suddenly, just 8 days before Christmas. My father is the oldest of 3, but in recent years wasn't too involved in family affairs, so my aunt shouldered the burden of burying their father.

I'm the eldest of the grandchildren and tried to step in to pick up some slack for my dad. I told her about my walk with Grandpa and how everything was taken care of. I went with her as she confirmed some arrangements and made some new ones. I was with her when she met with the pastor to plan the service and the programs. And I was with her when we found out my grandfather would NOT be getting a 21 gun salute.

"But all we're supposed to do is call the VFW. That's what Grandpa said. He's a member and he gets the flag, taps and a 21 gun salute."

Hippie tried to explain, "There isn't an honor guard available. They've tried in 3 cities. There's noone to do the military rites."

My grandfather, who risked his life to protect and defend this and other countries, was denied the honor and respect of his military funeral. I was then and still am appalled.

I was told to cut the VFW some slack and to be understanding, "It's Christmas."

"I'm sorry Grandpa died at an inconvenient time!" was my reply.

This week, I was at the funeral for another WWII veteran, the grandfather of my cousins and Hippie's father-in-law. Remembering how the Lopez family had attended my grandparent's funerals, I made sure to go to pay my respects, even though I haven't seen them in about 12 years.

I was barely breathing as the 21 gun salute rang out and was tearing up when Taps was played. Hippie was crying freely. For the 2 of us, it was a double ceremony. We were paying tribute not only to Mr. Lopez, who was a disabled veteran, but also to my grandfather.

After Taps, the minister came up and led the large assembly in prayer and thanked everyone for coming. Then a director of the VA National Cemetery of Houston took the podium, "It's not that I'm trying to rush you folks, or anything, but we've got 2 other funerals planned for today."

WHAT?

Noone had yet paid final respects to Mr. Lopez or expressed condolences to the family. And I'm pretty sure his wife of 61 years wanted a final moment with her husband.

Being the kind of family we are, we ignored Mr. VA and did our thing. Some of us grieved and some of us comforted.

For about 5 minutes, until Mr. VA again announced, "We have 2 other services scheduled for the commitment cue. The military service took longer than we expected. So if you could all move along..."

HUH?

Who better than the VA National Cemetery to know the time constraints of a military service? If time is such an issue, why is there only one area to perform the service? Why were 3 services scheduled so closely together? What about showing honor and respect to the deceased and their grieving families?

Adventures in duct tape

2005-06-10T17:28:00.000-07:00

A few Christmases ago I was out shopping for my dad's Christmas gift. He'd either voiced a desire for or a complaint about the lack of a specific tool. Whichever way it happened, I found myself perusing the local Target. I chose a Home Improvement set, complete with hammer, 2 screwdrivers (flat and phillips heads), a level, a measuring tape and a picture of Tim "the Tool Man" Taylor. A child's tool set based on the characters of the TV series Home Improvement seemed the perfect gift for my father. He had, after all, blown up the engine of my car while changing out the battery. Funny how those ground wires react when touching metal.

Purchase complete, I set my mind to the task of making Dad's gift even more perfect. What could possibly be added to his Home Improvement basic tool set?

Duct tape!

I really get into my Christmas wrapping. If I do my job right, there will be no 2 presents under my tree that are the same and I really enjoy using non-traditional materials on my packages. When Mom asked me for an electric can opener, I was more than happy to oblige and to use a manual can opener tied on with ribbons as the bow. Wouldn't Dad's tool set be perfect with a roll of duct tape instead of a bow?

A couple weeks later, I was out shopping with the family, getting last minute items. My uncle was going to Ace Hardware for something. "Oh, good, " I told him, " I need to get some duct tape."

My uncle looked at me stangely, which I interpreted as a request for an explanation of the duct tape. I gushed into a synopsis of Dad, the tools and the duct tape/bow substitution.

"You can't make a bow out of duct tape," he answered.

Please allow me to digress for a moment to explain a little bit about the way my mind works. When I was 4, Mom had been taking me to the library and reading with me. One particular night, I wanted her to read to me. She wanted to cook dinner. "Fine," I huffed. (I think I was huffing anyway...it was a long time ago...but if I wasn't huffing, I damn well should have been!) "I'll read it myself." And I did. I sat on the couch, pointing to each word and reading "The Little Red Hen" loud enough that Mom came in from the kitchen to listen.

That moment was a defining one. No longer did I have to rely on others. I could and would do it myself. This lesson has stayed with me. No one tells me what I can or cannot do.

My uncle, with this simple statement, had laid down the gauntlet. I spent the rest of the afternoon in the back of my uncle's van, just me and 3 rolls of duct tape. (Should you find yourself in need of a duct tape bow, fold over the duct tape so that it doesn't stick to everything.)
By the end of the shopping spree my uncle was the proud owner of a very large, multi-petaled, silver duct tape bow. My aunt took the wreath off her front door and replaced it with my all-weather duct tape creation.

The next Christmas I just had to continue on the duct tape theme. Each male family member received a hand-made, fully functional duct tape wallet. Did you know duct tape comes in an assortment of fashionable colors?

The following year was met with lots of anticipation. What crazy duct tape gift would I come up with? The duct tape tie. Unlike my previous creations, the tie actually necessitated the use of scissors (the bow and wallets were made completely by hand). I was disheartened and only made the prototype tie, which I gave to my uncle on Christmas morning.

"I'll wear it to church when you come with me." You see, I am the black sheep of my holy-roller, protestant family. I became Catholic. The family wastes no opportunity in trying to bring me back into the fold. I declined, and the tie took up permanent residence on the coat rack by my aunt's front door.

Now I'm toying with the idea and plans for a duct tape belt. I'm at a loss how to make a buckle without buying the hardware from the craft store. I prefer to keep my creations purely duct tape. Good thing there's lots of time til Christmas.

PJ's or no?

2005-06-05T20:30:00.000-07:00

I was chatting with the Red-Headed Step-Child of Fate Saturday when our conversation turned to the topic of pajamas. RHSCF wears bottoms only; he doesn't even bother with the corresponding tops.

Such a travesty! Orphaned pj bottoms and rejected pj tops...is this anyway for the world to function?

Once upon a time, RHSCF wore no jammies at all; but being in the military and sharing his living space with others has driven him to his bottoms only preference for modesty's sake.

I prefer sleeping commando (sorry to any of you who know me and would rather not know this info!). However, this isn't the best arrangement when living with others. If you wake up in the middle of the night, you have to scrounge around for something to put on before leaving the bedroom. I've put together mismatched, backwards, inside-out combos rooting around in the dark, trying to get dressed without turning on the light. (Once even driving home in such a state before noticing the error or my ways...)

Since I've been sleeping single again (2 years this week thanks to the Ex and Mrs. Ex) I've become more of a conformist and have adopted pj's for sleeping in again. Matching sets though. Not the pretty satiny, lacy, feminine stuff I would pick out while dating. Nope. Comfort is now key. Cotton sleep shorts or pants with matching whimsical t-shirts. Sometimes even socks since I've discovered that my feet cramp when they get cold.

And I used to make fun of Metro for his t-shirts....

What about you? Where do you weigh in on the sleepwear issue? PJ's or no?

Legalese

2005-05-25T20:27:00.000-07:00

Most of you readers know me solely by this blog. A few of you know about my other pasttime--the small, independent, one artist record label. Remember my earlier post "Don't Bite the Hand that Feeds You"?

The drama behind the post has escalated to the point that the graphic designer (who volunteered to help out at no charge) is trying to pull rank on the producer and the owner of the label's website. After shifting gears and deciding to change the website and the direction it is currently going in, E the graphic designer, finds herself with limited access and responsibility, and she's pissed.

Today she sent out a document that she signed, but that is not signed by the client, who would be either the website owner or the label, depending how you look at it. It appears to be one of those fill-in-the-blanks self-help forms that you can buy at the grocery store. And some of the wording sounds fabricated.

What I need, dear readers, is a lawyer who would be willing to read over said document and let me know if her claims are valid or if it's nothing more than legalese.

Thanks in advance if you are able to help. I promise to return to my tongue-in-cheek, sarcastic self in the next post.

Things that make you go, HMMMM....

2005-05-24T20:30:00.000-07:00

Remember that Kevin Bacon phenomenon from '99 where everyone tried to link anyone to Kevin Bacon by 6 degrees? I'm sort of living it.

On my first date with the EX, I discovered, through a bout of verbal diarrhea, that he had graduated with Metro's sister. My friend and coworker's brother-in-law is Metro's current protege. Now my company has bought or merged with ( depending on which company you ask, you get a different answer) the competition, and to my utter astonishment, my new VP used to work with Metro.

Now, I am faced with a dilemma. Do I name drop? Or not?

See, Metro's wife (who woulda thunk Metro would be good at the marriage thing?) used to also work with my new VP, and if the 2 women were tight, then I create a really ugly situation. And, there's the little matter of his confiding in me that he had an affair with a supervisor which would not be a good thing to bring up if my VP is said supervisor.

But it'd be such a kodak moment, shaking hands, making polite small talk, sizing each other up the way women do, and then dropping the bomb, "Did you sleep with Metro too?"

Buyer Beware

2005-05-23T18:22:00.000-07:00

I hadn't been to the movies in a while (not since my pancake dinner date anyway) and decided to go see Dominion this weekend. I can hear all of you asking the obvious question "Why?" and trust me, it's a question I will be asking myself for a long while, for Dominion may just be the worst and most unbelievable movie ever made.

So here follows my top reasons NOT to go see Dominion:

1. It does not star Max Von Sydow. Max is dead, which if I may say so, was a good career move on his part because it freed him of any obligation to participate in this movie.

2. It does not star Linda Blair. Yes, there's a girl with long dark wavy hair, but she doesn't spin her head in a circle and spew pea soup.

3. The devil/demon/posessed person is Filippino. Now, can anyone explain to me how little Filippino CheChe landed in freakin Nairobi? Surely Hollywood didn't truly expect the audience to believe that CheChe was native to the African setting. There were no Filippino villagers that could have spawned the poor crippled, bucktoothed, posessed "child" as he was continuously referred to.

4. It revolves around a biblical archaeological dig site. See, there's a satanic temple underground, right underneath the temple erected to St. Michael. The theory being that the unholy could be made holy and if not, at least kept in check, by "holding it down". This theme is made clear when the statue of St. Michael is unearthed outside the church in the ever popular scene of St. Michael standing on a coffin while the demon posessed corpse stares up in horror at the blade St. Michael is wielding. Sounds like all the bible stories I remember...

5. Could they not afford a Catholic consultant? I realize those CGI hyenas cost a pretty penny, but I've never in my whole Catholic life known of a priest to beat people with a crucifix. Although it does bring to mind the saying "I'm gonna beat the devil right out of you."

6. The use of salt was very suspect. Preparing for the exorcism, the priest who chose 10 people to be killed in WWII and subsequently fell away from God, Fr. Not Van Sydow pours salt in four corners of the chapel. Sounds rather Terrebone Parish voodoo to me.

7. No holy water. I don't know of any priest who would head off for a missionary assignment in a "savage" country and not bring a vial of holy water.

8. The British military in shorts and knee socks. I know they're in Africa and it's hot in Africa, but I found it hard to take them seriously in their short pants.

9. Enthusiastic use of the native African languages. Without subtitles.

10. Cannibalistic cattle. Yes, you read that correctly.

11. Did I mention the movie was 2 hours long???

12. You have to spend money to get a ticket. Don't waste your money in these tight financial times. Your local movie house will not give you a refund.

How bad could it really have been? Well opening weekend I was one of 5 people stupid enough to choose to see Dominion. I could have seen Paris Hilton catch a metal rod through her forehead in House of Wax, but oh no, not me. Could've slapped some cinnamon rolls to my head and gone to see the latest Star Wars epic....hell I could have seen XXX without Vin Diesel, but no, sports fans, I chose Dominion.

It's a good thing I'm not with the EX anymore...I'd never earn movie chosing privileges again.

On par?

2005-05-15T20:41:00.000-07:00

My fabulous new dating service (I can't believe I was able to say that with a straight face) introduced me to someone new a while back--Mr. Golf Pro, whom I'll just call Birdie. Our communications had been sporadic since Birdie had to go out of town for training on his new job, a cushy corporate gig that involves teaching the game of golf with the aid of virtual equipment and tons of wires. But once he got back in town he decided he'd like to take me out for drinks or to get dinner.

As most of you know, I date almost exclusively, people that I've met online, and generally, before I think about meeting someone in person, I have a few chats and phone conversations with him. But Birdie wasn't having any of that and wanted to jump right to the chase and meet sight unseen, which is quite odd, let me tell you. But we spoke a couple of times briefly and played phone tag for a couple of days and he seemed normal enough, so I thought, 'what the hell' and made Saturday night plans to meet my first golf pro.

I got to choose the restaurant, so I decided on a good one near my house so that he'd have to do the travelling and I could make a quick exit home if necessary. Of course, with the restaurant being practically across the street from me, I was a little early and waited out front for the man whose only description I had was "6 foot 3 and I'm no Brad Pitt". I hadn't given him much of a personal description either, but I did tell him what I'd be wearing so the hunt wouldn't be so difficult. (Although I was the only single lady standing out in front of the restaurant, and that in itself was a pretty big clue.)

We went to the bar to wait for our table and he asked me if I wanted a drink (not if I wanted something to drink mind you) and I said I'd like a bellini.

"A what?"

"I'm not sure what all's in it," I told him, " but it tastes like peaches."

"I guess that's alcoholic then?"

Ummmmm.....yep, I answered.

"I'll have a Bud Light then."

By the time my drink arrived, our table was ready and Birdie was all bent out of shape that he had to settle up at the bar and couldn't transfer our bar tab to the ticket at our table. He was gentleman enough to pull out my chair for me (which I think was another first for me, cuz I really know how to pick them.)

After a long time spent reading the menu and making small chit chat, he decided on the lasagna (the next to cheapest item on the menu) which didn't leave me many options to choose from, according to the etiquette I was taught that dictates never choosing something more expensive than the person paying the bill. Did I want spaghetti or lasagna? Hmmmmm.....

As we were eating our salads, Birdie shared a little about himself, how he hates his job as a golf pro, couldn't bear to leave his dog behind when he moved from California, and has a daughter in Michigan with only 40 more child support payments. Yes, he really said that. Let me tell you guys, that when dating a woman whose career is children, it's always a great idea to let her know how little you care for your own. Is Birdie planning to visit his daughter on his vacation? Nope. He's gonna go back to Cali and visit the friends he and his dog had at his last job.

After agreeing with him that no, he really couldn't leave the dog behind, I tried to take charge of the conversation.

"You're the first person from the service who's agreed to meet sight unseen."

"Yeah, well, I don't have a picture either."

My profile on the service says that I have chose a later date for picture viewing, not that I don't have one, so I clarified the point by saying, "I have a picture; I just wait until you ask to see it."

He looked at me with Speed Racer eyes and I continued, "It helps me to judge how shallow someone is." Perhaps this was a faux pas? If so I really don't care because it was the truth. If Birdie had wanted to see me before our date, all he had to do was ask to view the picture.

Birdie sucked down his plate of lasagna as if he hadn't eaten in a week and sat watching me eat my spaghetti. No he didn't want to taste any of it. No he didn't want to try the bellini. But just as soon as the waiter picked up my plate Birdie knew what he wanted to do.

He slapped his palms against the table top and stated, "I need to head home to walk my dog."

Uhhhh....okay. Now I have been on dates that weren't going too well, and with the exception of Hajit (remember him? Mr. My Name Is Not Sam?) both my date and I have always acted with dignity and decorum. But Birdie was sadly lacking in the decorum department.

A mere 55 minutes after arriving at the restaurant, we were heading to our separate cars when he called out, "Maybe we can do this again sometime."

But then again, maybe not.

Dear Direct TV

2005-05-06T20:11:00.000-07:00

I'm sure you've all seen the DIRECTV commercials, with the celebrities reading "real" letters by "real customers". Being a new DIRECTV subscriber, I feel inspired to write a letter of my own.

Dear DIRECTV,

I never knew I wanted satellite TV. I had friends and loved ones tell me horror stories of satellite TV gone bad. No reception in bad weather. Unsteady reception. Exhorbitant fees for repairs and maintenance. No local channels. So I really had never given satellite TV a second thought.

Until I had to deal with Warner Cable. They are your competition, your nemesis, and quite possibly, the imps of Satan.

First things first. My name is Trisa and I am a recovering cableholic. I love being able to watch MTV repeats at 3 a.m. I love to watch surgical procedures and live births. I even love playing super sleuth and watching the crime shows and figuring out whodunnit. And I believed that Warner Cable was my only option.

Warner was completely happy to take my money each month, but when the service went down, and I needed a technician, well that's when it got ugly.

The tech came early on the scheduled morning, walked into my backyard and disappeared. Fifteen minutes later, he's knocking at the door again, "Ma'am, we have a little problem."

Ok. We'd already had a "little problem" when he tried to make me pay again for the service call for which I'd prepaid when I placed the order.

"You see, your neighbors have a dog."

Ok. But it's in their yard.

"Yes ma'am. But my box is in their yard. And they have a dog and their gate is locked and noone is home."

Uh huh. So how is this my problem?

"Well, you see, arrangements have to be made for me to have access to the yard. When you do that, then call me back and I'll come back out."

Excuse me? The backyards in my neighborhood have easements for all the utilities and we are supposed to keep our yards accessible to repairmen at all times. Now because the neighbors have locked up their vicious beast to protect the children in the neighborhood from a certain scourge of rabies, I can't have cable?

"Well ma'am, they're not supposed to keep me from having access to their yard..."

So you are telling me that I have to go ask neighbors that I don't even know if you can have permission to go in their yard so that I can have cable?

"Yes ma'am," he answered and had the nerve to smile as if the problem had been solved.

When he left I called Warner Cable and spoke to many people in many departments and they all agreed that it was indeed my job to secure their techinicians access to their equipment.

What I don't understand, and the thing that's really upsetting me is, that I didn't put your equipment in someone else's yard. Your equipment for my service should be in my yard so that you can access it with my permission. You need to call the neighbors and say, 'Hi this is Asswipe with Warner Cable. My technician needs to get into your yard to do some service work.' It is your equipment and your responisibility.

"Well, ma'am, they might not be a Warner Cable customer."

They're not a customer and your equipment is in their yard?!

So, thank you DIRECTV for sending out a service man who was 5 hours late, and for whom I had to miss an entire's day of work. But I have television. And life is good.

Toe Boy

2005-05-05T20:32:00.000-07:00

Eighty's trivia quiz...can you name the latin boy band that shared the airwaves with New Edition? Well I proudly had all 23 of the albums and a room wall papered with posters from Bop! and Tiger Beat. I was 16 and knew what I wanted...a little latin boy dressed in acid washed jeans, oversized ID shirts and color coordinated socks, able to break out into spontaneous song and dance ala MTV videos of the day.

I grew up and so did my heart throbs, but the group kept going and found a renewed popularity in the late 90's thanks to a reunion tour of some of the earlier members. It was a dream come true! I hadn't caught a single concert when I was in school, but this was my second chance. I was the first in line at Ticket Master when the tix went on sale. I educated friends on the music and history of the band so I wouldn't have to attend the show alone. My sister, who I'd brought up listening to the music, was drafted to go with me and I joined a mailing list to meet other fans who were planning to attend and agreed to meet total strangers a couple of hours before the show.

Having printed all the spanish language lyrics off the internet, I studied and was well prepared to sing my heart out. (Sadly, I had never learned the dances, but did get to see groups of 30 something women high stepping in front of the arena.) It was a fabulous night only slightly marred by my being shot in the eye with the confetti gun. But that's another story.

I immersed myself back in the sub-culture of this group, reading boards, joining mailing lists, translating articles into English and visiting chat rooms. And that's where I met Toe Boy.

At first noone believe it really was Toe Boy. Why would one of the chosen, one of the band members, drop by this fan chat room? I was only there because I'd caught rumors that someone "official" might stop by, but I never expected to receive a private message from Toe Boy himself. Not sure why he singled me out, but when given the chance to dialog with the successors of my teen idols, I was all for it.

But the jealous, evil snits in the chat room tried to steal his attentions away and to convince me that Toe Boy was an imposter. He told me he could prove he was real and gave me his phone number. My friend Susie started chatting with him, asking him questions about his twin sister, and after a lenthy conversation, she pronounced him the real deal. (She's friends with a girl in NY who could pass for the twin of Toe Boy; Toe Girl and Toe Boy had met back in the day and he was all kinds of excited to be talking to mutual friends of sorts.)

So I rushed to the phone and called the number and got an answering machine, which is what he told me I'd get. But I didn't know this kid from Adam. He wasn't one of my idols. So we called again and Susie listened and said, that yes indeedy, that was really the voice of Toe Boy. We were sort of like SETI finally receiving communication from an alien life form.

Enjoying my brush with fame, I put Toe Boy on my instant messenger list and we chatted a few times. He was planning a fan get together in Houston and we were invited to the show. A friend of his from the chat room started a conversation with me and we were email buddies for a long time. But one night things got really interesting.

It was 2:30 in the morning and Susie and I had pulled an all nighter watching old videos. (There was a great demand for their stuff among the fans and whenever we got hold of something new, we'd get together and celebrate.) We'd gotten to a section with tapes of the newer boys, the ones way younger than me (like Toe Boy) and I wasn't too interested, so I was chatting online with TB when he decided to share with me that he has always liked feet.

I have always found feet rather disgusting, so I just said uhuh, thinking he'd move on to another topic. Instead, he took a break and moved up to the roof to smoke a little weed. When he returned, he told me all about the things he wanted to do to me with his feet.

Uhuh...I felt my face burning with embarassment. And then he told me whe he wanted me to do to him with my feet.

By this time Susie had wandered over and was reading too. Icky poo. I limited my responses to well timed and appropriate yeahs and uhuhs.

When he was done and conversation went back to quasi normal, he said, "You're the first person I've met who understands about the feet."

Despite his foot fetish, Susie and I attended the show in town, and eagerly went to meet him afterwards. I handed him something to sign and he asked my name. "Trisa, " I answered, "T-r-i-s-a."

His eyes lit up and he gave us a devillish grin, "From the in-ter-net?"

I still keep myself in the group's circle, helping with the Street Team for a different group member and volunteering for a private label. As luck would have it "my" guy is working on a new reunion show with Toe Boy and some others (including my long time crush), and I've recently gotten word that Toe Boy has been ill. It's even been rumored to be the big C, which makes me very sad.

All the songs that might go unsung and all the toes that might go without worship.

Accidental Tourist

2005-04-30T15:12:00.000-07:00

I had an experience yesterday that left me with a sour taste in my mouth. One of my coworker's noticed a gentleman standing outside my workplace ringing the doorbell. "Who's that?" she asked, commenting, "He looks weird," before she retreated without answering the door. My boss ignored the ringing bell and kept on with her task at hand. So I went to answer the door.

Sure enough, there was a man, oddly dressed in a striped polo shirt and overalls, carrying a huge duffel bag and a pastel multicolored child's backpack, both stuffed to such a dangerous degree that I expected the contents to spontaneously erupt. "Can you help me?" he asked, pointing to a crumpled copied map. "I have address..."

I let him in and looked at his map and paper and quickly ascertained that he'd been dropped off on the wrong street. After a 2 day bus ride from New Orleans, Paolo, an Italian tourist, had hitched a ride to Windfern Rd. and not Windfern Forest, a mistake which landed him in my office with all his earthly possessions, and not 6 miles away at the house of his aunt, for whom he'd come to Texas, "just for a kiss on the cheek." A sentiment so sweet, it could make you cry.

Try as I might, though, I couldn't get his aunt on the phone and internet searches weren't fruitful either. As I racked my brain looking for a way to get him to his destination, he kept asking me questions.

"Where is the bus or subway?" Houston, inside the city limits, does have bus service. But my school is in the suburbs outside the city limits. We can Park & Ride from certain destinations and go downtown, but Metro bus was not an option to help a stranded tourist.

"Where is a police department?" Good question, Paolo. There used to be a "storefront" location in a nearby shopping center, but not anymore. After much pondering, I realize the closest Sheriff's department is over 5 miles away, probably closer to 10.

"They wrong me! They wrong me!" Paolo kept saying in reference to the people who gave him his ride from the bus station. "The bus driver told me keep going straight," he told me as he pointed to his map.

Houston, the nations 5th largest city, is not tourist or walker friendly. You must have a car in this city or live close to your work, unlike New York, where a car is optional and the subway can get you anywhere, and unlike European cities and countries that have buses and trains available for citizens and tourists alike. I felt embarassed that this poor man landed in Houston with the expectation of being able to navigate the city on his own. Instead he was stranded, lost and afraid, not knowing where to go or who to turn to for help.

I tried calling the sheriff's department but couldn't get through. I tried calling a Houston police officer who is next door to my school but noone was home. I tried calling my uncle, who used to work for the Refugee Alliance but he had no sympathy, telling me to marry Paolo and make him a citizen so he could stay here. Paolo and I both pleaded with my boss and coworkers but despite it being lunch hour for most of them, noone would give the man a ride. I carpool to work each day and didn't have a vehicle at my disposal and was unable to help either.

It was quite a shock to see so many "Christian" people unwilling to help this man, so far from home and with noone to call for help. It put an ugly end to the vacation of a lifetime for Paolo. He got to see San Francisco, Las Vegas, Phoenix and New Orleans, all without a hitch. But his last 48 hours in America were spent wandering the streets of Houston treated like an undesirable.

When he left my school, which he'd turned to for help because his sister teaches in an elementary in Italy, he was on his way "to the King Burger. Maybe they will help me call the police." I know he had money and plans to stay at a hotel before flying home Saturday morning, but I've worried about this man who briefly came into my world. I hope he got his kiss from his aunt and I hope his good memories of the US out weigh his experiences here in Houston.

A city who is unable to provide transportation for one Italian tourist certainly has no right bidding for the Olympics, which will bring an influx of thousands of tourists and athletes, all of whom will expect to get from point A to point B.

To those who turned away from Paolo, Christian is as Christian does. In turning away from this lost soul, they turned away from Christ, and in refusing him aid, they refused Christ. I know that at some time, they too will find themselves lost and helpless. Maybe at that time, they'll remember Paolo and beg his forgiveness.

And to Paolo and the Monteleore family, in the US and Italy, on behalf of the city of Houston, I apologize for Paolo's exasperating and frightening time here. I hope and pray that he not only reached his aunt but made his flight and returned home safely. Paolo, if you're reading, I hope you'll keep in touch.

Unmatchable?

2005-04-27T21:32:00.001-07:00

Way back when the Ex lost his ever lovin' mind and decided the way for him to find happiness was with the Other Woman, I decided to give online dating another try. (In case you haven't figured it out yet, I've met most of my gentlemen friends on the internet.) One free site I used to use had merged with another site and went for profit, and yahoo personals was where I met the Ex, so I was looking for something new.

That's when I first found the link to my current dating site....the one you hear about on tv and radio. What the hell, I thought I'd fill out the profile, take the little test and see what they had to offer. The little test, was actually lots of little tests and it took me most of an hour to complete the whole thing. But I got to read all about my dysfunctional? personality and what I look for in relationships, and what a small percentage of the male population is looking for a woman like me.
(If I'm remembering correctly, it's something like 3-8%). And if that's not depressing enough, I then hit the "match me" button.

There was a delay, but I thought, all the people that have signed up, it'll take a little while to crank out my 3-8%. But no.

The official response from the service promising love for all the right reasons was, "We're sorry but you are unmatchable at this time."

At such a critical time in my emotional development, I was mourning the loss of a 2 year relationship and I was rejected not only by the Ex but by the single's scene in general. If that isn't enough to give a girl a complex and drive her to cheesecake-oreo ice cream cones from Marble Slab, I just don't know what is.

Editor's Pick

2005-04-20T22:32:00.000-07:00

As I sat at home after work tonight, wondering what flavor of take out would be my dinner, my friend Susie called, "Congratulations!"

Huh?

"You're editor's pick on Blogs by Women. Have you seen them?"

Have I seen them? Nasty Little Thoughts is one of the Blogs by Women, and if you haven't visited them yet, you should.

So I got online ASAP and sure enough, I am editor's pick, which is the first recognition Nasty Little Thoughts has received. Thanks Blogs by Women for giving this little blog a nudge out of obscurity, and thanks Susie for the discreet little artwork.

It is reassuring to know that you are reading my Nasty Little Thoughts.

Hippie T

2005-04-15T20:35:00.000-07:00

My uncle has the prestigious honor of having recurring brushes with fame. He's a gospel singer/songwriter and is well known in church circles. He was, in fact, the first drummer to play in a church. But that's not what's so fascinating.

When I was about 7 or 8, my uncle was asked to play drums for a gospel band. He turned the offer down because he had just gotten married. My uncle figured constant performing and recording would interfere with his new marriage and he was totally in love. You might have heard of the band, though, since they went mainstream forever ago. My uncle, who goes by the nickname Hippie, was almost one of the Oakridge Boys.

Having passed up the chance for fame and fortune, Hippie had to support his family in another way, so he went to work spooling cable. He takes great pride in whatever he does, and has won contests for doing whatever it is that he does. Being so successful and having a great reputation within his industry, he is in great demand to train others, and has had offers worldwide.

But Hippie doesn't give a rat's ass about seeing the world. He's an American. In his words, "If you want to learn American stuff, come to America." He repeatedly turned down opportunites to go to Singapore, China, the middle East, and even England.

At one point, his boss, a transplanted Englishman, was totally dead set on my uncle going to England to train his fellow countrymen on the finer arts of "slinging" cable. "But DH, I don't want to go to England."

"What would it take for you to go to England?" his boss countered.

"A phone call from the Queen."

Now usually, such an outrageous request would end the argument. But DH said, "You don't know who I am; do you?"

"Well of course I do. You're DH."

"You don't know who I played with." DH teased, apparently dropping the issue.

Things went back to normal in the world of cable spooling and slinging. And a couple weeks later the phone rang in Hippie's office. When he answered, he was greeted with a message:

Please hold for the royal line.

DH, standing over Hippie's shoulder, smiled and told him, "Hang up or talk to the Queen."

Click.

Yes, my uncle hung up on Queen Elizabeth II. I'm sure he won't be receiving any further offers to visit jolly old England.

But it gets better.

Last year, in the midst of the presidential campaigning, my uncle found himself in the office covered in grease, while lots of people stood around for no apparent reason. You'd think this would be a clue that something was up. When the phone rang, again Hippie answered.

"Hippie? This is Dick Cheney."

"Yessir. What can I do for you?"

"I don't think you understand. This is Dick Cheney."

"Yes, Mr. Cheney, what can I do for you?" All the extras in the office were snickering by this point.

"You just don't get it, do you? This is Dick Cheney, the Vice President of the United States."

Oooooohhhhhhhh. "I'm sorry Mr. Cheney. I didn't recognize your voice." By now everyone was about to pee themselves. It had been common knowledge for 3 days that this phone call would be taking place. Common knowledge for everyone except Hippie.

Apparently, Mr. Cheney has a clause in his affiliation with Halliburton that he must perform one business deal each year. And my uncle was that deal.

My uncle is a family loving, God loving, drum playing, song writing, proud to be an American. He stands his ground, and refuses to be pushed around, not even by a Queen. He says, "This is my life." No one owns Hippie.

And he's my uncle Rikry.

Creepy, Stalker, Mother F*#@er

2005-04-12T21:11:00.000-07:00

It's official. I have a stalker.

Apparently he "recognized" my screenname on yahoo, which is similar but NOT identical to the screenname I use on the dating sites. I'm not sure how you can just happen to recognize a screenname on yahoo, when you have to physically type it in to search for the profile. At any rate, I get this email from creepy stalker MF, complete with link to my dating profile and a link to his:

Hi Trisa!

If you dig around on the internet long enough it's amazing what you can find.

I signed up on DATINGSITE as creepystalkermf. This is also my screenname in yahoo
and on aol. If these links actually work, it'll be a miracle.
LinkToMyProfile LinkToHIsProfile

What the fuck? I remember getting winked at by this person, multiple times, like 15 times an hour several nights in a row. I also remember he didn't have a profile that I could check out and he wouldn't respond to my requests to chat or answer any emails. I figured he was a sick twisted psycho (every dating service has them) and started ignoring anything he sent my way.

Now, a month later, when I've been on internet hiatus with a bad modem, he writes me at my real life, personal email address and it's just a coincidence? I don't fucking think so.

I checked out the links and they were legit. Seems Creepy went and posted a profile in my absence. Maybe he realized he wasn't being taken seriously without one. I dunno. But I'm perplexed because this particular site runs criminal history checks on everyone, and I think this guy fell through the cracks.

His profile says he's a law student. If so, he should know better than to stalk people! Creepy mf.
His profile is half in spanish, really really bad spanish, and you all know I read spanish fluently. What was he trying to prove? How did he know I could read spanish? Why is this 43 year old man, who wants to meet friends and women to "date only" writing to me, when I am looking strictly for a long term relationship?

Shit...after 5 years meeting people online, I finally get a fucking stalker. Now what do I do?

Touchy, Feely

2005-04-10T19:09:00.000-07:00

So I'm new again to the dating scene and I'm finding myself out of touch much like Tom Hanks in "Sleepless in Seattle". When did it become okay to grope your date on the first date?
Two of my two newest dates both decided to get overly friendly before we even knew each other. Not that they'll be getting to know me now, mind you.

When I've known a gentleman for less than 2 hours, it is NOT okay for him to run his fingers up and down my back or to sit with his arm around me like some guard dog protecting his territory.
If I am holding someone's hand that doesn't give him license to caress my leg or to get within inches of my special parts. If I hug him at the end of a date, I am not necessarily asking to lock lips or play tonsil hockey.

It's a safe bet that if a man is too friendly or pushy, he will not get a second date. So all you guys I may meet in the future, give me a little space at the beginning cuz there's plenty of time to get up close and personal after we know more than just each other's screennames.

Monchichi, monchichi, oh so soft and cuddly....

2005-03-25T17:58:00.000-08:00

I didn't attend my senior prom. My first high school closed after my sophomore year and my parents moved me out to BFE to complete my education. I participated as little as possible in events taking place at the new school, preferring (as some sort of private protest) to keep in touch with friends from my "real" school. This included my on again, off again (mostly off again) boyfriend Monchichi, so named by me because of his resemblance to the toy.

After a long "off" spell, Monchichi called me and asked me to go to his prom. Having vetoed my own, but not wanting to totally miss out on the quintessential senior experience, I agreed for 2 reasons, the first being that he asked me. Not much of a criteria, I realize, but I was young and stupid, ok? The second reason was he lived in a neighboring town and therefore I could attend his prom and not be supporting my new school in any way.

But why did Monchichi ask me to prom just 2 weeks before the event? He had broken up with his girlfriend and had already bought the tickets. Against his mother's advice to take the ex girl anyway, he called me who his mother reportedly hated even though we'd never met.

We didn't have much time to plan. I had hair and nails to see to, a dress and shoes to buy and a boutonniere to order. He had to make dinner reservations, arrange for the car, rent a tux and order my flowers. But he had neither a job nor money. Knowing that Monchichi sometimes dabbled in illegal activities, I told him, "Do what you have to do. But don't tell me about it." My pep talk worked because the evening did find funding.

When he showed up at my house on the big night, he was a few minutes late. He'd stopped at a grocery store and gotten my (orchid?) wrist corsage that was wilted and whose fragrance gave me a headache. I pinned the boutonniere on his lapel and tied mine to my wrist and we were off, in his friend's father's new white cadillac. All 8 of us. How to arrange 8 teenagers in all their formal finery in one car? Sit on your date's lap. That's right, all the girls piled on the boys laps, much to the detriment of our skirts, for the 40 minute ride to the restaurant.

What a sight we were, us four ladies walking on the arms of our gentlemen who were sporting top hats, tails and canes. The other diners' conversations lulled as they watched us promenade to our table. (A kodak moment, for sure, but alas, this was before the days of disposable cameras).

The restaurant served Spanish food in a hacienda atmosphere, complete with a classical guitarist. The food was divine! I don't remember what we ordered. But Monchichi and I fed each other the dessert. Dinner was over way to soon and then it was off to the Houston Club for the actual prom, another 45 minutes away.

When we arrived, we paired up and readied for the grand entrance. We took the elevator to the third floor. One of Monchichi's friends gallantly stood with his back holding the elevator doors open for the ladies, and then the other guys, and in a scene from an old movie gone wrong, he gave a little bow, tipped his hat, and gave his cane a little toss which he intended to catch as he exited the elevator. But he miscalculated and his rental cane fell into the elevator shaft. The 8 of us stood in the lobby listening to the rat-tat-tat of the falling cane, and laughing ourselves to tears.

We went in to the prom, had our pictures made in the arbor and got a table on the balcony. We sat talking for a while and then hit the dance floor. There was a live band "Pressure Under Glass", who was doing all the current 80's hits, covering them quite well, actually.

Much later in the evening, the senior class was assembled in the lobby to get their remembrance gifts, wine glasses for the girls and on-the-rocks glasses for the boys, both inscribed "Forever Young" 1987. I wasn't a part of the senior class, so I wasn't supposed to get a glass. But I told Monchichi that I wanted one. The guys (not sure who actually pilfered it) made sure I had wine glass in hand before the end of the dance, reasoning that not everyone attended the prom and surely there was an extra.

As we were returning to the ballroom I came face to face with every girl's nightmare. Someone else was wearing my dress! And it wasn't one of the other students, oh no. One of the teacher chaperones and I were dressed the same! I was mortified and so embarassed I wanted to leave right away. But Monchichi looked at me and looked at the teacher and told me, "It looks much better on you," and persuaded me to stay for the duration.

After the prom was over and we girls raided the tables for decorations, we headed home, and were dropped at Monchichi's house. The plan was for the group of us to change clothes and head to Galveston. Monchichi's dad had stocked an ice chest with beer and wine coolers and a different friend was driving. But I was confused. The new friend hadn't been to the prom and was in fact older than us, in his 20's.

And he'd been smoking. And I don't mean tobacco.

I pitched the fit to end all fits. I wasn't going with him. Monchichi could take me home right away. We were gonna get thrown in jail. We couldn't go all the way to the beach with all that alcohol in the car. We couldn't entrust Mr. High with getting us there and back safely. Uh uh. No way. Count me out.

Monchichi and Mr. High drove me home and the argument continued. I'm not going. How dare you put me at risk? I'm not going anywhere with that man. Etc. At about 2 a.m. Monchichi finally worn me down and I agreed to go, but I was worried the whole time, waiting for something to go wrong.

And it did.

Mr. High stayed with the car and smoked the whole time. He'd apparently brought enough marijuana for all of us and finding no takers, smoked it all on his own.

The friends went to another beach, leaving Monchichi alone to drink his way through the cooler full of booze .

The boys took me to McDonald's so I could use the sink and buy a little breakfast. But it was no good. I had fake nails on and couldn't get my contacts out. I had to have Mr. High remove my lenses. I didn't have my glasses. Neither did Monchichi.

I didn't have anymore money. Neither did Monchichi.

I didn't have a driver's license. Neither did Monchichi.

I spent the day hungry, blind, mad and terrified we'd get caught with all sorts of illegal bootie.

Mr. High got so high he passed out in the back seat and couldn't drive us home. I'd never driven before so I turned to Monchichi to get us home. He didn't know the way, he couldn't see and he was sick from the heat. Luckily for us all, I was an athletic trainer and knew what to do about the impending heat stroke.

I had Monchichi drive us to the nearest diner. I ordered one glass of iced tea and 2 glasses of water and asked the waitress for glasses of extra ice, explaining that my boyfriend was sick. And there in the diner, I massaged him with ice cubes on his wrists, his temples and the back of his neck. I held cool damp napkins on his forehead and neck, and sent him to the bathroom to sponge bathe. The ice, cool water, tea and air conditioning did the trick and we headed home.

As Monchichi drove, I put my contacts in and navigated. It took us 2 hours, but we made it home.

We didn't see each other for over a year after prom. I asked him for some of the prom pictures when we finally did hook back up. "Well...." he began.

"Well what?"

"There's only one." What? We paid $49 for an entire packet! Who had he given them to? "You know my mom doesn't really like you," he started again.

Yes?

"She cut you out of the pictures."

I was pissed. How could someone hate me so much without knowing me?

"She really liked my ex," he explained.

I had him smuggle me the remaining picture and we continued to be on again off again throughout my time in college. We had dated for 8 years before I found the inner strength to stand up to him, his lies and his cheating.

"In all these years, Monchichi, you've never even told me why you like me."

"I like your fiery little attitude," he answered.

"Fiery little attitude?! Bullshit! You know why you like me? Why you still chase me? It's because I haven't fucked you yet. Now if I haven't fucked you in 8 years, what makes you think I'm gonna start fucking you now?"

He had no response. What could he say? For Monchichi the conquest was everything. And I wasn't about to be conquered.

Houston, we have a problem...

2005-03-25T10:38:00.000-08:00

I have submitted this blog to H-town blogs 4 times now, without success. I meet the posted criteria:

1. My blog has had activity within the last 45 days
2. I posted the link back to H-town blogs

Yet and still, I have not been accepted and listed on their site. Why could that be?

Is it my lack of conformity to what is considered "proper" subject material?
Is it that I cuss like a sailor and tend to call a spade a spade?
Did I date someone one from H-town blogs and he's recognized himself within my posts?

I don't know, because H-town blogs won't even send me a notice of denial. There's no place I can email and say, Hey, do you have a problem with me?

When I started this blog and realized there was a place for Houston bloggers to unite, I thought, what a fabulous idea! I'll sign up! But I keep getting snubbed by my fellow Houstonians.

And even more irrtating, I can't sign up for the Texas Blog ring because of my subject matter and language usage. Houston and Texas don't seem to want me. I'm beginning to develop a complex and think I have taken on a new identity as the bastard step-child of fate.

I have been embraced by women, however, and truthfully, women seem to be the majority of my audience. So, please help me support other women bloggers and visit Blogs by Women.

I was served by Flava Flav

2005-03-24T12:17:00.000-08:00

Well...not really...but the kid was really trying to be Flav. He had the gold teeth, the braids, and he was totally pimpin with his attire, a light blue ensemble from head to toe. Yes, even the shoes were light blue! You just don't see men in pastel, easter egg colored shoes every day.

The run in with "Flav" got me looking around at others in the restaurant. It's good to try to stay stylish in your later years. But the grey haired granny that was sporting the capris and matching hoodie was taking things a bit too far!

At the booth in back of me, two women were dining, and had obviously been to the beauty shop in the last day or so. They didn't leave their homes this morning without every hair being in place. Was it too much to expect them to comb the hair of the 2 year old child whose crowning glory had reached afro proportions?

And what was up with the dude who sat with a group of coworkers and ate his entire meal while his sunglasses were perched on the back of his neck, as if they were protecting the rear and would alert him at the first sign of attack?

After lunch my sister and I went to get our hair cut and sat waiting while one stylist gave the other stylist a shampoo. What the fuck? She couldn't wash her hair at home?

You just never know what you're gonna see in this city.

Small, small world

2005-03-23T22:38:00.000-08:00

Back in 1991, after Metro dumped me for the "sure thing" that only lasted 6 months, I enlisted the help of an internet friend to meet men of a higher standard. He helped me write an ad that I posted with Yahoo singles and he read all the responses, sending on to me the ones he deemed worthy. My friend was of the opinion that I, as a female, was unable to distinguish the nature of my respondants' motives, and generously offered his services, as a male, to cut through all the bullshit and let me know what these potential suitors were really up to.

Only a few were sent my way, and one of them I kept pushing to the bottom of the pile, but come February, I had eliminated the others and was left with the Ex. We emailed and spoke on the phone and decided to meet at a restaurant near my home.

"But first I have to tell you something. And it might be a deal breaker," he said.

Oh shit, he's married, I thought. "Ok. What is it?"

"I'm native American," he stated rather anticlimatically.

"Ok...."I wasn't sure why this was supposed to upset me, but seeking to relate to his plight, I added, "I have 3 tribes coursing in my veins; it's no big deal."

Ok, ok, ok. For any and all native Americans that may be reading, I apologize. This was before I graduated from the Ex's program of re-education.

So we met and shortly after we were seated he tells me, "I really am native American and I can prove it."

Honest to God, if he hadn't told me I never would have known because he looks just as white as me. "Ok," I answered, wondering why he thought I required proof and why it would matter anyway.

He dug in his wallet and pulled out his ID card from the Nation. Sure enough, in black and white, was proof that the Ex was a card carrying native American. "What tribes did you say you are?" he asked me.

Again, I apologize. I really was stupid enough to be proud when I answered, "Cherokee, Blackfoot and Crow."

This lead into a Q & A session on his nation, native American rights, matrilineal succession, stereotypes, etc. The Ex, to his credit, explained everything thoroughly and didn't laugh at my stupidity. He acknowledged that it wasn't my fault I was ill informed; I was, after all, a product of the white majority education system. And thus my learning of native American affairs was begun.

He then turned the conversation over to me and several times I mentioned "my ex-boyfriend". He asked what had ended our relationship, and I gave him a brief synopsis, slipping his name Metro at one point after having mentioned where Metro worked.

"What did you say his name was?" the Ex asked me.

I felt myself blush and the tips of my ears were burning. Sometimes intuition smacks me upside the head, and this was one of those times. "I think maybe I better not say anymore."

"It's Metro Politan, isn't it?"

The air in the room got really heavy and things started to go black around the edges, and I realized I had made a huge error. "Please tell me you're not like his best friend in the world or something," I heard my mouth say, as my brain was telling me to climb under the table and hide until it was all over.

"No. I don't really know him. I graduated with his sister. Rest assured, Trisa, that what he did to you, he's done to many before you."

Now, just how is that supposed to make me feel better? But the Ex wasn't done yet, he had details.

"Metro was known in high school for not doing anything athletic. He might mess up his hair or get smelly. And he had an affair with the drill team coach after graduation. She was young...."and he went on and on. And on. Pretty much the Ex ruined Metro in my eyes. And I got much more than I bargained for.

Beware, ladies, when you're out with someone new. Don't divulge too much information, cuz you never know how small the world really is until it's too late.

Don't bite the hand that feeds you

2005-03-22T17:43:00.000-08:00

My friend Susie has a problem that she's reluctant to discuss in her blog for fear of making the situation worse should the thorn in her side happen across Ups and Downs on the A1A. I however do not have any problem letting psycho chick know what I think of her and have decided that I would be remiss not to address this issue on Susie's behalf.

E,

You know who you are, so I don't have to post your full name. You are the most arrogant, ungrateful, self-serving person I have met in all my dealings doing promotions for the ex-Menudos. Yes, I have done promotions before, for RA, for RG, and for Reencuentro. I too have contacts in the industry, and not just because I've been a groupie, chasing the boys hither and yon. I have contacts that I actually know and to whom I am able to share infomation, news tickles and press releases.

You used your past as a pen-pal to ingratiate yourself with Susie and then took advantage of her friendship when she offered you the opportunity to help out with the website. Yes, I know you are a professional, but damn, girl, that site's been up and running since 1999, with Ray's personal endorsement and as his "official" site; and it was done without you.

You've barged into this project with all the finesse of a bull in a china shop. Not that you haven't done wonderful things with the site. Because it looks fabulous. But you neither own the domains, the site, or the label. You are the most recently acquired "staff" member, and you need to cool your jets.

It is not your place to personally contact the talent's family members. It is not your place to be in constant contact with the management either.

You were given the specific responsibility of being the web designer. I bow to your professional experience with web sites; it's stuff I don't currently know how to do. (Did you notice the word currently?) Layout is all yours, baby, so be creative and yes, professional. And for God's sakes, realize your limitations. You are less than fluent in Spanish, so accept the help that's been graciously offered and post correct translations. The entire site is cheapened when the spanish readers can't decipher your postings. But the layout is the extent of your involvement. And if you pitch in here or there with a great idea, or if you're available to do some of the leg work, then it's all for the good of sharing the word and the music, it doesn't mean you've suddenly become RA's right hand man, and it doesn't mean you get to drop by to visit on weekends, or have His personal numbers.

The way you are going, don't be surprised if you receive a swift kick in the butt. Susie takes crap from noone, especially not whiney, snivelling, tattletales who see this as their chance for 15 minutes of fame.

Back off, bitch and don't bite the hand that feeds you!

By popular demand

2005-03-21T19:14:00.000-08:00

I've been asked how to make rum brownies. It really couldn't be easier, but here goes.

1 brownie mix
oil
egg
rum (regular, dark, spiced, coconut, whatever you prefer)

Mix according to the package directions, substituting the rum for the water. Bake according to the package directions and then enjoy the rummy goodness of rum brownies.

After you try them, drop me a line and let me know what you think!

All things in moderation

2005-03-21T12:26:00.000-08:00

I enjoy the occasional cold, frosty, adult alcoholic beverage as much as any one else. But I've learned to stop at 2. "Why?" you might ask. Read the following scenarios and judge that one for yourself.

Reason #1 is pink fog. My uncle declared that everyone over the age of 12 was old enough to have wine with dinner and champagne when the new year rolled in. Woo Hoo! Instead of my allotted 2 drinks, I snuck 5. I was sleepy and happy. And seeing pink fog.

Reason #2 is hallucinations. Celebrating my birthday with the Ex, I ordered a bahama mama with my dinner at the seafood restaurant. As he was talking I watched as a picture of a fisherman spun around and did a 360. Mind you, I had 1 drink.

Reason #3 is loss of inhibitions. I had been angry with the Ex, and he bought me 2 margaritas trying to calm me down. We went to Walgreens to get necessary supplies for some adult fun, and as he later told me, I was screaming through the store, "I know where the KY is!! It's over by the condoms!!" I was evidently excited and proud to be getting some and didn't care who knew it. He didn't follow me to the section, and I went looking for him. "Ssssshhhhh," he said steering me as far away from the adult area as possible. He stopped, and turned me to face the display (it was an endcap full of peanut butter), "Stay right here," he instructed. After making our purchase and leaving the store, I remember falling off the sidewalk.

Reason #5 is lack of coordination. Okay, so I'm not that coordinated to start with but let me suck down a couple of Metro's patented orange and sangria margaritas, and I will literally fall out of my shoes, run into the walls and slide off the furniture, none of which are the traits I intentionally display while on a date.

Reason #6 is babbling. Get me drinking and I just can't shut up. After sliding onto Metro's floor, and trying to haul myself up by climbing his legs, I kept up an incessant, pleading monologue,"Please don't make me drive home I'll wrap my car around a telephone pole I really can't drive like this Please don't make me drive home..."

Reason #7 is the tequila headache. I'm fortunate in that I don't really have a hangover the next day and I've never puked my guts up after drinking a few, but give me tequila and I'll get a headache everytime. This annoying poking sensation in my forehead as if someone is trying to punch a hole in my brain so they can peek out. A headache that will last for 24 hours no matter if I've had 1 margarita or 10.

Now I've learned to enjoy alcohol in different ways. I love the rummy goodness in the Red Onion's chocolate tres leches cake. Or rum brownies (especially tasty with Capt. Morgan's coconut rum). Marsala wine sauce with pasta. You get the idea.

And so did the Ex, who quickly learned that where alcohol is concerned, "Just a little for you" is a good rule to follow.

Be careful what you wish for

2005-03-18T21:40:00.000-08:00

My matchmaking contact list was updated today. The service who once said I was "unmatchable" now sends me a dozen or so potential soulmates each week. This service is majorly overachieving because I was told upon signing up that the goal was 1 match per month.
So far I've gotten adventure freaks, nature lovers, avid hunters, nascar enthusiasts, and computer geeks. But today the matches went in an unexpected direction.

Who did I find myself introduced to today? The best-friend and former roommate of the Ex.

I had fantasized about unknowingly meeting and dating someone in the Ex's inner circle. An evil thought, perhaps. But totally vengeful in nature. I wanted to be in his face; I wanted him to be totally unable to avoid me.

Could I have just been handed my fantasy on a silver platter?

Let's just pretend for a minute that Match is taller than me and that I weigh 89 lbs. ( thanks to my fake boobs) and that I don't mind sharing my main squeeze with up to 7 other people at a time. (The things you can learn dating someone's best childhood friend and surrogate brother.) When would be the appropriate time to tell him, "Yeah, I fucked your best friend"? Should I comment on the changes he may have made to the house since I was last there? "Really, Match, I love the way you moved the couch." Or should I just act stupid and wait for our paths to cross with the Ex in a social capacity, sit back and enjoy the show?

It takes some twist of karma/kismet/fate (whichever you subscribe to) and a healthy dose of Murphy's Law to thrust me back onto the fringes of the Ex's social circle just when I was taking steps to leave the past behind.

Where are you from?

2005-03-18T17:20:00.000-08:00

Hello readers...I just found out that Nasty Little Thoughts has gone international! Hello, Matt in Korea! So I thought it'd be interesting to ask where you are all from. E-mail me and let me know where you are and what keeps you coming back.

God don't like ugly

2005-03-17T21:43:00.000-08:00

Cuz was confused from the get go and harbored major insecurities. He couldn't decide on which name to go by, first introducing himself as Cuz, then his family nickname Bubba, and then his childhood name Junior. Now it's not all his fault. He was saddled with a family name that was 3 or 4 generations in the making, and all the available nicknames were already in use. But usually, sometime in adolescence, a person will develop a sense of identity and will choose one name to go by.

Cuz/Bubba/Junior had other problems, however. He shared a house with his dad and grandpa, a house that was in total disarray. Why was the tupperware stored in the den? Why were there boxes stacked to the ceiling? It was such a mess I was tempted to clean everytime I was there, and those of you who know me, can appreciate how nasty it must have been to drive me into the arms of domesticity. Let's not even discuss the bed he called his "banana boat", a twin sized bed that sagged so much in the middle it resembled a hammock swaying in the breeze. A bed whose structural integrity was so dubious I refused to sit on it. I watched "The Sixth Sense" standing up the entire time rather than take a ride on the "banana boat".

And through a sick twist of fate, it was discovered that one of my roommates, a founding member of the Kook Aid gang, whom I will explain at length another time, was related to Cuz! The 2 of them actually sat down and discussed who was at the most recent family reunion and traded info so that the family historian could be in touch!

But I digress.

One Friday, about 3 weeks into our relationship, Cuz, who was a hot shot delivery driver, was to pick me up after work so we could go out. After I'd gotten home and ready for our date, he called and said he wasn't coming.

I sat there seething into the telephone. I have to stages of anger; mildly pissed where I can cuss you out and throw shit and full blown bitch mode. Cuz met the latter that night. In full blown bitch mode I will of course deny that anything is wrong. But then I will refuse to speak at all, deferring to the awesome weight of silence.

Not the brightest bulb on the tree, Cuz chose FBBM as the time to tell me of our plans for the next night. "I'm gonna pick you up tomorrow and we're gonna go to my friends' house for dinner."

"WHAT?! You accepted an invitation for me and didn't tell me about it?"

"Well my friends want to get to know you."

"I'm still trying to get to know you," I told him. "I don't want to meet your friends."

And here, folks is where Cuz made his fatal error, "You can either meet my friends or I just don't see the point in coming out there."

An ultimatum?! Who the holy fucking hell does he think he is to give me an ultimatum? I seethed into the phone for another long while.

"You think about it tonight and let me know in the morning," he told me.

With my mind already made up that nobody nowhere nohow is gonna give me an ultimatum, and that I'd show his ass an ultimatum I hung up counting down the minutes til morning when I could call him.

As soon as my eyes popped open that Saturday morning, before I even got out of bed to pee, I called Cuz to give him my reply. The phone rang several times and was answered by Cuz's pleading voice, "Baby I already know what you're gonna say and you gotta believe me I learned my lesson cuz God don't like ugly."

"Mmmm hmmmm," was the best I could offer up.

"Well after we talked last night I was pretty mad," he began. He was pretty mad? I was down right livid. "I rode my motorcycle (not a Harley, people, a damned crotch rocket) over to my buddy's shop and we drank some beers."

"How many beers?" I asked, sensing something ugly on the horizon.

"I had an 18 pack." ????? Did I mention he was not the brightest crayon in the box? "But I was okay to drive home. And I pulled out of the driveway and this drunk guy hit me."

What ,pray tell, qualifies you as drunk to a guy who just polished off 18 damn beers?

"He ran you over?"

"No. He swerved and hit the side of my motorcycle."

"You spilled on the bike?" My brother briefly owned a donorcycle and I had seen some of his injuries.

"No. I held it up."

Apparently, Cuz, in all his manly strength, put his feet on the pavement to steady the bike, and at that precise moment, the drunk guy's bumper hit Cuz's leg, breaking it in 3 places and leaving him with a permanent limp. A friendly little constant reminder that God don't like ugly.

Mr. 1956

2005-03-14T20:00:00.000-08:00

I have stooped to a new dating low. I now pay a service to introduce me to even worse men than I was choosing for myself. Witness Mr. 1956.

His profile said he was 43, in the computer field, and showed a picture of a tall, dark haired young man. The pic was black and white though, and my friends and I weren't able to figure out why. Is it from a newspaper article or business journal perhaps? Year book? We didn't know, but dubbed him Mr. 1956 because of his Ward Cleaver hair do.

I knew I was in trouble when he showed up 20 minutes early and I was still drying my hair. My sister ran into the bathroom shaking like an epileptic, "Trisa.....he's ooooooooooolllllllllldddddd."

I went to the living room to find a balding, grey haired, stooped, hairy eared and hairy handed facsimile of Ward Cleaver. Mr. 1956 appeared to not be 43 but at least 53. Hell, maybe even 63.
Turns out the picture quite possibly was taken in 1956.

What was I to do? The man was in my living room, the site of the weekly family reunion/home improvement project. My cousin was chopping up a tree, my uncle was babecuing, and my sister and a group of her friends were painting the living room. There stood Mr. 1956 amid the chaos, wearing his black slacks, long sleeved, wide blue striped shirt, and his tweed sports coat. "He's Dad old," my sister had said. And she was right. He was even dressed like my dad.

I gave him a quick hug, apologized for not being ready, and ran to the bathroom to finish the preparations, some of which were abandoned once I'd seen Mr. 1956. I didn't feel it necessary to do mascara and lipstick when he hadn't bothered to shave the tufts of hair sticking out of his ears. In less than 10 minutes, I was ready and we were on our way to a play and eventually dinner.

Conversation on the way to the show was bizarre. Lots of bad jokes such as, "I dreamed of mufflers last night. I woke up exhaust-ed." "Did you hear OJ's getting married again? He wants to take another stab at it." "You know the difference between the government and the mafia? One of them's orgaized." We discussed his forays into cults; he's belonged to 2. And at some point he even said, "I don't like what you're wearing. The next time we go on a date, I think you should wear a dress." Oh, yeah baby, it's gonna be a long night.

We arrived at the community theater an hour earlier than the play started. But instead of suggesting we grab a quick bite to eat, or going out for a drink or two, we sat in the car in the parking lot until the theater staff showed up and finally let us in. Of course, we had to stand around the lobby for 20 minutes, but at least we were in the air conditioning.

After a while the "crowd" arrived....a busload of elderly inhabitants of a retirement village. They pushed and crowded until I was up against the wall and nearly hyperventilating (I don't like crowds) . Mr. 1956 had staked out his place right near the door and got us seats front row center. Of course, there were only 5 rows, and about 36 people all together.

The play was good, but went on for 2 1/2 hours. I'm not quite sure why a play with one set needed 2 intermissions, but this one did. The whole time I sat stick straight in my chair, on the edge of my seat because Mr. 1956 had put his arm around me and I was creeped out by his rubbing my back. ( Remember he looked 53-63. Imagine being groped by your dad...or even your grandpa....icky poo!)

Once the play wrapped up, and we made small talk with his friend who was in the production, it was nearly 11 and I was starving. My stomach had, in fact, been growling since about 10. But where can you catch dinner so late? We opted for a diner on 1960.

As we were seated, Ward Cleaver himself announced to our waiter that we'd been to the theater. Our waiter looked confused. "To see a play," I clarified.

"I've never seen a play," he replied. Never fear, Mr. 1956 was prepared. He gave the waiter the program to the play and wrote down the url for the theater's website, urging him to go check it out.

All throughout the evening, Mr. 1956 had been overly agreeable to anything I said about myself. I said, "I used to drive a civic." He said, "I used to have a Honda." I said, "You'll probably marry the next girl you meet after me. I've trained 5 of my exes." He said, "That's happened to me too". Etc. "What are you going to order?" I asked.

"The enchiladas," he answered with no hesitation.

The waiter came and I told him, "I'll have the chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes."

"The same," chimed in Mr. 1956. Be a man, dammit. Make up your own damned mind! If you'd wanted me to order for you, you could have just asked me to pick something. Geez!

At the conclusion of our lovely diner meal (too salty, too greasy and much too prolonged), Ward whipped out his credit card to pay. "Wanna buy a computer?" he asked.

"Huh?"

"We've talked about computers, right?"

Puzzled, I nonetheless agreed that he had in fact discussed computers ad nauseum, with me, my family, people at the play and even the poor waiter didn't escape the business cards that were dispensed like beads at the Mardi Gras parade.

He handed the credit card to our waiter as he said, "Put this on my business card." It's a whole new kind of tacky I have found when a night out with me is a freaking business expense.

Finally he took me home. I jumped out of the car quickly, hoping he wouldn't follow, but no such luck. As we neared the door, we could see through the glass. "There's somebody in there," he observed.

I looked closer, thinking God had sent someone to save me from this hellacious experience, "That's my mom." I opened the door and walked in, expecting him not to follow, since someone was sleeping on the couch. But he followed me uninvited into my home, played on my computer, and got comfortable in my rocking chair.

Mom tired quickly of his inane conversation, she had after all divorced my father, whose behavior was eerily similar, and went to bed. Mr. 1956 took this as him cue to make a move. He stood up and I did too, thinking I would walk him to the door. But no.

He grabbed me around the waist and pulled me close. Instinctively I turned my head, and the kiss landed on my neck. I jerked out of his arms and went to the front door.

"Thank you. The play was really good." I said as he went outside.

He stopped, turned around and tried again.

Prepared and quicker to respond the second time I leapt back screaming, "Back off!"

He smirked and said a lame ass "sorry" and left.

Next morning I got an email from him. "I had a really good time. Looking forward to our next date."

Shudder. Wretch. Gag. Ummmm....I don't think so. Thanks but no thanks. As I told him on the drive to the theater, "I'd rather be alone than in a bad relationship."

Single White Female

2005-03-11T21:04:00.000-08:00

I never thought I'd be 36 and still single, but here I am. Since Prince Charming has been hopelessly delayed and/or eaten by a dragon, I've taken the bull by the horns and have been internet dating. I've not made the best choices in who to date, obviously, I am still single, but I have met a treasure trove of material for this blog.

After a dating hiatus of almost 2 years, courtesy of the Ex, I have put myself back on the dating scene. I currently have profiles with 3 separate dating/match making services, and I've read at least a hundred profiles, responding to some and not to others. Most of these services allow you to browse through all member profiles to choose who you'd like to meet. But one service gives you detailed tests and then introduces you to certain people. It's all scientific and it's supposed to increase your chances of success. After a question and answer period, you are allowed to email each other and actually converse. Sounds good, right?

But guys, generally if you're trawling the singles' sites, you need to be single. And I don't mean, not married. I mean not attached/committed to someone else.

I've gotten several requests to chat; I respond with the typical hi-my name is-it's nice to meet you-tell me more about yourself, and what do I get in return? Messages that say "I am pursuing another relationship." Excuse me? Even better, the guy who said, "I've been dating this woman and it's starting to get serious." One guys skipped the Q&A, asking me to jump into conversation. My first email was answered with "I've met a woman. Good luck in your search".

If you are dating some woman, what the hell are you doing trying to pick up new women on a dating site?? If you are in a relationship with someone, take down your profile and cancel your membership so you, a committed/attached/unavailable person, aren't matched with single people.

I've run into this so many times. When I met Willis, he told me he was divorced and we started seeing each other. I was at his house at 2 a.m. when he said, "My wife...."

"You mean your EX-wife," I pounced.

"No. My wife. We're not divorced."

Excuse me??!!

So, let me clarify things for you guys out there:

Single white female (that's me) in search of (not stopping til I find it) single/unattached/unmarried male (that could be you) who lives in Houston (it's a big city and I'm only willing to drive so far). Sense of humor a plus (cuz you most likely will be blogged), 5'6"-6"4" ( I like 'em taller than me), slightly heavy square body type (if you've seen any of my ex's you'll understand), preferrably with dark hair, eyes and a goatee. Nice hands and good hair get extra credit, as does possessing intelligence and the ability to participate in conversation. Respondants who can show proof of gainful employment will receive priority status.

If you are married, seeing someone, casually dating, have a fuck buddy, suspect you've met the love of your life, if you live in some other state or not in the greater Houston metropolitan area, if I can break you in half just looking at you, if your career ambition is to be supported by me, or to receive a lifetime achievement award for most jobs held by a single person, do NOT reply. Don't email me, don't IM me, don't request my phone number.

It's really just that simple.

Birthday Blues

2005-03-09T19:01:00.000-08:00

When my birthday came in September 2001, I was newly with the Ex, and he was still trying to impress me every so often. He picked me up after work and wisked me off to his apartment where he picked up a blanket, a cooler, champagne and glasses.

Thinking he was going to surprise me with a picnic dinner, I was a little confused when he took me to Logan's Roadhouse. But dinner was great, and thinking ahead to the picnic, I wanted to save room, so I only ate half my food and had the rest packed in a to go box.

I was anxious to get to the surprise part of the evening, but the Ex wasn't ready yet. He asked me, "What movie do you want to see?"

I love scary movies. They don't usually scare me, but I love to dare the movie industry to scare me. "Well, I'd like to see 'Jeepers Creepers', but I know you won't like it," I answered.

He whipped a movie printout from his back pocket (you can't say my one-time-honey wasn't a prepared little boyscout). He seemed troubled by what he read, but agreed to see the movie since it was my birthday. To this day I haven't lived it down.

'Jeepers Creepers' is quite possibly the worst movie released in 2001. The Ex was excited at the beginning and thought it had a good suspenseful start. But at some point in every monster movie the actual monster has to appear. And from that moment on, the movie tanked. I lost movie choosing privileges for quite a while after the 'Jeepers Creepers' fiasco.

Once we left the theater, the Ex pulled a card out of his glove box. It was a comical birthday card featuring an orange cat (No, it wasn't Garfield). And he'd signed it "Love, the Ex". I was on cloud 9, 10, and 11; he'd written the L-word!

"Where are we going?" I asked, wondering if we were ever gonna get to the champagne and blanket.

"To the park by Transco Tower, where the water wall is."

We drove into town, but couldn't get within 3 blocks of the Transco Tower, Houston's tallest building. It was late September 2001, and fear of terrorism had the city locked up tight. "Shit!" was the Ex's response, as he turned around and headed back to the apartment. (He had no back up plan, and no other park was going to do.)

When we got to his place, I felt bad for him, and really disappointed that his first (and only) really romantic gesture was a flop. He locked himself in the bathroom and I went to work. I teach preschool and know a thing or two about setting up a dramatic play area and am an expert in the finer arts of Let's Pretend.

I got the forest green comforter off his bed and spread it on the living room floor. I placed the cooler containing the champagne and glasses in one corner kind of at an angle so it wouldn't get in the way. I turned out all the lights except the halogen floor lamp, which I had barely glowing.

When He came out of the bathroom, I was kneeling in my homemade park. "Look, honey..." I tried to explain, but he stared at me like I was a loon. "See, it's green like the grass and we've got mooonlight over there. We can picnic right here."

"It isn't the same," he grumbled.

I'm not sure if it was fear of failure, or what, but every year after that the Ex had to work on my birthday, and we'd celebrate it late. September 21 gives him the birthday blues.

Shortest relationship in history? (edited)

2005-03-08T22:25:00.000-08:00

I met Jr. on AOL. He IM'd me out of the blue, we started chatting, then spoke on the phone, and ended up with him proclaiming, "We are sooo getting married!" by the end of our first phone call. With thing progressing fabulously, we made plans to meet and have dinner at the Cheesecake Factory.

After much discussion, rummaging through my wardrobe and finding my suede mini-skirt was ruined, Jr. invited to take me shopping for something suitable to wear, after all, we would be meeting up with his friends after dinner, and I needed to dress to impress. Bear in mind that Jr. runs in the society circle, attends the galas and such.

My geographically challenged self got him lost on the beltway on his way over, but he finally arrived and we headed to the mall and went straight to Palais Royal. I tried on clothes and modeled them for him and he finally chose a grey school girl style mini-skirt. But finding the top was more difficult. He couldn't understand why my DD sized chest wouldn't fit into medium sized items. I found a black suede top and explained I was trying on the large to accommodate my chest. "I never really liked large breasts," he tells me.

"Really? Well, I've never gotten any complaints." I responded. I never in my life expected to have someone complain that my boobs were too large. But bigger problems lay ahead as we headed to the shoe department.

Jr. wanted me to wear sandals. I don't like sandals and explained my belief that I shouldn't have to look at people's toes and they shouldn't have to look at mine. "Why? What's wrong with your feet?" he asked.

"Nothing is wrong with my feet. I just don't like sandals. But this skirt would look really nice with a pair of black boots."

He handed me a pair of sandals, "Try these on."

I put them on and they felt weird and looked even wierder. "But I've always wanted a pair of black boots," I told him as I looked longingly at the boots on display.

"But I'm buying," was his final word and we left Palais with a pair of sandals I didn't like and knew I wouldn't wear.

The next night was our dinner date. We window shopped at the Galleria while waiting for our table. I mentioned that I wanted to my spiral perm my hair and dye it blonde as a testament to the new life I was making for myself after losing massive weight thanks to becoming a Metabolife junkie. Jr. looked at me and said, "Lose 20 more pounds and I'll pay to have your hair done."

His generosity didn't include much dinner though, as he stated we could share a plate since the servings were so large. I hadn't been to the Cheesecake Factory before, so I took his word for it. Turns out he lied. Were we saving room for the famous cheesecake? No. Jr. was either just a cheap bastard or he'd decided to help me lose the 20 lbs. by depriving me of food. We left the restaurant and I was still hungry. A few thai noodles and 3 shrimp don't take you very far.

We met his friends at a Mexican restaurant for drinks. I had 2 margaritas, but was eyeing the food of all those around us. I sat there like a fifth wheel, listening to everyone else talk about their shared interests and tell stories. It would be like finding yourself at Central Perk trying to converse with the Friends. Nice enough people, but the group wasn't exactly welcoming me into the fray.

When we left, we stood outside as the friendly banter continued for 20 more minutes or so when one of his friends looked at me and said, "She looks cold." I don't know why they would think so , I was wearing a mini-skirt and sandals in November! And I was shivering. Thankfully, Jr. took the hint and took me home.

That weekend he invited to spend the night at his house, the house he shared with his parents. He picked me up and didn't speak for the entire 45 minute trip. When we got there, his mom had made caldo ( a Mexican soup) for the family and noodles for Jr. I ate the caldo and was met with disapproving glares by Jr. He hadn't told his parents I was coming, so she wasn't prepared for company.

After dinner, we watched boxing on HBO. Quite the fight enthusiasts, his family gathered to watch Lennox Lewis beat the crap out of David Tua. Turns out the earlier matches were more exciting. The only thing remotely entertaining about the main event was watching Jr.'s family root for Tua.

I was bored beyond belief. I love sports and can get excited about most of them, but not boxing. When I told Jr. that I was so cold my feet were cramping (the family was wearing sweats and the heat was turned off) he said, "Well why didn't you wear something warm?"

After the fight, we went to bed where Jr. promptly started reciting the litany of all the women he's been with and why those relationships didn't work out. "I don't want to jump into something like I've sort of done with you."

"Are you saying you don't want to see me anymore?" I asked.

"No, I want us to see each other. With my friends." He turned away from me and went to sleep.

Next morning, instead of us going to the Renaissance Festival as per our original plans, he pulled out his school work from college. I watched TV for a while and then asked him, "Would you rather just take me home?"

He wasted no time getting me home and didn't even offer to feed me breakfast.

My name isn't Sam.

2005-03-07T20:13:00.000-08:00

I met Sam a while ago. We emailed and chatted for several weeks and decided to finally meet for dinner and a movie. I chose a restaurant near my home. I've been going there for years, know the owner personally, and figured she'd let me duck out the back door if things got to scary. I figured we would discuss the movie over dinner.

Armed with my description of Sam, I sat in the car in the parking lot, despite the fact that I had caught the flu from the children at school. But not having a phone number to reach Sam at, and not wanting to stand anyone up, I went anyway. I was looking for a guy with dark hair and a beard. Only one gentlemen met that criteria, so I introduced myself. We were seated and he tells me, "My name isn't Sam."

I blinked in bewilderment, his email and chat id's had him as Sam. "What is your name?"

"My name is Hajit."

My mind started racing, and I decided maybe he'd run into a lot of prejudice due to his being from the middle east. Maybe he'd gotten lots of hate mail and felt the need to adopt an internet pseudonym.

"Ok." Things kind of went down hill from there. How else can they go when you discover you're not on a date with the person you intended.

Forging ahead, I focused on the menu and chose my favorite dish General Tsao's chicken and iced tea. Hajit ordered some bland lo mein dish and hot tea. As we sat there, nibbling on crispy noodles, he started telling me all about his ex-wife and how she took his daughter from him and now he's looking for a wife who will enable him and his lawyer to strip custody from his ex.

Not having any children or an ex of my own, there wasn't much I could add to the conversation. But I decided it was time to let him know of my illness. "I know we planned on dinner and a movie, but I'm sick and think it best if we just do dinner this time."

"There is nothing wrong with you." Mind you the guy had known me all of 15 minutes.

"Yes, there is. I'm sick. My throat hurts. I've been running fever. I would have cancelled with you but I didn't have your number."

As dinner was placed in front of us, he announced, "I will buy you medicine."

"No. I can buy my own medicine." I started eating my chicken.

"Why are you eating that?" he said, pointing at my spicy chicken. "You should eat what I am eating."

"But I don't like that." I pointed at his dish.

Ever the witty conversationalist, Hajit countered with, "Why are you drinking iced tea. If you are sick, you should drink hot tea, like me."

Starting to get annoyed, I answer, "The cold tea feels good on my sore throat."

This clever banter went on throughout dinner, and after he finally paid the bill, I got up and started walking to my car.

"Come get in my car. I will get you medicine."

Is this guy out of his fucking mind? He's obviously a control freak from hell with some barbaric idea of my role as a woman, there is absolutely no way I would get in his vehicle and relinquish my independence. This is the kind of guy who takes his American wife overseas to meet the family and she's never seen again. Hell fucking no!

"I told you I can buy my own medicine."

"Let's get it," he said, pointing to the Randall's next door.

I agreed because I needed more time to figure out my escape. I didn't want this crazed lunatic following me home.

After purchasing my thera-flu, which Hajit had never heard of, he wanted us to go to the movies.

"I told you I don't feel like it."

"But you have medicine."

"But I don't know if it's gonna work or if I'll feel like staying out."

"It will work," he stated authoritatively.

Knowing I need to stay in a crowd with this one, I told him we could go to Starbuck's and I'd take my medicine, and if I felt better in 30 minutes, we'd be just across the street from the theater.

Sensing victory, Hajit didn't even put up too much of a fight when I refused to ride with him and insisted on taking my own car because I didn't want to leave it unsupervised in the parking lot at the restaurant.

We got to starbucks and, in keeping with doing what felt good for my sore throat, I ordered an iced mocha. Hajit cringed when I ordered. He, of course, ordered some piping hot something or other that he drank black.

He got us a table outside in the brisk October wind. (The weather in Houston often drops into the low 40's at night). Armed with my leather jacket, my iced mocha, and my thera-flu, I sat at the cafe table, trying to make polite conversation as the wind whipped around us. When I complained of being cold, Hajit suggested a walk.

"I don't know. I still don't feel good. The medicine's not working. I think it's time for me to go."

"But what about the movie?" My God how dense can one man be? Like I'm gonna agree to be in a darkened room with this person???

"I told you, I'd see the movie if I felt better. But I don't."

"You need to walk." For a man who'd met me just 2 hours ago, Hajit was sure the expert on what I needed.

"Ok, one walk. And then I'm going home."

"Then you will see the movie."

We started off in the direction of the theater, because Hajit was bound and determined to see something. I was keeping an eye on my vehicle, wondering if I could break free and get inside it before he caught me, when I heard a sickening crunching sound.

I looked down, and my date had stepped on the skull of a bird and crushed it. Granted, the bird was probably already dead, but somehow that's even worse, because he stepped on a carcass.

I was stunned. Noone I know has ever accidentally stepped on a dead animal and crushed its skull. In fact, people tend to instinctively step over or around dead animals. That's why I know he did it on purpose.

"I have to go NOW!" I told him and started walking to the car. Hajit followed, with crushed feathers and brain matter sticking to the bottom of his shoe.

As I unlocked the door, he asked me, "What are you doing tomorrow?"

"I plan on being sick tomorrow," I answered and slammed the door. I had the engine started and had pulled out of the driveway before Hajit could even make it to his car.

Do I know you?

2005-03-06T22:16:00.000-08:00

"Trisa, do I know you?" said the email, not from an ex, just from someone I'd been interested in. Someone who blew me off at the time, saying a long distance thing wouldn't work out. "We haven't done anything together that friends don't do," he told me. Do friends forget each other so easily?

Maybe I can help him remember. Maybe he's such a studly man-ho that meets so many women he'll never be able to keep us straight. I don't know, but Mafioso, this is for you:

We've sent each other a hundred emails. We've called each other's houses and cell phones. You called me twice from a friend's wedding to tell me you wish I were there. You would call during your commute home and we'd talk til 1 or 2 in the morning. I flew across the country, spending $500 to meet you. We went to the wedding reception together. You have a picture of me, for God's sake! Do you know me?

One thing's for sure, I sure as hell don't know you.

Door, Door

2005-03-06T13:07:00.000-08:00

When I first started dating, and hadn't yet established standards for myself, I met Door, Door, a truck driver with a penchant for obscene t-shirts and denim shorts, told me on our first date, "This is probably the only time you'll see me in long pants."

We went out for about 5 weeks, and I realized we always went and did whatever I suggested. I thought, maybe it'd be nice to let Door, Door choose. Herein lies the problem.

Door, Door is incapable and unwilling to make a decision.

"Where do you want to go eat?" he asked.

"I was thinking seafood."

"Ok. Where do you want to go?"

"Well, there's Red Lobster and there's Pappadeaux," I suggested.

He pulled his low-rider truck over to the side of the road, "I told you I won't make a decision."

"You can't even tell me which of 2 places you prefer?!"

"I. Won't. Make. A. Decision."

Well, hell, if he can't make a choice, I can. "Pappadeaux," I answered, knowing it cost a hell of a lot more to eat there.

Conversation waned at dinner time. When we left the restaurant, we went to fill up his truck with gas. As he climbed in the truck I heard him mumble, "Great, we've already run out of things to say."

We went back to my house and to watch a movie. My family was supposed to leave for an overnight trip to the country and we expected to have the place to ourselves. Plans changed however, and we walked into a house full of not only my family, but their friends as well.

Door, Door and I went to my room to see the movie. Half-way through my friend Susie called. She was driving through town and needed a place to spend the night. I told her to come on, thinking the family would eventually leave and she could stay in another room.

When Susie arrived, it was too much for Door, Door. He'd been considering leaving by my bedroom window, but decided the front door had a more direct route to his truck. He stood inside my bedroom door gathering the nerve to make a break for freedom.

He charged up the hallway, one hand gesturing to the door, a quick bye to the assembled masses, and he was gone.

Door, Door had finally made a decision.

Real Life Road Kill

2005-03-05T21:21:00.000-08:00

I asked Metro how to pick out a wine for a friend who had been accepted into the Fire Academy, and he graciously agreed to take me out and show me how to pick a good wine. When I got to his apartment, we loaded into his car and headed out to HEB, purveyor of all the finer vintages.

En route to the store, Metro pointed out a PT Cruiser, at the time thought to be a rare, limited edition vehicle. I looked away from the road to see the car and Metro must have also, because next I looked at the road, he swerved the car with one hand, reached across the car to keep me in my seat with the other, and slammed his foot on the break.

In the middle of the road, transfixed by the headlights, stood a white dog. The dog never tried to run out of the way, and Metro's reflexes were too slow to avoid the inevitable. I yelled in horror as Metro's company car ran the dog over. And over. For there are two sets of wheels on any car.

I turned around to stare out the window, hoping we'd only grazed the dog, but he lay in the middle of the road. "We have to go back. He'll get hit again," I told him, knowing full well my friend Dana would have pulled over and moved the animal, and would be most disapproving of this hit-and-run venture.

"He's injured. It'd be too dangerous to move him," he answered as he continued on in search of wine.

When we arrived at HEB, I was still shaking, but Metro sauntered off to the entrance as if he hadn't a care in the world. I hung back inspecting the car for damage. Metro had an executive position with his company and was provided a vehicle. This company car was his only transportation and I knew he'd be in trouble for the accident.

He looked back when he realized I wasn't with him, and asked, "What are you doing?"

"Checking out the car; looking for damage, blood and stuff." I found no visible evidence of our canine encounter.

"Don't worry about it. It's not my car. If it's dirty, I'll have it cleaned at work. If it's damaged, I can always just get another car from the lot."

I also found no evidence of Metro's soul.

Survey says?

2005-03-05T01:08:00.000-08:00

My friend from www.buggybran.blogspot.com sent me contest info. I need to write a 150 word essay on my worst date ever and I need to do it by March 11. The prize is dinner out, tickets to the show, a new pair of shoes and the chance to hobnob with the star of the show.

"Gee, Tris, how can I help?"

I'm glad you asked. I need to know what your favorite dating story is from what I've posted here. For my friends who are reading, you can choose someone not yet on the site. I'm sure they'll all be guest starring eventually. For those of you wondering, yes, this stuff is true and I really did date Hank Hill.

Now for the homework assignment, read through the articles and then comment letting me know which story you think I should submit.

Thanks for reading and for your input!

In honor of my 200th hit...

2005-03-05T01:02:00.000-08:00

I should have known the ex was off kilter when I offered him a taste of my dish at Carraba's and he said, "The peas scare me."

Time for some spring cleaning

2005-03-03T22:41:00.000-08:00

I got an invitation via email from a friend to join the networking site Hi5. Never having heard of the site, I clicked the link to check it out. Everything appeared on the up and up and I registered. To my surprise, I found I had some other friends in the system.

That's when it got ugly.

Hi5 read my address book and sent an email to everyone in it. Even my ex and his new psycho wife. Why do I think she's psycho? Gee, I dunno....perhaps because she dated him for 3 years, all the while knowing he was dating me? Maybe because she took it upon herself to contact me and inform me of their upcoming nuptials?

Why was he still in my address book? That's a valid question for which I don't have a good answer.

Maybe I hung onto it in the hopes he'd come back? Not likely; he's now got psycho wife

Maybe I kept it in case of an emergency? It's been almost 2 years since the breakup, so any threat of disease or pregnancy has passed.

Could it have been a sentimental souvenir? We had met online when he answered my ad in Yahoo. I think it was some kind of revenge against his first psycho wife who had left him for internet buddies she made in Utah.

Was it a power trip to know I had his info at my disposal? And it was one tiny piece of him they couldn't make me relinquish? Now we're getting somewhere.

But it's pathetic really.

And now, thanks to Hi5, I'm getting emails from all these people from my past who are asking "Trisa, do I know you?" Funny thing is, they're accepting the networking invitation and signing up themselves.

Beware, people, beware. All of you who got an email from me, ignore it. Sign up at your own risk. Unless you feel the need to reach out and touch everybody you've ever known. Then, by all means, slap 'em a Hi5.

I guess like my closet, which I purge of items periodically, it's time to clean things out and get rid of all contacts I haven't used in the last year. I'll make a ritual of it, kind of like on "Survivor" when the castaways reminisce while taking a walk down a torch strewn beach. As I examine each entry, I can silently acknowledge the good I've gleaned from this person, the ways my life has been enriched...or not.

And then I'll hit delete.

My second felon (almost)

2005-03-01T14:07:00.000-08:00

My friend Paul never gives up on me. He's always willing to make an introduction in the interest of ending my solo career. Last year he called me and told me to come over for dinner he had somebody for me to meet. So after work, I came home, fixed myself up kinda cute, and headed on over to meet Chuck.

Paul and I played some video game pool and watched tv, wondering where Chuck was since he was in charge of bringing dinner. He was manager at a pizza/games restaurant and was bringing us free pizza.

But he was late. Paul called him several times and just as I was giving up and ready to go next door to Taco Hell, Chuck showed up. There'd been a problem at the restaurant and he'd got stuck handling it.

Chuck got some pizza, sat down and didn't look at me twice.

After a while, the boys put in a new game. The object was to sneak around this boat and kill all the bad guys without getting killed first. As Paul played, Chuck was the backseat driver, showing off his military prowess with "Go to Delta. Foxtrot. No, get down. Sneak. Back to Alpha." Of course, when it was Chuck's turn, he not only died and died fast, but he kept trying the same route. And he kept dying. Funny how the sniper was programmed to be in the same place each time.

When Chuck left a couple hours later, I pumped Paul for info. Has Chuck ever been married? (My gut said no and he'd never be married.) If so, what happened?

Chuck had a wife. He and Mrs. Chuck used to sponsor foreign exchange students. Until, that is, Mrs. Chuck caught him having an inappropriate relationship with the live-in exchange student. She sent the student and Chuck packing. The former back to her native land, the latter to a mostly unfurnished apartment. She did let him take the twin bed, however.

Shortly after I met Chuck, he lost his job. (Awwwww.) Remember he was the manager of the pizza place. The mother of one of his 17 year old staff members caught wind of some inappropriate e-mails he'd sent her daughter. Stuff that he had no business writing to a subordinate on the job, especially one who is a minor. Mom made a complaint to the corporate level of the pizza place and Chuck lost his job.

Last I heard he'd left town, actually the state, and was begging the ex to take him back. Gee, sounds an awful lot like my first felon, doesn't it?

My first felon.

2005-02-28T17:34:00.000-08:00

After being dumped, a co-worker decided to introduce me to some guys. He and his posse came to "rescue" me in his wife's Suzuki Sidekick. When they got to the house, it was like watching a clown car at the circus. First my friend Paul, who is a BIG guy, then his friends, a 6 foot plus drug using plumber, a petite immature barely legal James Coney Island worker (he looked all of 15), and then Paul's brother-in-law Con.

Con had been crashing on Paul and Nicole's air mattress and in a rare instance of employment, was working at a shipping service. He was telling me about his time spent in boot camp, the maneuvers, the workouts, the antics in the mess hall, when he mentioned he'd gotten into an altercation with the drill instructor and was given 2 minutes to finish his entire meal. As the drill sargeant was yelling and barking insults at him, and he was shoveling food into his mouth, cheeks bulging with food, trying to chew and swallow without choking, Con decided to hell with all this, became belligerant and totally non-compliant, and got himself kicked out of boot camp the day before graduation.

I listened to the saga, totally incensed at the unfair treatment my 23 year old beau of the moment had received. "What branch of the military did you say you had joined?"

His reply, "I never said I joined the military. I went to boot camp and when I got kicked out I went to prison."

I was dating a convicted felon. Maybe it wasn't that bad. Maybe it was a little felony.

"What did you serve time for?"

"Theft. Grand larceny."

Seems he'd helped himself to several computer systems from a major utilities company and had been turned in to the police by his ex. He also was running scams at his shipping job, getting all sorts of stuff for free, but I won't divulge the details here.

A month or so after I met him, Con decided to go visit his dad in Beaumont. "Call me when you get back," I said.

"I might."

He never called, and as it turns out, never came back. Paul and Nicole were nearly evicted from their apartment due to Con's prolonged (in violation of their lease) stay. They told him he had to go and he took off to Daddy's and wasn't about to tell me the truth, thinking he could stop by and get a little something-something whenever he was in town.

Con packed his questionably acquired belongings into his faded red-orange Geo Metro and disappeared.

After a stint living with his mom and still not being able to secure a job with his felony record, Con moved back to town to live with the ex that turned him in to the police in the first place.
Now she's his sugar daddy and he's her bitch.

Can I pick 'em or what?

Hecho en Mexico

2005-02-27T18:36:00.000-08:00

I am a total enthusiast for anything hispanic. I enjoy the literature, the music (Mana totally rocks!), the food, the men....God do I love hispanic men. In fact, it's my preference for latinos that led me to this post.

Not having been much of a social butterfly, I greeted the new millenium with the resolution to start meeting people and find someone to date. I had a guy friend help me write a fabulous internet ad, lend me an email address that couldn't be traced back to me, and sort through the replies, weeding out the obvious jerks, such as "What size are your melons?". He forwarded to my real email those replies he found genuine. Still being single, I'm not sure I can call this venture a success, but I did meet a lot of people I never would have met otherwise. One of them I'll call Speakerman in reference to his love of his surround sound system.

Speakerman is a hispanic guy, about 6 years older than me, owns a house, did a stint in the navy and was the drummer for a band once upon a time. I had to meet him! We saw each other for a month or so and I was devestated when he decided to call things off, humiliating me and sending me home in front of his teenage cousin.

A few months later, I decided I wanted to retrieve some belongings I left at his house, got myself all dolled up and went over. We pretty much picked up where we left off and ended up in the bedroom.

"Let me get a condom," I told him, because as a modern woman I do carry my own whenever I go out.

"Oh no, I've got some," he tells me.

"How long have you had them?"

"I got them in Mexico."

"No. Let's use mine. I don't know about those ones from Mexico." This caused an argument, and I caved, agreeing to use his condom mexicanos.

So we've done the deed, and he jumps out of bed and starts patting down the carpet in front of the bedroom door. "What are you looking for?" I asked him.

"It came off."

"What came off?" I said as I was overcome with a very bad feeling.

"The condom."

So I lay in bed afraid to move, trying to figure out the logistics that would take the condom in question from the end of his penis and my approximate location in the bed to where he was on his knees about 3 feet to my left and a good 5 feet in front of me. Is it possible that the condom flew off, unnoticed by either of us, did a somersault over his right shoulder, and landed on the floor? Not likely.

"Maybe it's here in the bed," I told him, as I started shaking out the sheets. But I didn't find it.

"Could it have come off inside?" I asked him. He continued to crawl around the bedroom ignoring my question.

I tried again. "Could it be inside?!"

"I dunno."

"Well, look for it!" I started the descent into full blown panic.

Ever the concerned, responsible partner (he was the owner of the lost condom after all), he looked at me in horror and said, "I'm not sticking my hand up there!"

"You just had your dick up there; why can't you look for the condom? You lost it!"

I went to the bathroom, to go treasure hunting, and he tells me, "Just jump up and down; it'll be okay."

I got in the shower, crying as quietly as possible, praying to God for all it was worth. "Please God don't let me get pregnant by this idiot!" "Please God don't let me catch a disease from this idiot." "Please God don't let me help this idiot reproduce!!"

After my successful search and recovery mission, I dressed, got my shit from him (some pics and a cd) and left, since Speakerman had nothing comforting to say.

The moral of this story ladies is: always take precautions into your own hands; keep your own supply of Trojans or Lifestyles, whatever you prefer. And whatever you do, stay away from condoms that say Hecho en Mexico and the irresponsible, unfeeling pricks that use them.

Road Kill BBQ

2005-02-25T11:15:00.000-08:00

Seriously, that's the name of the booth I went to last night at the cookoff--Road Kill BBQ. Far from actual road kill, the food was quite good. Ever had quail? I hadn't but was pleasantly surprised that I liked it. Brisket, boudin, sausage, beans and potato salad. Now that's good eats.

Have you ever attended a cook-off? I hadn't either. I was a 36 year old, native Texan cook-off virgen until last night. As the recipient of VIP wristbands to Road Kill's soiree, I paid the gate admission, and went straight to the food booth. The time I was inside was like time spent with 500 perfect strangers in a shoe box. Nobody could move, and the little bit of extra space was taken up by the sound. It was crazy. The party was well under way when I got there at 7:30, and when I left at 11:00, there were girls dancing on the bar (think Coyote Ugly), with no sign of slowing down.

I was perplexed at the size of the crowd and the lack of identifying pink wristbands on all the partiers. Why were so many other booths deader than the morgue and Road Kill's was overflowing onto the tarmac?

Well, sports fans, experienced cook-off attendees know that they can go to any booth and pay admission. Your fancy dancy VIP wristband is good to get you into a specific area, but that's it. Evidently Road Kill throws a damn good party, cuz that's where everybody was.

I however, had to give in to my clausterphobic tendencies and eat in the beer garden. Yes it was damn cold for a Houston night, and my fingers were numb, but I had a table and a bench to sit on, plus a front row seat to the stage. Woo hoo! Live entertainment. Who'd of thunk I was gonna get dinner and a show?

Of course, after dining al fresco, we went to the carnival. We took a stroll around the midway, kind of mapping out our game plan. 3 Ferris wheels, 2 bumper cars, 6 spook/fun houses, 2 super slides, 2 roller coasters....In order to enjoy all that fun we needed nourishment. That's right it was funnel cake time!

As we checked out the topping options (powdered sugar, chocolate, syrup, honey, caramel, whipped cream, fruit and nuts), we noticed that they offered fried oreos. Fried oreos??!!
Why fry an oreo? An oreo in it's natural state is chock full of yummy goodness. Why fry it and mess with a good thing? Oreos do not need to be double stuffed, have flavored or colored fillings, be inside out or come in vanilla. And they most definitely do not need to be fried.

After a ride on the largest Ferris wheel, and after getting stuck at the top...why do Ferris wheels always stop when you're at the top?, it was time for beignets. Again with the topping options. We chose caramel and nuts, and took our gastronomic treasure back to the beer garden to check out the band. That's when things really got interesting.

The drunken revelers from the bbq booths had started to work their way outside. We saw an honest to goodness Bubba, complete with overalls, a lady wearing a hat made out of a Miller Lite box, a lady in a feather boa, people wearing all sorts of blinking accessories drinking out of light up glasses, one couple sporting matching Hawaiian leis, and people wearing mardi gras beads the size of golf balls. There was even a guy wearing a Dallas Cowboy jacket and orthopedic shoes. But noone as great as Mr. Harley-Davidson T-shirt.

Accompanied by his date who was stylishly wearing a southwestern print fleece blanket, Harley stopped at the beer garden to lend his support to the entertainment. We can only tell you that we saw The Band, led by The Guy, because there was nothing to identify the act. Harley, who could barely walk, was stomping his bum leg to one beat, while clapping to another, neither of which were the beat of the song. He came to sit at our table, and stood in front of us shaking his ass, and when he sat down next to Ms. Blanket, we could watch as he lovingly caressed his own leg.

Sadly, due to the cold and impending rain, the midway closed early, so we headed back to catch our shuttle bus to the parking lot. Our driver claimed to have finished 51 laps so far, and was proudly training for that great day when Nascar starts turning right.

If you're at the cook-off this weekend, check out Road Kill BBQ in booths 189 and 190. I'm sure the party's still going.

Good help is still hard to find

2005-02-24T16:42:00.000-08:00

I called one of our better applicants yesterday and asked if she could come in today because we wanted to get her started and needed to fill out the paperwork and start the pre-employment training. She came in, on time, filled out the papers and started reading the employee handbook.

After an hour or so, she came to me to ask, "Is it okay if I come back tomorrow? I have another interview and I have to be there at 5:00."

My jaw it the floor and I countered with, "You have another job interview? You don't want want to work here?"

"Yeah, I do, but they called me yesterday."

What has me totally astounded is, if she didn't want the job, or if she wanted to check out the other job, why did she agree to come in and start? Why fill out all those forms and read coma inducing manuals when you want to do something else?

And this isn't the only weirdness I've encountered since the our hiring blitz began. Witness the girl who started a couple weeks ago. She was late a couple times, but she was good. Until she just didn't show up. No call, no show.

And then there was the girl who transferred from another location. She went on break and never came back. Wonder where she went for lunch, Fiji?

When you are offered the job you applied for, ask yourself, "Do I really want this job? Do I want to make an honest living and pay my way? Or do I want to continue to mooch off state welfare system?" If your answer is the latter, take a page from Nancy Reagan's book and just say no.

Texan Proud?

2005-02-23T18:14:00.000-08:00

For any of you visiting my blog from outside of Texas, it's rodeo time! Yessirree Bob, the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo, www.hlsr.com, is kicking of March 1.

I don't usually attend the rodeo. I was Texas born and raised, but I am the most Un-Texan you'll ever meet. I don't like horses; they're bigger than me and scarier than me. Country music leaves much to be desired with such raucous tunes as "My wife she left home with the dawg". I am proud to never have owned cowboy boots or hat (you will never see me in a hat). I prefer Levi's to Wrangler's any day of the week and find that big W stitched on the rear pockets obstructs my view of some mighty fine asses. So what's there for me at the rodeo?

Livestock. Ummmm....I live in a city, one of the largest in the nation actually. I don't like dogs or cats, much less barnyard animals. I've never ridden a horse. Did I mention my fear of horses? I've never milked a cow. That's why God invented the grocery store. Milk is abundantly at my disposal without getting up close and personal with the bovine set. Pigs? No thanks just give me the bacon. Chickens? Dirty birds. If I think about it too much, I can't even eat eggs. I just don't have any reason to go see all those animals I've managed to avoid by being a City Slicker. Rabbits, ostriches, emus, llamas and others don't fit into my daily life. Besides, have you ever smelled livestock? You get this mammalian menagerie together under one roof, throw in some hay and lots and lots of animal shit and some stale popcorn and fermented soda spilled on the concreve and voila! It's the livestock show. Add in a real life, honest to goodness auction, (no ebay for the rodeo afficianado), and some healthy bidding competition from Mattress Mack, and you got scholarships for kiddos, not to mention your very own livestock souvenir primed for slaughter. (Ok, I admit, the scholarship part's a good thing.)

Rodeo games. Calf roping, greased pig races, chuckwagon races, barrel races...I can't even feint interest in these. Seriously, if I cared, I'd buy a ranch and do this stuff for myself; I wouldn't have to buy tickets to watch others do it for me. The only remotely interesting rodeo sport is the bull riding. Itty bitty men strapped onto giant ass bulls, holding on with one hand. I love to root for the bull. The bull's snorting and bucking around, the cowboy's flailing and flying around, and the rodeo clown is watching it all from the relative safety of his red barrel. In theory the clown acts as a decoy to distract the bull and allow the thrown rider an opportunity to escape, but the bulls I've seen haven't been that easily distracted. You think they dose them up with Adderall?

In all fairness, I do need to point out that the greased pig competition, which involves children chasing greased pigs, trying to catch one and bring it into a marked ring, also benefits the kids. If you catch said greased pig, you get to keep it and raise it for the next year's livestock show. Brings new meaning to "Gee Mom it followed me home; can I keep it??" Nothing like becoming instant foster parents to little Porky Pig.

Live music. Mostly country, but for us rebels, there's usually a rock show or two, latino pride day, black pride day, and this year a special military pride day. Last time I was at the rodeo, when it was still at the Astrodome http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reliant_Astrodome , there was a special presentation by none other than the light company. Drill team girls on horses, with fringe and flags, patriotic music, a mini-movie, and fireworks all extolling the virtues of our utilities provider. Truly a heart warming, tear jerking, multi-media event.

Carnival! Now I actually like this part of the rodeo, but you don't have to go to the rodeo to find a fun carnival, just find your closest Fiesta mart. Cheesy games, really bad for you (but oh so tasty and satisfying) food, stuffed animals, rides that make you dizzy, rides that flip you upside down and empty your pockets....fabulous family entertainment. And funnel cakes. Gotta have a funnel cake at the carnival, otherwise, what's the point?

Cook-offs. Chili for some. Yum-yum. Every true Texan and Texan wanna-be has a secret chili recipe. ( Mine isn't exactly the recipe as what I do with it. But I digress. ) Barbecue for others. Which brings me in a long roundabout way to my reason for posting tonight. For the first time ever, I am going to the cook-off. Thanks to my friend Brandy and her generous husband Jason. (Help me thank Brandy by visiting her blog and saying hello www.buggybran.blogspot.com ). Tomorrow I will be dining on bbq brisket, chicken, quail, hamburgers, hot dogs, potato salad and a bunch of stuff I don't remember, and drinking my way through an open bar. Cuz while I won't give the Rodeo Association any of my money, I will gladly avail myself of the hospitality afforded me by 2 free tickets.

So tune in tomorrow, same bat time, same bat channel and I'll tell you all about it. And if you wanna know my chili secret, just drop me a line.