Monthly Archives: June 2010

Looking Beyond the External

I decided against posting my nephew’s bloody pictures…mostly because it seems like I can’t forward it to my e-mail. Consider yourselves lucky. Of course, if you simply have to see and you’re at Nationals, hit me up and I’ll share.

Now onto to today’s post. I make no secret of my love of the male form. In fact, I go out of my way to let you all know how much I appreciate a handsome face, sculpted abs, and er, other parts. However, I wouldn’t want y’all to think I’m shallow, because I’m not.

See, a co-worker I used to work with was the most shallow person I’ve ever met. I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say she wasn’t anything great to look at (how mean of me), but the truth is, no one should be casting stones. I’m not exactly the epitome of feminine beauty in the 20th or 21st centuries. Maybe if I could go back to the 15th century, I’d be considered a total babe, but not now and that’s cool because I think I’m pretty awesome. See? Not shallow OR conceited.

Anyway, my co-worker and I were talking about music (one of my favorite subjects) and I mentioned how I’d love to see Ozzy one time before he croaks. She said, and I quote:

“Ew, he’s so gross. I can’t listen to him.”

I think I stared at her in completed puzzlement. “You can’t listen to him because he’s…”

“He’s ugly!”

And this wasn’t the first time she’d said something along those lines. When I used to watch American Idol, I was rooting for Taylor Hicks because he was a great singer and he didn’t fit the mold. She thought he looked too old and unattractive. Why should that matter when you’re basing a competition on singing? I just didn’t get it. That’s when I realized she was shallow and conceited.

Should it matter if someone isn’t considered beautiful by the media’s standards? When I meet someone, unless they irritate the hell out of me, I look for something attractive about them. Yes, I’ve dated some very unattractive guys, but there was something about them that made me like them.

There was one man I nearly dated when I was in college who was cute and my age (not younger than me, thank God). I was on the verge of saying “yes” to him when he said something that made me think I was out of my mind. I like blue collar guys. They’re rough and ready. That’s appealing to me, but this guy was visiting with me and my friends and someone said…hell, I can’t remember what word was used, but it was more than two syllables. The prospective boyfriend said, “Y’all act like y’all are so smart using those big words” or something like that. We all sort of blinked at him. That’s when I knew I couldn’t date him. Would he have gotten mad at me if I told him I was contemplating the complexities of the universe? (Which is one of my favorite responses to: “Whatcha doin’?”)

I may ogle and drool over sexy men, but I think of it like looking at work of art. Beautiful to look at, but that doesn’t mean I want it hanging on my wall. There’s no telling what could be wrong with those gorgeous men I pant over. The one with the beautiful face could have really bad breath. The one with the sculpted abs could be someone who’s more concerned about how he looks in boxers than how to get the bills paid. The guy with the…other interesting and drool-worthy parts could think women should worship him in bed and out. That wouldn’t work with me. That’s why it’s a fantasy.

In the real world, no one’s perfect, no matter how beautiful they are. It’s the imperfections, both physical and mental, that makes each person unique and interesting. Funnily enough, the guys I’m interested in don’t have the perfect bodies or faces I post here. No, they’re just men with not-quite-so-worked-out bodies, crooked teeth, rough hands, ass sweat, and everything else you don’t see on my blog. But that’s okay because it’s what’s inside of them that counts the most.

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The Mangler

Y’all remember this story by Stephen King? It was pretty good in a far out kind of way. Granted, I think I would probably have a heart attack if one of the machines in my house suddenly became possessed and stalked the streets looking for prey. Which machine would do it though? The vacuum cleaner (like Jaws in Mr. Mom)? Or the washing machine? What about the dryer?

Anyway, I thought about this because Friday afternoon, my godchild had an accident at work. About a month ago he got a job at the ice house down the bayou. He loads trucks and stuff. That’s about all I know. So my sister sends me an e-mail:

“Bryan got hurt at work. They’re bringing him in for stitches.”

Full panic Nanny mode:

“Do you need me to meet you at the hospital?” Never mind the fact that I work 40-45 miles from the hospital. Nothing will come between me and my baby!

I didn’t need to go, his boss was bringing him and he’s 18 now…he would’ve been mortified if his mom and aunt showed up. I had to find out exactly what happened via my eldest nephew (my godchild’s older brother) who has no sympathy for his younger brother. It went something like this:

“Bryan Edward’s an idiot. The ice bags were backed up in the machine leading to the conveyor belt and like an idiot, he stuck his hand in the machine to knock it loose. It grabbed his finger, ripping it open and fracturing the bone up to his first knuckle.”

And then my brother-in-law sent me the pictures of my baby’s finger before it was worked on. *turns green* It’s still on my phone. No, I won’t share with y’all. Mostly because I’m not sure how to get it from my phone to the computer. If I figure it out, I’ll share…but only if y’all want me to.

This isn’t the first time my baby decided he needed to document his injuries and hospital visits with the phone. About two years ago, he was injured playing football. The clip on another player’s helmet slashed an inch wide, six-seven inch gash in his arm during a game. We (his mom, dad, me,and his principal) were crowded in the ER with him while he got his stitches. But before that, he had his dad take a picture of the wound. Granted, it was pretty fierce and left a wicked scar, but was that really necessary?

My poor baby. He met his own mangler and after being at his job for only a month! I hope he does well in college because I don’t want him doing manual labor for long. He’ll lose all his fingers!

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On the Move

Right, so before I start waxing poetic about my Kindle, I’ll instead talk about the weekend.

My brother and his wife have until June 30 to clear out of her apartment and into their new house. Since they were still waiting on utilities and various other things to be completed on their new home, they had only this weekend to move. They sign the papers tomorrow, but with their work schedules, there would’ve been no time to move at a leisurely pace.

So Saturday, they rented a truck. With my brother, his wife, her best friend, and myself, we cleared her apartment of furniture and as much as we could fit in the moving truck and three vehicles. It was hot as hell too. My deodorant quit on me about half-way through the move, but it needed to be done. Oh sure, I pined for my brand new toy at home. But I kept telling myself it needed time to charge. Then I remembered that the electricity had gone out right before I left my house so the Kindle wasn’t charging.

I was relentless in getting things moving. I’m bossy by nature (that could so be my rap name!) and had no problem telling everyone where I thought the furniture should go in the truck. We managed to pack and load the truck in about three hours. Not bad considering how much stuff my sister-in-law has.

Between worrying about my Kindle and moving boxes, I couldn’t help but remember George Carlin’s take on owning things. I’m paraphrasing here, but he said something along the lines of, we buy a house and stuff it with crap, then complain because we have so much crap. Then we move to a bigger house for all that crap and then add more crap. It’s true. We collect things as we live in one spot for a while. I don’t even want to think about moving my house. The amount of utter crap we have is ridiculous, in spite of the throwing-things-out wild hairs I get from time to time.

So Saturday finished on a sweaty note. Sunday morning, my nephew came to replace my sister-in-law’s best friend and we emptied the truck in 45 minutes. It’s amazing how much gets done with two strutting males determined to show off their strength. Bookcases were lifted onto shoulders, dressers were picked up without help. My sister-in-law stayed out of their way and moved boxes.

Now they’re half-way moved in with things still placed haphazardly all over the house, but at least the bulk of her belongings are in the roost. All that’s left is for my brother’s crap (which isn’t as much as hers).

Onto the Kindle. I love it. I even stuffed it in my purse today just in case I have some free time to finish reading the book I started yesterday. I shouldn’t. I should be writing today in my spare time, but I can feel the Kindle calling to me…”read me”, “read me!”.

I like the fact that it stays charged for so long. That was my biggest concern. I hate having to charge something every single day (my phone, my mp3 player). This sucker can go a long time without charge. I also approve of the ability to order books from the Kindle, or from the Kindle Store on Amazon. I didn’t want to have to have the Kindle with me at all times if I happen to be browsing Amazon’s site for new books. The book store on the Kindle is okay, I just prefer the internet.

Granted I’ve only had the Kindle since Saturday, but I’m really loving it. I just can’t remember all the books I want to get! It’s like being at a buffet and not knowing what I want to eat first. Everyone else is pretty impressed by it as well. My brother and his wife have both looked at it and I think they each want one. Maybe that’ll be their Christmas presents to each other.

That was my weekend in a nutshell. It wasn’t terribly exciting unless you count the Kindle. I’m sore from moving furniture, tired from staying up too late each night to read, and fuzzy-brained from trying to remember all the books I want to get, but I’ll manage. I hope.

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The New Phone Books Are Here!!

I kind of feel like Steve Martin in The Jerk. Yes, I’m that excited. Why? Because my Kindle is charging up and I’m so ready to use it.

I suppose I should start worrying now though. Considering how much and how fast I read, I could very well bankrupt myself buying books. Especially since now I don’t have to wait for them to come in from Amazon or going to Books-A-Million to get them. Now they’ll be at my fingertips…oooooh!! *drools* Bah, so what, it’s only money. Not like I need it to survive or anything. Not like I need my books.

Ah books…reading…*sigh* Unfortunately, I won’t be able to press my nose to the Kindle for most of the weekend. We’re helping my brother and his wife move into their house. It’s hot as hell out there, so this doesn’t make me a happy cookie. In fact, I’m quite irritable. But this is what you do for family. As a bonus though, he told me I could take my time getting there…you know, cause my new crack pipe (aka Kindle) was coming in. MMMM ,Kindle.

So we’ll see how I like it and take it from there.

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Fantasy Man Friday

Was it just me, or did this week seem to last forever? Between the heat, the obviously broken time clock at work (obviously broken because every minute lasted an hour), and my lack of creativity, I’m just ready for the week to end already.

Not that I have the most exciting weekend planned. I’m helping my brother and his wife (still feels weird saying that) move into their new home. Yay. On the other hand, I did order a Kindle and it comes in Saturday. *dances around* I can’t wait, I can’t wait! One day I’ll have to count and organize my paperbacks, but I’m sure I have somewhere over 500 in my house, which means I’m running out of room. *deep sigh*

That doesn’t  mean I won’t be getting any paperbacks. Nationals is coming up and there are a lot of authors who’ll be there with brand new releases. Yeah, I’m going to buy. In fact, someone may want to follow me with a mop because I have no doubt I’ll be drooling at all the titles offered.

And now to the reason we’re all here. Yes, Fantasy Man. I figured this week was so long and laborious that we all deserved a little break

Like this guy:

Ah yes, man in repose. Nothing quite as hot as that, is there? He looks all tuckered out, poor lamb. Kind of makes you wonder why he’s so tired. I’ll be quiet this time because I’m sleepy. But my eyes just keep straying, ya know? Hm, yeah. *ponders*

Happy Friday all!

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My Obsession

It’s simple really. But first, you need to know that this post will probably gross some of you out (if you’re really, really sensitive, or you have no sense of humor).

To be honest, I didn’t even realize it was an obsession until my brother’s wedding. I was talking with two of my sister-in-law’s close relatives and we were discussing deodorant. This is a logical discussion in south Louisiana. It’s hotter than Hell here, so deodorant is important.

It wasn’t until I mentioned that I spend about five minutes putting deodorant on a day and have a can of deodorant spray at my office desk that my sister-in-law’s cousin said, “You’re OCD about deodorant.”

It was one of those Hallelujah moments. Like…”Finally! I see the light! I don’t like to stink! This makes so much sense!” And yes, all of those exclamation points are necessary.

Like I said, it’s hot here in south Louisiana. Oh sure, the temperature could say 82, but when you add in humidity and heat index…well, it’s like standing in an oven. A ten second walk from an air-conditioned car to an air-conditioned office will leave you with a nice little film of sweat. Spending hours and hours outside pretty much ensures that your clothes are soaked down to your underwear and that clinical strength, ain’t-nothin-gonna-get-by-me deodorant was pretty much washed away.

This bothers me. It really does. I don’t know when this obsession began because I was a pretty active kid (before I discovered the fine art of reading). I’m sure I had the puppy-dog smell like all kids do, but at some point, I became an olfactory snob. I only want to be around kids when they smell like baby lotion and baby powder.

When it comes to my own smell, it drives me crazy. I smear copious amounts of deodorant on, do my lavender lotion routine, then spray on my perfume, and then top it all off with a dab of honey scented perfume. Overkill? Nah. Everyone says I smell good (first thing in the morning). But by the time the end of the day has arrived, the only thing saving me is the solid perfume in my purse because my deodorant is a thing of the past.

Oh and if I can’t remember if I put my deodorant on in the morning? You know, because I just went through the whole dressing routine trying to remember the words to “The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia”, I spend the rest of the day doing the I’m-stretching-not-trying-to-smell-my-armpits thing. Don’t act like you don’t do it!!

So far, I’ve lucked out and my body puts it on automatically. However, best friend wasn’t so lucky. *dramatic music plays* We were in college. We stopped at Burger King for a bite to eat and for some reason she decided to duck under the brass rail (she also wore Barney shoestring holders and a reflective backpack and no she isn’t mentally challenged). Anyway, she ducked under the rail and was about to release when she stopped and sniffed her armpits. “I forgot to put deodorant under my left arm” she told me. I almost cried for her.

True story.

So yeah, if you’re at Nationals or any other conference I may be at…and you see some strange woman waving to someone who isn’t there, or stretching in the middle of a very exciting workshop where NO ONE is feeling lazy, or you wait for the elevator and when it opens to show you a woman hastily lowering her arm…that isn’t me. Nope. I’m bringing about a case of deodorant with me (okay, maybe not a case, but at least two sticks!), so I’ll be good to go.

How about you? Are you accidentally OCD about something? Are you a squeaky clean deodorant whore (cause you can’t be a filthy deodorant whore, that just doesn’t make sense). Do tell, we’re all friends here…

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Memory Association

I was just thinking, which we all know is a bad thing. And I realized that there are some things I can never see, hear, smell, or taste again simply because of something that happened while partaking of it. Does that make sense? No? Well, let me explain:

The song One Headlight by The Wallflowers. I can’t listen to this song without feeling panicky. See, this song was playing when I got into a wreck. I was driving home with my brother, a car thought I was turning (don’t know why) and crossed the street, smashing into my front driver side fender, spun and hit my car in the back. The crash propelled my car into a field straight for a bridge piling. Luckily, my car died first. It was a bad wreck, but no one was seriously hurt. Thank God.

I can never be in the house where someone is baking a pie from scratch. Why? I was 7…snuck some blackberry wine and got drunk on it while my stepdad’s mom was baking pies. My cousin ate some raw pie dough and the sight turned my stomach. Since then, any time I’m around the stuff before it’s cooked, I get nauseated.

Jose Cuervo is no longer my friend. In fact, he hates me. Christmas Eve. Playing cards. The losing team has to take a shot of tequila. My partner was pregnant so I got railroaded into taking my shots and hers. Needless to say, the next day, any time I saw someone on television drinking alcohol (beer, whiskey, wine), I was running to the bathroom calling for Ralph.

It’s all association. Bad thing happens right when I’m tasting, smelling, seeing, hearing this and I can never do it again. Does that mean I can never listen to One Headlight ever again? No, I just prefer not to. Shame too, cause I did like the song. I can’t do anything about the pie dough. That’s forever etched in my memory as bad. Seven-year-olds are so impressionable, don’t you think? And as for Jose…let’s just say as long as I don’t know it’s in the drink, I can have it.

What are some associations you’ve made that ruin something for you?

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