Archive for the ‘daily affirmations and observations’ Category
whorlaween whorrors
There are certain truths in life.
The yellow gum-ball should not exist.
Not a single “friend” on Facebook gives a shit that you’re making banana bread.
And Halloween parties were invented by men who want to mark an annual occasion for all women to dress like strippers.
Trying to avoid showing cleavage, leg and ass fat during Halloween is like trying to avoid the question, “You work today?” during a pedicure.
Not even overweight women get a free pass, as each costume site is brimming with “plus sized” get-ups that are nothing more than larger versions of the same slutty attire about .09 percent of our population should actually consider wearing.
Your husband just ordered Stripper Shortcake standing next to you in the Strawberry thigh highs.
Sure you can dress up like a traffic light or ATM machine, but you will be shocked at how quickly you’ll regret not taking the opportunity to sport thigh-high lace stockings without consequence or judgement. Not to mention you will feel invisible for failing to wear the requisite fishnets and not reading the Whorlaween Rulebook which clearly states: “dominatrix, stripper or some version thereof are the only acceptable costume choices for any woman over the age of 18.”
It may have taken me 30-cough years, but I’ve grown to accept the fact that during the Whorlaween season, there is a better than average chance a perfect stranger will see more of my cervix when I bend over than my Ob-Gyn. I’ve also learned that if somebody tells me my costume is clever, it’s the equivalent of saying my baby is big. It’s just code for ugly.
So the question has become less what costume am I wearing, and more: what cheesetacular porn star will I be this year? Or for Saturday’s Annual BrewHaHa Event: which BrewHaHottie will I attempt to pull off?
Well…as part of the Navy Seal Team Six Unit that turned Bin Laden into chum, “Commando Kim” will be storming the Farley Estate tomorrow night equipped with a plastic bullet belt and about 15 more pounds than anyone should have sporting this ensemble. I just hope no one mistakes me for a real military officer as my camouflage corset, leather garter belt and black tutu look strikingly similar to what any member of our armed forces would be wearing during top-secret missions to kill Al-Qaeda operatives.
Guess the tutu is supposed to be as short as your bangs
When my costume arrived from spicylingerie.com yesterday (along with a complimentary pair of crotchless panties that scared me more than a little), I was excited to try it on forgetting that when the weather dips below 75 degrees, I start inhaling Starbucks hot chocolates like they’re oxygen. This is unfortunate. As my tutu was shorter than my thumbnail, and there was seemingly no way to camouflage my inner thigh bulge despite Sara Blakely’s empty promises.
Knowing it was too late to get a new costume or swear off solid food, I this morning embarked on Commando Kim’s first mission: to locate the kind of tights Hooters waitresses wear. I didn’t know where to find them, but was confident they were strong enough to hold back a crash test dummy during a 110 mph collision.
My options at 9 am were fairly limited until I passed by the XXX store “Naughty by Night” across from the Tyrone mall. The neon “OPEN” sign seemed to beckon every pervert, pedophile and last-minute, desperate Halloween party guest in Pinellas County.
Normally I’d be nervous about doing so much as a u-turn in the parking lot of a place like this, but Halloween is really designed (by men) to bring out the whore in all of us. Thankful I hadn’t yet put the Shorecrest Preparatory School sticker on my new car, I entered the store wondering what sort of communicable diseases I could get from just breathing the patchouli scented incense burning inside. Trying not to guess what the smudges were on the glass door as I entered, I was met by a worker with a terrifying set of iridescent blue contact lenses straight out of Avatar. She greeted me with a certain hesitation, like I was an FBI agent on a sting. She asked me what I was looking for, and it felt less like an offer to help than part of an uncomfortable hazing process that led me to believe I was pledging the wrong sorority. I can only imagine this is because I was still carrying the GermX wipe I used to open the door. A possible indicator that I was not a frequent shopper.
Does this come with an instruction manual?
I blurted out what I was in search of like it was an apology. A confession of sorts. Luckily the Naughty by Night Na’vi seemed relieved I wasn’t undercover and walked me over to the pantyhose that she reminisced about once wearing during her stint as a Winghouse girl. Judging from the whimsical glow in her xenon headlight eyes, I think she may have wanted to chat with me about the good ole’ days of spilling pitchers of beer on intoxicated men as they played Golden Tee. But I really only needed to know one thing: will these tights hold in my thigh dough enough that I won’t be forced to wear a Burka to this party instead? She winked at me. Which either meant “yes” or “I can perform cunnilingus on you in the dressing room right now.” I’m not sure which, but I grabbed two pairs of my Winghouse tights and made my way up to the register.
It wasn’t until I waited for her to process my credit card that I allowed myself to look around.
I had never felt so Amish and confused in my entire life.
As I spotted whorrifying contraptions that resembled glass, phallic lava lamps, what I can only imagine were vibrators large enough to clog the Holland tunnel and leather paddles wider than my paddleboard itself, I couldn’t help but wonder… what is that for? Where does this go? Who? Why? I want my mommy.
So if you want a real scare this Whorlaween season, I suggest you skip the haunted houses and supernatural horror flicks and just visit your local adult novelty store where the Winnebago-sized rubber penises are sure to give you nightmares for years to come. In the meantime, I’ll be skipping my next three meals in the hopes that I can be more BrewHaHottie tomorrow night than BrewHaHeifer.
Clever. And your baby is ugly too.
south fleas island resort: traveled down the road and back again
$500 a night buys you this
When Hurricane Charley ripped through Florida in 2004, it ravaged Captiva Island causing widespread damage to South Seas Island Resort. Read: the subsequent renovations imply that the rooms you rent for $500 a night on Labor Day Weekend in 2011 will be fairly updated.
Add that assumption to the long list of things I’ve come to regret, even now as I Google “bed bugs.”
After an almost 3-hour trek during which I was forced to place my seven year old in a Dramamine-induced coma, I found myself driving directly into 1985.
As if waiting for nearly two hours to check-in to our condo freshly vacated by BenGay-wearing nursing home escapees wasn’t bad enough, witnessing the horror that was inside forced me to finally admit that I’m a hypochondriac who suffers from what I like to refer to as Fiscal Amnesia. This became quite obvious once I demanded my daughter Purell the soles of her feet after walking on the carpet, which had not seen a vacuum since the last time Blanche Devereaux invited over a gentleman caller.
Not realizing that more than half of South Fleas villas are individually owned, I was sickened to think the lack of vacancy at the Ritz Naples coupled with my inability to make plans before the Thursday of a holiday weekend had launched me into a nightmarishly itchy episode of the Golden Girls featuring 3-decade old, faded pelican watercolors and an 18-inch TV.
Not fair Hurricane Charley spared this
I was confused. How could that destructive asshole Charley spare this?
I envisioned my daughter and I returning to St. Pete announcing that we discovered the origin of the head lice that was spreading through her school like the lingering smell of burnt toast in Kindergarten. How could I have avoided bed bugs in the coach cabin of the Eurorail in Italy only to find myself exposed to them on sheets that were more wood than cotton?
As my daughter rearranged the dusty, teal and mauve-colored silk flowers popular only between 1990 and 1991, I beg-asked her if we should leave. Go someplace else where the rooms are cleaned by a hotel staff and not your great-grandmother right before she shits herself.
But while I was itching and tossing out bath products that were more citronella than citrus, Ainsley was delighted to discover the type of campy mermaid guestbook only Jerry’s parents would have laying on the glass coffeetable of their Del Boca Vista retirement home. While I frantically scooped my suitcase off the floor wondering how high fleas could jump, she was happily jumping on Rose’s bed. And while I resisted the urge to call the front desk and announce that I am not paying for this abortion of decor unless Bea Arthur comes back from the dead to make me scrambled eggs in the morning, I instead called to see how late the ice cream shop was open.
The showerhead did little more than pee on me all weekend, and I have splinters from the sheets. But I think I’ll soon forget the whitewashed rattan furniture with maple syrup-stained arms and rusted dolphin figurines. Because instead I’ll replace those memories with my daughter’s giggles as she frolicked in the sea. Or her simple, innocent declaration that the hotdog she ate for lunch at the beach bar-amshackle nearby, was “the best meal” she ever had (quite a testament to my cooking).
South Fleas may have had me itching, but luckily the company could always make me smile.
Stay Golden, Ainsley. Stay Golden.
Too bad I only brought my Betamax tapes
do not envy this massage
My Utopia is a place where every salon & spa accepts “walk-ins,” dry cleaners and grocery stores are all drive-thru and open 24 hours a day, and there isn’t the entire St. Petersburg Police force in front of me in line at Chipotle.
Therefore, I recently had a momentary lapse of reason during which I thought signing up for a Massage Envy membership was an effective way to remedy my broken body while still maintaining my noncommittal nature.
For those of you unfamiliar or diligent in your quest to remain scabie-free, Massage Envy franchises are typically located in the bowels of lower rent shopping plazas and cater to people who want a massage once a month by someone who will make you feel as if Ross is standing over you with salad tongs.
Another Massage Envy patron waiting to be tickled with turkey seasoning
For only $49 a month, you’re entitled to one, 60-minute massage. Or in my case, six months of amassed membership fees will culminate in a single malodorous morning. And quite possibly head lice.
Nevermind that when my therapist asked me about the pressure, it was so light I wasn’t even aware that she had begun the massage.
Or that my requests of “concentrate on a deep tissue massage of my upper body” were confused with “pretend we’re at a fifth grade slumber party and I’m guessing the letter you just gently drew on my back.”
I may even have been able to overlook the lack of towels, bathrobes or showers. Or that when you pay an extra $10 for aromatherapy, you leave smelling less “lavender garden” and more “brined turkey roast.”
But here’s what had me speeding down 4th Street toward the closest bar of soap: the room reeked of athlete’s foot and cheddar cheese popcorn. The smell was so ripe, I found myself silently cursing the therapist for being so short because while on my stomach, it brought the table (and my nose) that much closer to the ground.
Despite my rather unsatisfying no-touch massage which left me smelling like the garbage can of Boston Market, I gave my therapist a rather generous tip. From the looks of it, she’s in desperate need of yet another body piercing, and I’d hate for her to have to donate a liver to afford it. No sense in spreading that hepatitis. It’s my fauxlanthropic gesture of the day.
In the meantime, I’d like to think I’ll book my next massage at a place where they actually change the table linens…ever.
But to be honest, I’ll probably be sucked in again by the rare convenience of calling a place at 9:14 am and getting in the sweaty foot room by 10 am.
Plus unlike many spas that act as if booking a massage is an act of Congress, the receptionists at Massage Envy always seem to be quite accommodating.
“Sure you can come in for a 90-minute massage! We just finished squashing Pirate’s Booty into the carpet!”
Outstanding.
tampa bay succaneers preseason home opener
Thousands of sweating, domestic beer-drinking football fans turned out last night for the Tampa Bay Succaneers preseason home opener at Raymond James Stadium.
It also kicked off a series of conversations I will have with myself about why paying the equivalent of seven pairs of Manolo Blahniks for season tickets is a move anyone not suffering from febrile seizures should make. Of course one could argue that seeing the scrumptious Tom Brady (not dancing at Carnival) was worth the $7k alone.
But if you’re still pissed at Brady for leaving a pregnant Bridget for that Brazilian freak of nature, then perhaps the $35 food & beverage credit per game is enough to entice you to jump on the Succaneer Pirate Ship as a club level season ticket holder.
Yes, that’s right. Each club 1 season pass is loaded with enough money to get you a bag of popcorn assuming you’re willing to suffer through a line longer than Jerramy Stevens’ criminal record. But please, whatever you do, do not expect ice in your fountain Coke because “they haven’t brought that up yet,” or order anything off the grill menu because the organization literally just scraped five homeless people off Himes Ave. three minutes before kick-off to work the registers.
After a small nap and threats of firing the cannons directly into my skull, I am pleased to report I got my “dinner” minutes before halftime or when we had passed for a total of two yards. My hot pretzel was somewhere between salted and renal failure. So in addition to suggesting the Sucs employ people who are not completely confounded by requests of ice or carbonation in their soda, I’m also going to recommend they offer free kidney dialysis for anyone who gets a salted pretzel.
Although that $35 is a huge incentive that is likely to entice readers to jam the phones at One Suc Place in efforts to secure their own season tickets this year, please first consider the following:
1. Where you are sitting: Sure you can choose seats on the West (shady) side under cover and on the 50-yard line, but when someone whose gender is questionable removes its Birkenstock sandals to scratch the bottom of its hooves on the padded seat in front of her/him, it’s important to understand this is the equivalent of a 350-pound elderly woman armed with a tuna salad sandwich and love of medicated body powders squashing her jelly rolls and ham-hocks into the seat next to you on your 4-hourlong Southwest flight. Only it’s for the next seven flights.
2. Row exiting/entering etiquette: Please understand that when someone pays thousands of dollars to behold athletic mediocrity in 100-degree weather, they do not expect their neighbors to enter or exit through the rows penis facing. Everyone knows you enter and exit a row sideways ass facing. I literally almost had a penis jammed into my belly button last night thanks to an awkward encounter with seat #7, whose beer run met his blatant disregard for only the most basic unspoken rules of stadium seating.
3. Your attire and how it may annoy me: I find it extremely distracting when people attending sporting events are confused about what team they are supporting. I am a Gator fan, but do not feel the need to wear my Gators gear to a Sucs game. So why then last night did I spot in the first five minutes shirts for the Crimson Tide, Pittsburgh Penguins, Chicago Cubs and the Brazil National Team, to name a few? If you’re going to a Sucs vs. Patriots game, you wear *Sucs or Patriots colors, gear or **neutral attire. Period. If you want to significantly increase my annoyance levels, wear unrelated items together such as a Tampa Bay Lightning visor and University of Miami shirt (um, I guess thanks to my buddy Nevin there are no fears of anyone sporting that).
4. You may be seated next to someone with olfactory superpowers: My Fairy Godmothers did not bestow upon me wishes for beauty, wit or musical talent. Instead they stood above my bassinet and granted me olfactories that could smell a mayonnaise jar that was just opened somewhere in a 3-story walk-up in Yonkers. So Row V, seat #2: your plate of pulled pork that sat festering on the concrete in this blistering Summer heat was the equivalent of someone eating a foot-long hotdog and burping in my face for two hours straight. Crimson Tide: I realize you may have been a little drunk and confused (the NCAA games are not actually played at Raymond James Stadium), but the 2-day old Clinique Happy perfume oozing from your pores combined with the spilled Bud Light soaking into your Forever 21 jorts, was enough to make me turn the cannons on myself again.
*Jerseys are allowed, but will increase your concentration of douchiness.
**Neutral attire is anything with the exception of Affliction, Tap Out or Ed Hardy (see above).
just thankful i’m not the mom
Who had to tell her child to put the children’s museum costume on OVER her clothes.
tasteless of tampa
- I heart earplugs
Singa and I planned to attend the Taste of Tampa Saturday night until Kettles invited us to join her for a “religious experience.” Typically I hear “religion” and I’m out. But since Singa somehow manages to get her ass into church each Sunday morning on 20 minutes of sleep, she hung on to hear details about the “Above & Beyond” concert at the Amphitheater in Tampa. Rather at the Amphitheatre in Ybor City that I’m pretty sure the Feds raid on a weekly basis. “Why not?” I thought. You’re never too old for a revolving dance floor.
When Singa and I arrived at Kettle’s beach house at 6 pm fully dressed in our best Nikki Beach and toting a bottle of Effen, Tagamet and earplugs, we were surprised to see Kettles and Company still sporting their bikinis and going nowhere fast. So we sat back and enjoyed the view. Not of the sunset and green flash (swear to Charlie Crist we saw it), but rather the wedding underway next door where the theme was somewhere between Miami Vice and 1980s YMCA indoor pool tile. The groomsmen horrified in turquoise blue while the bridesmaids terrified with neon melon halters and shimmery gold lamé sashes. You know how you shouldn’t stare directly into the sun because it will hurt your eyes? Well, trust me when I tell you this wedding hurt a little bit more than that. At one point I considered turning down our music since I didn’t want to ruin their reception. But that was before I glanced over and saw the orange dyed water in their flower vases and realized anyone who uses Tang as part of their decor pretty much just fucked their own wedding.
In the two hours it took Kettles and Co to shower and Singa and I not to eat a morsel of food, we kept ourselves amused by taking distorted Photobooth pictures on my iPad and giving them labels like: “Fetal Alcohol Syndrome Singa,” etc. Warning: this is only humorous if you’re drinking vodka on an empty stomach.
As 8 pm arrived, so did our yellow cab with 112,358 miles and a driver rocking a Shirley Wilson afro. Our first stop was the James Joyce Irish Pub near the concert where Kettle’s friend Sticky apparently knew the owner. I didn’t care where we preprommed as long as there was Grey Goose and maybe a little bit of alcohol-absorbing food since my stomach was beginning to eat its own lining.
When we arrived at the pub, Singa and I wriggled through the cabbie’s afro to exit onto the curb where a man dressed as a leprechaun or albino serial rapist posed for pictures with us. When he held out his hat for a tip I felt like a fanny-pack wearing tourist posing with Hello Kitty in Times Square.
“Mother bitch,” I thought. We’ve been out of the car 30 seconds and we’re already acting like high school students who just tumbled onto 42nd Street after cutting class. Singa threw him some cash, and we made our way to the doorman who asked for my ID. Getting carded is a funny thing. From ages 17-21, it’s terrifying because your ID was created with a Polaroid picture and inkjet printer housed in your brother’s room. From 21-22 it evokes mixed feelings of pride and relief. From 22-27, you roll your eyes, think the doorman is an asshole and resent even having to carry ID when all you should really need is a pack of Trident and lipgloss. From 27-30, it’s flattering. You thank the doorman and flash him a big toothy grin. From 30-on? You will blow him right on the spot.
The tattooed doorman who seemed young enough for me to have birthed eyed my ID pretty closely, which I found humorous since I might not look my age (78), but I certainly look over 21. But it wasn’t until he got to Singa’s that he called bullshit.
“No way,” he said to her. “No way you were born in ’71. Look at you! Look at your body! No way.”
To be fair, Singa does look amazing. She works hard to keep her body in shape, and she’s beautiful. But I couldn’t help but wonder, “Was my ’74 really so believable?” I wanted to tell the doorman that I spend a lot of money on Botox so he’ll check my birth date for forgery too. Instead I watched a small crowd of people stare as Singa ascended a flight of stairs marveling out loud how “an ass like that could be 40 years old.”
So after I established where we should go whenever Singa needs a self-esteem boost and I want to feel like an aging hag, I approached the bar to get the first round of drinks. It was there that I overheard a conversation between the bartender and the not-so-smooth, 27-year-old Sticky who just hours earlier regaled Singa and I with a story so grotesque I vowed to never play Grosser than Gross with him for fear I’d lose my Championship title. I’ll spare the details, but suffice it to say it had to do with finding his mother’s vibrator looking for chocolate in her nightstand…and then I killed myself after that.
“So where is Ryan, the owner?” Sticky asked the bartender.
“Our owner is not named Ryan,” she answered, dead behind the eyes.
“Well, what’s his name then?” he demanded. “I just partied with him last week.”
“If you don’t know, I’m not telling you,” she said, probably annoyed by his use of the word “party” as a verb.
So I bought $40 worth of drinks we never drank because once we decided “Ryan” didn’t exist, we headed straight over to the Amphitheatre for 23 hours of dancing, drinking and fending off advances from what seemed like every guy who has ever mowed my lawn as well as a man who is the current Guinness World Records Winner for Space Violation. Somehow I’ve made it 30-cough years without realizing some space violators take their craft so seriously, they will actually sit on your leg while they are talking to you on a couch or search for an orifice in which to insert their elbow if you so much as glance in their direction.
Amphitheatre in Ybor: Oxygen Optional
Luckily the music was phenomenal. And although I couldn’t quite bang my neon necklace imaginary tambourine and spin in circles the entire night like Singa, I enjoyed the electric vibe, the bass beating in my internal organs and the fact that no one vomited on me. Until about 1:30 am. And then I was ready to go to Sleepy Town. Sad I didn’t pull my brother’s signature move of, “Hey I’m going to grab a drink – want anything?” before promptly exiting out the back door, I hung in until the lights went on at 2:50 am and Shirley Wilson waited in her cab three blocks, five murderers and six muggers away.
Ybor City at 3 am probably would be dangerous and scary to Satan himself. There is a powerful police presence, but somehow I felt less safe and more like I was about to be run over by a tank in Tiananmen Square. Just imagine Singa and I lost, looking around for our cabbie in see-through Missoni, David Yurman and 4-inch high espadrilles. Having the nickname “Hyperbolsen” comes in handy in these situations since I was able to call Shirley’s cell phone screaming something about him being an accomplice in our murders if he didn’t find us before Ybor strung us up to the revival lamposts by our thongs.
After illegally piling seven of our posse into Shirley’s cab (which never went over 35 mph due to the weight inside and the fact that I had to pee), I’m happy to report I got a pulse back in my left leg several hours later as I scrubbed the atmospheric nicotine from my lungs with a steam shower.
I emerged from my coma today at 12:26 pm convinced my grey matter was ripped through my ear canals while I slept. Once I realized the sun would not burn my skin like a vampire’s, it became evident that the doorman was right. I’m an octogenarian who’s totally unable to pull all-nighters like I used to. But every once in a while? You need to swap the Taste of Tampa for the Tasteless of Tampa. It’s way less fattening.
should i feel guilty about this?
Going to lunch instead of recognizing the laundry tsunami in my dining room? Because I don’t.
i only wear white when it rains 