Send In The Clowns

 

Tinder. 

Tinder, Tinder, TINDER.

I have been wanting to write about this all month but did not quite know how to go about it since I am still in the thick of it.

 

I was messaging someone on Tinder yesterday and told him my profile was turned off more than it was turned on.

Um…

Yeah, you cannot even call that a metaphor.

 

I have been WAY more turned off by Tinder than I have been turned on.

 

Here are things about Tinder that are true:

 

1.  Dudes want to move the conversation to Messenger, Kik, Insta, text, or any other platform so they can ask for nudes. I do not get this.  Not one little bit.  There is a whole wide internet out there and there is Pornhub, so WHY do you want some middle-aged tap dancing mom to send you nudes??  Also, when she refuses them, why do you call her names?

 

Case Study:  66. Literally the most gorgeous human on the planet.  Hilarious, Red Sox fan, smart, well-read, literally the only forearms I want to put my hands on ever again.  We go to texts, I vow nudes are not a thing,

Nudes come up in every convo.

Now, I am totally enamored with his brain and his forearms and his ears, so I keep talking to him through all of this until we have this epic battle that goes like this:

I mean...

 

 

I had enough and now we do not talk.  And I can't even be super sad about it in spite of the - literally - most gorgeous, hilarious, super funny Red Sox fan anyone ever met, because it was so off-putting.

2.       Dudes use old pictures.  I do not get this either.  Like, I get that some chicks use filters to blur their flaws and look much younger and thinner and with thicker eyelashes.  That is trash, my dudes, and I totally understand that.  My pics are blurry because my camera sucks, but I promise you can see every wrinkle, all my fat, my chipmunk cheeks, and all of my insomnia-induced undereye bags…. So, I do not understand why most Tinder dudes use pictures that are at least 10 years old, then get mad when connections do not work out in person – YOU LITERALLY ARE NOT THAT PERSON TODAY, DUDE!

 

Case Study: M.  M matched me and I was not super ok with it because he was super adorable and looked younger than my Eldest, but he was hot af so...  *shrugs, tosses moral reservations out the window*

Anyway, he was hilarious, articulate, smart, engaged in current events, so we talked all day every day for 2 weeks.

As things went on and we moved to text (where he immediately asked for nudes and sent me pics of his junk and his face), it became clear that his profile pictures were older than my 14 year old.

So, I asked about it, like, BRO you know your pics look nothing like you look today, yeah?

GHOSTED.

 

 

3.       Guys on Tinder lie about their height.

OOOF.  Fellas, why do you do this??  I am 5’3”.  So, if you tell me you are 5’10”, and I show up wearing 4-inch heeled boots and I can see your bald spot??  Um….  I do not get this.  At my height, I am hardly able to judge you based on your height.  Why not just be clear from the start?

This happened to me on 2 different occasions, and I was super annoyed.  Not at the shortness, but at the deception.

 

Case Study.  D. 

I meet D at Starbucks in Downtown Vancouver.  We get drinks and walk to the Waterfront, neither of us voicing the obvious – my jaw is on the same level as the top of his head.  I suggest we sit on a bench at the Pier.  I expect him to address it, but NOPE.  So, we talk and walk around and when we say goodbye, I pat him on the head,

Guess who unmatched me before I got home?

 

4.       Guys on Tinder lie about being bald.  This is just ludicrous, Bald is fantastic.  Like, who does not love a slap-head??  I know I do.

 

Case Study.  Chuck.  His name was not Chuck or even Charles, but Chuck is what Peppermint Patty calls her bald friend, so I am all in. 

Chuck wore hats – Red Sox hats, so YUM – in all his Tinder pics.  Thought nothing of it.  We meet for coffee and go walking.

I am wearing a wig to cover my blue mohawk, Chuck is wearing a Red Sox cap over his bald head.

It gets windy.

Since I was totally honest about my hair, I whipped my wig off, fluffed it out, adjusted the straps, and replaced it.

He said he liked the color of my mohawk and asked why I covered it up.  I let him know the whole sordid tale.

The wind blew Chuck’s hat off and exposed him in all his Telly Savalas glory.  Instead of taking the piss, he skulks around and gets all quiet.

Later, as we are messaging as a post-mortem, I ask him about the bald – is it organic or ornamental?

GHOSTED.

 

Guys, I am tired.

I got on Tinder to – this is where my Offspring, Nieces, Sisters, Religious friends etc. need to sign off – ummm…just have casual 'friends'.

So, ya'll, all of this subterfuge and obfuscation is exhausting.

 I literally thought the internet was a place I could go and safely find a FWB without too much drama or effort, but instead I am subject to all of your idiosyncrasies and ignominious behavior.

I object.

 

Why are ya’ll like this??

 

I will tell you that, as of this moment in time, I am talking to some absolutely fabulous humans that have made me laugh and laugh all weekend in spite of me having numerous COVID symptoms and being fearful of my imminent demise.

They are all completely different personalities, and they all get me in some kind of way, and it's super fun.

 

Thus far, I have not seen any evidence of the above issues, but we will see.

 

Fingers crossed, otherwise Imma stay home and look at this forever,

 

I Hope You Dance

8/30 on Day 13.

YA'LL!!  I am lagging!

Anyway, most of us in the #500WordsADay group are not entirely sticking to it, so I feel justified.

I started this month writing about my precious Anna-Boo, and I am going to address her again in my re-entry to the fray.

She tagged me in a FB post about her son Nick's 18th birthday and totally unraveled my heart.

I was in the room with her when that little human - big human now! - came into the world.

She was my Assistant Manager, my best friend, and my favorite face or arm to lick in pictures when I was drunk in the clubs in Portland in the early oughts.

Being in the room with her when she gave birth was an awesome honor, a super scary prospect, and a really intense experience.

I won't traumatize you by going into the horror stories that my insane family told me about their own childbirths, but there was apparently a lot of cursing, yelling, and refusing of marvelous things like epidurals.

48+ hours of excruciating pain and taking it out on nurses and doctors, blah, blah, blah, GROSS.

Fucking kill me.

My Anna did none of those things. 

She was, like, this super zen Madonna (not the performer, look that shit up) and the whole process was amazing, primal, and absolutely something that I pledged to avoid at all costs moving forward.

SWOON

Like, the Dr. brought out this HUGE mirror so she could see what was happening with Nick as he came into the world.

Meanwhile, I was cringing next to her hip, looking at her face so as not to see what was going on below the Mason-Dixon Line.

Soooo, my friend had a baby.  

I mean, she already had 2 children - Sassy Kels and Sunny Devin - but I wasn't in the room when they were born.  

I loved those kiddos as much as I loved their mom and little "Nit", which was what Devin called him at first, but we always are drawn to babies, aren't we?

(Not my 2 daughters, which is why the day I spent today watching Eldest's dog was the same as spending a day with a grandchild - more on this tomorrow!)

Anyway, I loved that baby.

"And she loved a little boy very, very much..."

I loved hanging out and watching American Idol and eating the amazing dinners John cooked for us, holding my boy, listening to Kels and Devin ramble on and on in little-kid talk.

That all ended when my Anna-Banana took her 3 babies and fled to Oz, leaving me with a severely dysfunctional cat named Bob, and I never saw them again until Facebook became a thing.

Friendships are a blessing.  

Like, you meet someone, make them your person, and refuse to let them go. 

Other friendships go away.  Like, they no longer serve either of you so you let go and move on and barely remember how you became friends in the first place.

This is not me and my Ann.

She lives in Australia.

I live in Vancouver, Washington.

We don't have a lot of mutual friends.

I haven't been in the same room as her in YEARS.

Our lives our so different.

Our hearts are the same.

Ran into each other on NW 23rd on a Sunday.  NBD.

She sends me Tiktoks alllllllllll the time, because she knows exactly what is going to make me laugh my face right off my head.

I write blogs about her, declaring my endless love for her to the point I am sure when I finally fly to Oz (thoroughly anesthetized on Chardonnay and - hopefully - with Samantha letting me break her hands during takeoffs), Shane will deny me entrance to their Huntsman-infested house and I will end up sleeping in my rental car in the driveway, or a tent that John lets me put in his refurbished front yard.

I am so glad we are still friends.

We will be friends forever.

One of my favorite movies, two of my favorite actresses, three times we finna roll up on Melbourne like...

Even though her childbirth was not enough for me to NOT get knocked up and produce another human - something even Jeff (fuckface) Bezos doesn't have enough money for me to repeat - I think she is the bees knees.

The cat's pajamas.

The top.

The Coliseum.

(I would say the Louvre Museum, but I think I might be liable to pay some royalties if I did, so I will say she is the National Dinosaur Museum in Canberra, which I hope to visit with her.)

Anyway, I say all of this to say that there is a newly-minted adult in this world who has no idea that I used to hold him in my arms and wrap his tiny, trusting baby hand around my finger while I looked at him and loved him and wished him all of the good things.

Happy 18th Birthday, Nick (Nit), I am still wishing you all those good things from 17 hours away.

Cheers.

The Longing Deep Down

So, am still 530 words behind if I get to 500 today.

I've written thousands of words today between writing on the Book, writing my financial narratives, emails, letters, etc.

Do any of you remember when "they" said we would be paperless and save allllll the trees?

 

I go through reams and reams of paper daily, weekly, and monthly despite all of the online and digital correspondence.

Do you ever think about the difference between how you thought life would be at a certain point and how it actually is?

 

The Digital Revolution was supposed to save trees, but our paperwork has expanded from 8 pages in 1995 to 56 in 2021.

 

Progress was supposed to give us more time, but the average housewife spends as much time cleaning her house today as she did in the 50s, despite gadgets and machines.

 

I wonder if "progress" is even a thing.

 

I will address this when I discuss "Civilized to Death" in my "Mary's Book Club" post on Thursday.

 

I am reading a book called The Book of Longings right now.

It is "historical fiction", which I loathe.  (The Other Boleyn Girl is a fucking travesty and should in no way ever be read by humans, like, Hank 8's story has been told so often we don't need some "Twilight" version of his disastrous marriage to AB)

I had a hard time getting into this book, but now I am hooked.

 

I don't think I am hooked because of the historical aspect.

I don't think I am hooked because of the (barf) romantic aspect of it.

I don't think I am hooked on the religious aspect of it.

 

I think the hook with this story is the idea of longings.

 

Like, who doesn't long for things?

 I long for things all day every day.

I long for sleep.

I long for a quiet mind because my fucking monkey brain never shuts up and I am always replaying actions, ideas, and events; as if thinking about them can change them.

 

I am full of longings for things I don't have.

Peace.

Quiet.

8 hours of sleep.

I am definitely full of longings.

I want my river.

I want my dog.

I want my LD.

So this book, with a frustrated writer that is full of longings is speaking to me right now.

 

You know what else is speaking to me?

You know what I want right this second?

 

I want biscuits and gravy.

I want mashed potatoes and turkey gravy.

I want to hug 66.

I want to put my tap shoes on and dance for another hour.

I want to finish the Book.

I want to go to Taco Tuesday with my friends and eat nachos and mozz sticks because Charlie's has the worst tacos - but the best pool tables - in town.

I want to play Cards Against Humanity with my friends in person.

I am filled with longings from dawn to dusk and I feel like this is not even a bad thing.

I feel like I should let them run and see where they take me.  

Especially that longing for biscuits and gravy.

I mean…am I wrong?

 

 

Speaking of longing...

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

A few things. I am now 1000 words behind. I could write 3 500-word posts tonight. I could write a 1500-word post, but since I am writing 500 words a day on my book every morning, I feel like that might be asking my little pea-brain for too much. I am going to try to write 750 words tonight and then 750 tomorrow morning (bit stuck on the book), and then 500 tomorrow night. That feels a bit ambitious to me, but here I go. 2020 was hard AF for all of us, and I definitely struggled, and it felt like music and writing were the only things that kept me sane. The good lord knows my youngest child drove me insane with her lackadaisical approach to distance learning and discussing her educational shortcomings with her teachers was a massive source of anxiety and frustration. I was so out of sorts in 2020, like all of us were, but December broke my heart. I went to Kelso to help my fabulous, darling KK out at her work. One day, I had a lady named Katherine call. Katherine wanted to know if there was an apartment available for her. There was not. So, I told her that in the most matter-of-fact, don't-call-me-I'll-call-you voice that I use when people call me at my own property. I do not let people call me to see where they are on our waitlist, I tell them to wait for me to call. Katherine did not take it well. It was December 21st, and she took a deep breath in my ear and her voice broke as she said, "Oh. Okay. We were hoping to have the kids out of the van for Christmas... Are you sure? I thought something was going to open up?" I was sure. I was also crying. Not terribly professional, but the office was closed to the public and Katherine did not hear any sound of the tears in my voice because I am one of the best actresses you will ever meet. "I guess I will call back next week?" she asked, somewhat tremulously. YES, PLEASE CALL BACK NEXT WEEK WHEN I AM NOT HERE!! When I out the phone in its cradle, I put my head on my arms and started crying. At work. Kids in the van at Christmas. Like, how is that a thing? Like a total fucking masochist, I found her file and checked out her sitch. Kids are 3 and 4. Just like my niece and nephew, 2 little humans that those of you that know me IRL know are my FAVORITES. I would do anything for those babies. Anything. The idea that those 2 tiny baby souls could have been born into a life where they spend Christmas in a van broke my heart. Like, BROKE it. I composed myself and went back to filing, nagging, fielding calls from disgruntled people. Then Kathryn called me. Not Katherine, Kathryn. Same name, different lady. Kathryn also wanted to know if she was going to get a roof over her head. I also had to tell her no. Kathryn did not mention children, thankfully. Because hearing about children that are hungry, cold, homeless and deprived just fucks with my head like you would not believe. Kathryn spared me that. Instead, she asked me if there was anywhere I knew of that gave out gas cards. She knew there was one church in town that did, but they were completely out and she had no idea where else to get one. I admitted that I was not tapped into resources in Cowlitz County, but I could totally hook her up in Clark County if she could drive there. "Yeah, we can't. We are saving gas to keep the car warm at night and so my husband can go look for work during the day. Driving down there would burn too much gas." I told Kathryn I didn't know of anywhere that had gas cards but assured her that if she came to CR before 5:00, there would be $30 under the doormat for her in an envelope. She started crying. I was already crying, so I just ended he call as quickly as I could and did the whole head-on-the-arms thing again. Then I put the cash in my purse into an envelope and stuck it under the door. Ummm.... Excuse the fuck out of me, but where do I even live? This is America?? Like, this is who the fuck we are right now? And do not EVEN throw some "bootstrap" bullshit at me. There are kids waking up on Christmas in a van. There are parents that worry about how to get enough gas to keep the car warm at night. This is some bullshit, ya'll. There is no excuse, no explanation, there is NOTHING that makes this ok. So, I cried all the way from Kelso to Battle Ground where I picked up my child and hugged my niece and nephew until they got mad. I took my offspring home, walked inside, watched her jump on the $XXX (not telling) gaming computer she got for her birthday, sat on my couch and started crying again. What good are tears, though? Tears don't help anyone. Tears didn't find those kids a home to wake up in on Christmas. Tears don't change policies or practices that create a system that disenfranchises people or allows people to fall through the cracks. Sadly, I got caught up in my own drama/trauma - more on that in another post - and I let the ball drop on my indignation and my vow to do something about this. Lately, though, it is all I have been thinking about and I am definitely picking that ball back up and starting some shit. Watch.

He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother

I didn't post yesterday. I did a Word Count, and I wrote over TWO THOUSAND words yesterday, but I didn't post. My Uncle Jim died Thursday night, so last night I spent an hour on the phone with my dad, remembering his big brother. My Uncle Jim's life was too large and epic to be contained here, although I am going to try soon, so I want to talk about my Dad and his brother. My Dad is so sad right now. His big brother is gone, and so he has no one left in his life that shared his childhood. I can't imagine how that feels, to be honest. There is literally no one in my Dad's life that he was young with. Think about that for a minute. You probably have your childhood friends in your life still. You, hopefully, still have your siblings in your life. My Dad has no one like that in his life. His mother died when he was 14. His father died 20 years ago. His only brother died a day ago. My Dad's entire childhood, growing up in Jackson, Mississippi belongs only to him right now. He is an island. Unmoored. Bereft.

It really hurts me to think that my Dad is in so much pain. It really hurts me to think that there is no one in his life that he can turn to and say, “Hey, remember when Jim burned down the garage (and all of my Grandfather’s WWII memorabilia – uniforms, medals, ribbons, photos, etc.)?” Or, “Remember when Jim tried to figure out why the cherry bomb didn’t explode and blew it up in his face and burned off his eyebrows?” It really hurts me to think that the wild,larger-than-life character that was my Uncle Jim could fade into obscurity and there is no one on this whirling ball of dust and gas that will give an inward laugh and remember something hilarious about “JJ”. So, I am not going to let that happen. Not on my watch, anyway. I consider myself a storyteller, a recorder of thoughts, ideas, emotions, and events. Therefore, it is my job to pull these stories out of my Father. To bear witness. To remember, record, and recite. I cannot be with my Dad right now. I cannot hug him or hold his hand. I cannot console him on the loss of everything it means when your childhood idol, your best friend, the witness to your entire life is just...gone. What I can do is listen. I will let him tell me his childhood stories of the times he had with his brother and laugh and cry with him like we did last night. I will write these stories down and share them with my family - and also with you guys - and keep those memories alive and present. I will do this for my Dad. Because he needs someone to remember and share his past with. I will do this for my Uncle Jim. Because he deserves to be remembered, celebrated, and laughed at. (Yes, laughed at - if you knew him, you would know this is ok) I will do this for myself. Because, if I can keep these memories safe and alive, then my Uncle Jim isn't really gone. He is just somewhere else, hopefully not burning anything down! (more on that later!)

I Don't Know What to Say

 

So, I had to Google a writing prompt for today because I am tired and annoyed.

 

The prompt:

7 tips to make your blogging easier.

 

Is it “easier” or “more easy”?

I fucking hate grammar.

The English language is trash.

Let’s not get into the following:

Your

You’re

Too

Two

To

See

Saw

Seen

I FUCKING HATE SEEN!!

I used to be a ‘grammar Nazi’ until I realized the internet does not give a fuck about spelling, grammar, or my feelings on those subjects.

Also, I have fat thumbs that do not text well, so I am the Queen of sending a text and then doing this:

 

*from

*tits

*you

 

Because those words often get sent as:

FORM

TITA

TOU.

What can I say, my brain works way faster than my Alfred Hitchcock thumbs and I often send typos, even thought I hate them and get annoyed when other people send them.

 

Ahem.

Massively off topic.

So, onto the 7 tips to make blogging easier or more easy.

 

1.     1.   Find something to say.  I mean, DUH, but sometimes words are hard and feelings need to be locked down, which is where prompts such as this one come in handy.  Regardless of whether you use a prompt or not, you damn well better show up with something to say.  Doesn’t matter if it is profound, important, meaningful, or even interesting.  You better have something to say.

2.       2.  Pictures are helpful, but not important.  Like, I LOVE putting pictures of Ryan Gosling and Jason Momoa in my posts, but I have also done a couple of posts with no pictures – my emotions were so raw, there was no way to find a picture on Google that could have helped illustrate my point more than just the words I had to say.

I mean...you're welcome!

.      3.   Find a blogging mentor and do whatever you can to not copy their voice.  The creator of Kale and Cigarettes and Samantha Irby are my heroes.  Kirk Hensler and Samantha Irby mean everything to me when it comes to being raw and sharing shit, but I don’t want to copy their sound, I just want to be as brave and open as they are.  (PS – Google them, they are both fucking fire).  Let your mentors inspire you to honesty, vulnerability, but never plagiarism.

4.  4.       Don’t take yourself seriously.  This is good in blogging, but also life.  There is a shit ton of evidence that this experience we are all having is a simulation - https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/do-we-live-in-a-simulation-chances-are-about-50-50/ - which means you NEED to have a sense of humor about all of it.  Not one of us is going to get out of this journey as corporeal humans on earth alive, so play and have fun.

5.    5.     Use your spell-check.  I don’t always do this when I post, but you can be damn sure I do it when I come back on the 2^nd day to check my ‘stats’.  Speaking of stats, I am EXTREMELY popular in Russia.  Why is that?

6.   6.    Do not censor yourself.  We like it when you overshare and say too much and get all up in your feels.

7.       Don’t overthink things.  I just did and I came out with a very pretentious, high-handed post tonight which makes me so annoyed with myself that I want to delete every word I just typed, but I won’t because I am over 500 (makes up for last night’s under), so WINNING!

 

‘Night, ya’ll!

 PS - It is "easier".  You're welcome.

You're welcome again.

Let's Talk About Sex

Um, so...

Yeah.

You know when people say things are better than sex and you are, like, "Whhhhaaaaatt?"

Like, um, NO SUSAN, your strawberry cream-cheese bites are not 'better than sex"

Or, NO HELEN, your "seekrit fambly resoppee" broccoli casserole is not better than sex.

Like, YO, ladies...if you are having a magical gustatory experience and you claim it is better than sex then you are CLEARLY not having the right kind of sex.

Just saying...

However.

I had an experience today that - while I can honestly say it is not better than sex-  it could seriously be a suitable replacement during these uncertain times when life is all topsy-turvy and men are trash.

That experience is stretching.

About a month ago, I was shown a video of 'stretch gyms', where you go lay on a table and let someone stretch you out and apply a set of straps and giant, vibrating massagers to your muscles.

They push and pull and contort you in some very interesting ways.

Looked interesting, and - in the most ambivalent way - both relaxing and stimulating.

I promptly forgot all about it.

Until last week.

I got an email that a local 'stretch place' was offering free consultations.

I signed up.

I got stretched today.

It was fucking glorious.

Like, massages are the shit, but have you ever been stretched?

My boy Cody did a medical assessment, discussed my fitness goals, and then...

MF went right to town on my muscles.

It was fucking glorious.

I left that place glowing like a candle.

COVID has put a serious damper on my sex life, and food and booze make me fat, so they are out as coping strategies.

45 minutes of having my limbs pulled and stretched and I am a new woman.

$400 a month to get this done 2X per week?

TAKE MY MONEY.

Look, if you need a slightly transcendental experience and you don't want to take drugs or have sex with random dudes off of Tinder, then I highly recommend you call "Stretch Zone" in Vancouver and get your stretch on.

Worth every penny.

I am totally giving up sex in favor of getting stretched.

Maybe not forever, but DEFINTIELY for the next 12 weeks.

I mean, starting on Friday.

Me after 12 weeks of glorious stretch!

Shook

Shook.

It's a buzzword for being shaken up…very disturbed.

I have been through too much to get 'shook' easily.

However....

When someone you love has a medical crisis, it has a way of isolating your thoughts and rendering you 'shook'.

My parents had a medical crisis in the Summer of 2017, and I drove 10 hours down to CA as soon as I could, trying to manage it.

My older brother, who is friend, brother, and quasi-father-figure has a health-crisis that has me on Google constantly, trying to find ways to help.

If you read this blog on the regular, you know how Lexi and I lost Jimbo very suddenly in the Summer of 2016.  You probably have inferred that I inherited his nearest and dearest, and that helped Lexi and I navigate the treacherous waters of our loss in the days/weeks/months after it happened.

I have always known that H was Jim's soul brother.  He had a ton of friends, most more like family.  He loved H as a brother, though.

He sent my little sis to H when she was ready to buy her first car, and H took good care of her.

After his passing, H went far toward filling the gap of 'Big Daddy' to our group.

He is always there.  Responsible, full of advice, and always funny.

Now H is having his own health issues.

H dispenses wisdom, gives advice, and throws a blanket over any drunk that happens to crash on the couch after too much booze one New Year's Eve -- or maybe that's just me.

His wife, C, is our Earth Mama.  

She calls us out on our bullshit without being crass or offensive.

She gives out raw, take-no-prisoners truths when we try to hide behind our own bullshit.

I love them both so much.

Now that H is vulnerable and unwell, I have to give thanks for the fact that I even have them in my lives.

I have to give thanks that H is doing well and recovering as well as anyone can expect to be doing after his ordeal.  

I have to give thanks for my friends.

It’s got me ‘shook’ to know that someone that means so much to me is having such a hard time.

Get shook.

Wake up.

We are so fragile…humans, that is.

We take so much for granted in our daily lives – it’s crazy!

Every moment should be precious; Every. One.

One would think, after losing BD so precipitously, that I would be all about ‘seizing the day’, but sadly I get bogged down in the minutiae as often as I used to.

I suggested C and H ‘just breathe’ together post-surgery, but I haven’t taken that advice.

Life is short and precious, and days when you worry about your loved ones are long and difficult.

Breathe.

Just breathe.

And wait for the day you can sit down and eat terrible tacos with your friend so he can play pool on the good tables.

Happy Birthday!  Don't take it personally that your wife is looking like she wants to kiss me!!  ;)

Mutton Dressed As Lamb, Part 2. - I Am Too Old For This Shit

Post sock-rocket-guy, totally shook, we enter Dirty and go to the bar.

Need a calming cocktail, stat.

Watching one dude bust a sock full of rocks against some guy’s side and then get beat down makes one thirsty…but not THIRSTY, you know what I mean?

Ahem.

Like I said - $10 for well liquor.

Gross.

I was a bartender/cocktail mattress for about 11 years collectively, so I am not a cheap drinker but, I MEAN!

$10 for well, I had best be getting some entertainment.

Sadly, no.

In fact, the three of us practically-senior-citizens were getting more than our fair share of attention from the little wigger contingent in the club.

A sea of well-dressed, uncoordinated children, woodenly lurching around to Drake and Migos.

We settled for a table by the dance floor so we could watch the truly awful bump-and-grind from the cracker 22-year olds on the dance floor, while we turnt it up tableside.

Sorely tempted to dance, just because dancing is life, I hesitated, sipping my drink and checking on my kid through the medium of Messenger.

C and T did the same.

You can find me in the club, mommin up while drinkin bub...

Wait, WHAT?

The club filled fairly quickly, and then our tableside dancing became a point of contention to some people that did not appreciate old white ladies with their tatas half-exposed, shakin it like salt-shakers.

Since the DJ was unable to produce some Nicki or Sicko Mode for us, we left.  We Ubered (is that an adjective now??) the three blocks back to the car, since none of us had dressed for 30 degree weather with -2000 wind-chill.

We drove back to Vantucky and stopped by Brickhouse to pick up the most HILARIOUS boys ever.

Did you know it was possible to have no game on Bumble?

If you call a lady...well, a lady..you have NO GAME!

Also, you get in trouble for drifting in a neighborhood with an HOA.

Things old ladies don't know...

We ended up at Cascade Tavern, eating grease, playing pool, and commiserating with people around the fire pit about the inequities of Portland's nightclubs.

Note - apparently, if you wear a reindeer onesie to go bar hopping, you are a VIP.

Also, when squeezing through a crowd, if you accidentally brush up against a breasticle.... prepare to get knocked the fuck out.

Good to know...

I was ready to go home, but apparently everyone else needed to go do karaoke until the cows came home.

Being a cow myself, and quite ready to go home – I bounced.

Deuces, toddlers!!

I collected my child from the sitter, drank a bottle of sparkling Dasani (lime, as if you care), put on some fluffy PJs, brushed my teeth, and went to bed.

10 years ago, I would have been drinking, karaoking, and …well….un entertaining until dawn.

When dawn hit on Sunday, I had a pour-over Verona with cream and cinnamon in one hand, and a book in the other.

#Winning

Mutton Dressed As Lamb Part 1.

I went out on Saturday.

Like, OUT, out.

Not meeting up for after work drinks or Taco Tuesday, but full-on, dress-up, try-and-fail-to-apply-fake-lashes out.

C is turning 40 on Tuesday, and we decided to go to DXV.  Unfortunately, DXV was booked, so we settled for CCS and got to sort-of watch drag queens for a bit. (sort of, because the dance floor is the stage, so we could barely see from the back of the room)  We did, however, enjoy thong-and-roller skate guy, golden hot-pants guy, and swipe-your-card-guy (see below) who kept the waistband of his pants a good three inches below the top of his….um…intergluteal crevice (I just used that phrase 2 days ago, I hope it doesn’t become a habit!).

After CCS, we decided to go to Ds.  Line was too long and downtown PDX was like a freezer but with festive arctic wind effect, so we gravitated to the bar across the street with the tented entrance and propane heater sending off a welcoming glow. 

As we were waiting to get in, having our cover generously covered by some gentleman, we noticed this fella giving the cashier an utterly psychotic stare.  He stood a foot away, eyes locked on her, completely ignoring the 6’6’ 300+ bouncer politely asking him to move along.  Another bouncer came out, grabbed Starey by the elbow and encouraged him to leave, asking him what he wanted as he was met with resistance.

What do I want??  What do I want??”, he asked as he slid his hand inside his jacket and started pulling something out….

No lie, I dropped straight down to the ground, heart racing.

After about three seconds, I peer over and see that he has a sock filled with some very heavy objects, and as more bouncers approach him, he begins swinging it around until –THWACK – I don’t know where he hit that bouncer – arm, shoulder, side - -but it wasn’t enough.  Within seconds that dude was being picked up and slammed down on the pavement, each bouncer taking turns, until it was clear there was no fight left in him. 

I am fairly certain that I yelled, “Hey!” really loud when he first started swinging, because merely one block away were about 7 of Portland’s finest, removing barricades from the street.  No dice.  They certainly didn’t hear me yell, and they definitely did not notice the 6 on 1 taking place in the middle of the street just south of them. 

We all kind of stood there stunned, and then C walked up and said, “Okay, I think I want to go back to Vancouver.”

Instead, we decided we may as well go in and check it out, certainly we needed a drink after that display.

Said drink costs $10.  Vodka/soda/lemon in a red solo cup = $10….ummmmm.  Maybe we should have gone back to Vancouver.  

Three 40-ish women in a hip-hop club full of 20ish white kids who didn’t know how to dance?

What could be more fun?

I soooooo wanted to put things down the back of that kid's pants, but not anything I would need back!!