Category: funny

Let’s talk about feet, especially my cute toes

My long-time freakinfriends are fully aware that I am a foot fanatic.  If I can find that photo of my toes covered in honey from a former incarnation of the FreakinAsheville site, by golly, I’ll post it…I’m looking…

Anyhoo…I don’t want you to have sex with my toes or anything (but a good loverman knows that a lengthy foot rub will turn me into his willing slave), I just have some issues with poor foot hygiene.

Once upon a time, I had a blind date with a guy whose toenails in his man sandals (a.k.a. his “mandals”) were longer than your average schnauzer, and it ruined me for life.  I’ll go into details about that again someday, but not today…just know that seeing those long, curvy toenails scarred me, etched into my memory, forever.

I don’t spend all day every day fretting over my own feet, but they are generally presentable at all times.  At this moment, they are soft, clean and my toenails are sweetly groomed with black nail polish and sassy red edges.  I forget to look in a mirror and sometimes wear my pajamas out in public, but at least my toes are looking pretty.

What do I expect of you?  Male or female, the biggest thing is that you make some effort to trim your toenails on a regular basis.  There’s someone who works in my company that cuts his toenails in his office; most of my coworkers are horrified by this.  I, on the other hand (other foot?), am tickled pink that he cares that much about his toenails.  I know that should I ever see this man’s bare feet, his toenails are not going to get snagged on the carpet as he walks down the hall.

Tend to your scary rough spots every once and while.  It shouldn’t be your goal to cultivate a callous thick as elephant’s hide on your heels unless you’re a fire-walker.  Pumice should be your friend.

My SGF Edward (sorry, can’t divulge what SGF means, would have to kill you) used to keep track of my toenail polish colors in a little notebook.  A new color on my toes meant a new entry in the book.  I always want my toes to be ready for someone to make notes about them, and I’m ready most days of the week for a honey-pouring photo opportunity.

If my feet are in sad shape, so is the rest of me.  When my back was all messed up and I was in physical therapy forever and a half, my tootsies suffered.  They lacked glamour.  It was a terrible time for me, my back and my toes.

Take this moment to look down at your feet, my friends, and do what must be done.  It will make the world a better place.

House of a million rugrats

My house is the slumber party house.  Kids running around almost every weekend.  And I love it.

Minime is happy, I’m happy.  Girls giggling and acting nuts.  This weekend will be no exception.

But they’re getting older, so they bicker more.  PMS-like mood swings.   It’s still ok.  When they’re asleep, they’re angels.

Ah, when they’re asleep.  Getting them to go to sleep is no small task.  Last time, I think I was asleep before they were!  They were trying to take midnight bubble baths when all I wanted to do was catch some zzzz’s.

They eat more these days, leaving me with nothing but some dried lentils and amaranth in the cabinet only because they couldn’t figure out what to do with it.  If they could’ve figured out something to do with them, they would’ve eaten the dried stuff, too.  A plague of locusts in eyeshadow.

In Praise of the Wingman

Chiquita, as many of you know, has been my wingman for more than a decade now.   Traditionally, the wingman flies the support plane when you’re in dangerous territory.  There is also your dating wingman who helps you in the search and destroy scene that is modern romance; your dating wingman will talk you up, make you the center of attention.  Last but not least, your social wingman is there to support your wildest schemes, keep the mingling going at your parties and, to blatantly steal a line, help you be all that you can be.  Chiquita and I have never flown in a war zone, but she has certainly been my wingman in every other situation you can think of over the years, and a darn fine one at that.

 At my social functions, Chiquita runs an awesome backup to my somewhat rude social graces.  She’ll keep an eye on the music, keep a lookout on the food and keep the conversation going, having memorized a tidbit or two about all my guests.  At a bar, if I’ve thrown myself into some dancing, flailing frenzy, Chiquita is at the ready with water so I don’t dehydrate and die.  In day to day life, she nudges and nags so that I’m not letting opportunities pass me by.  She is the Gayle to my Oprah, the Cal Naughton to my Ricky Bobby.

Right now, there’s something on my mind that I need to do.  Chiquita is aware of the situation and has called and emailed me a variety of options to help me with the outcome.  Hell, if I’d let her, she’d do this one thing for me just to get it over with so we could move on to actually coordinating the end result.  In the meantime, Chiquita’s got my back.  She’s talking me up.  She has me convinced I can conquer the world, and with a good wingman, I believe I can.

 So raise a glass, friends…I shall raise my iced green tea with honey and a dash o’ mint…and we will toast our wingmen.  Cheers!

Best song lyric ever (at least today)

I love love love to dissect songs, searching for meanings that apply to me or words that paint pictures that resonate with me.

Today, while driving waaaaaaay too fast yet again between Asheville and Hendersonville, I was singing in my car as always (is that why no one wants to ride shotgun?) and a lyric seized my attention, yes, it seized me though I’d heard it before…”If you think holding hands is all in the fingers, grab hold of the soul where the memory lingers.”  Dig that!  Sing-songy, wordy, but dead on!  White Stripes, bravo, bravo.

Over the years, I’ve also doodled countless lyrics in the edges of notebooks, doodled in meetings when I was supposed to be paying attention.   “Memories fade but the scars still linger”–hey another lyric with the word “linger” in it! That was Tears for Fears.  Oooo “Throw me to the wolves because there’s order in the pack, throw me to the sky because I know I’m coming back,” Red Hot Chili Peppers.  “And watching lovers part, I feel you smiling–what glass splinters lie so deep in your mind?” Duran Duran, of course.  “You know what, Stuart? I like you.  You’re not like the other people here in the trailer park, ” Dead Milkmen.

Oh yes, I could go on for days.  But for today, we’re focusing on “if you think holding hands is all in the fingers…”   Meditate on that, and get back to me.

Very possibly the best problem I’ve ever had

I don’t want to alarm anyone, don’t want to freak anyone out here.  Don’t panic, but…

I have too much cake!

I have this really tall chocolate layer cake that falls over like a giant sequoia when I cut into it.  Oooo and this decadent triple chocolate bundt cake.  And these homemade chocolate cupcakes that smell like the gateway to heaven.  Oh, and I have chocolate cupcakes with little chocolate flowers on them.

 This is the best problem ever.  Too much cake.  I’m giddy.  I’m thrilled.  I’m a little shaky from eating cake for breakfast.  And lunch.  But I’m elated!

What will I do when the cake is all gone?  That, friends, is a problem I’m not ready to face yet.  The next problem I shall tackle is how to get the frosting out of my keyboard… (I wonder if I will get shocked if I lick it?)

Birthday Wish: Take Me to the Man Cave

It’s time, one and all, to think about me.  You should already think about me at least once every 45 seconds or so, but now it’s time to really think hard, really focus…

My birthday is next week.  I’ve been told I’m ever so hard to shop for, but I think this year I’ll make it super easy…Here’s what I want:

I’d like a big strong man (he’s got to be strong for this next part) to heave me over his shoulder (I’m a big girl, this better be a big sturdy shoulder) and carry me off to his man cave for, ummm, quality time (he should have his own man cave, not like part of a cave he shares with his mom).  And then we can have cake.  Chocolate cake.  That should pretty much take care of my wish list.

If I have to throw him over my shoulder that really just takes the shine off the whole damn thing.  Now, go forth and gather up the big strong men, put bows on their heads and make sure they smell vaguely presentable.  I’m looking forward to a lineup of men on my birthday, a plethora of men and man caves from which to choose.

Just fyi, I will be pretty peeved if you don’t round up a man or two for me.  If you look everywhere–under the bed, at WalMart, in the back yard, at Auto Zone–and you still can’t locate a man fitting the proper description, I will accept flowers, truffles from the chocolate fetish and money instead…but just imagine what my Christmas list will look like if I don’t get my wish.