just when i think i have a clue…

…i find out i have none at all.  i have no clue.

people are cruel and complicated.

i think i blogged earlier in the week that i was waiting for a word, and i got words plural, more than i wanted to receive, none of them good.  not one.  it’s not that i had a lot to lose in this venture (well, not too much time lost, but other things lost, yes), but i trusted.  i trusted.  really, i think i was already bitten once in the last week by this person, you ‘d think i wouldn’t offer my hand again in kindness…but no, apparently, i didn’t learn well the first time, didn’t catch on.

no, i really don’t want to talk specifically about it to anyone, but i know that i didn’t deserve this blow.  maybe should’ve seen it coming, but i didn’t deserve it.

Got beer?

I stood in line on this gorgeous day at Highland Brewing with a couple hundred of my closest friends, waiting for the clock to strike 12:01.  We’d assembled as an elite group of India Pale Ale fans, seeking to purchase Imperial Kashmir, a special batch of Highland’s Kashmir IPA.  Imperial Kashmir is up for sale today only with less than 3000 bottles produced.  The Imperial brew has a 10.2% alcohol content and is in 22 ounce bottles for your drinking pleasure.

Everyone was prepared with cash and identification in hand, so the line moved along fairly quickly.  The line was still growing when we pulled out of the parking lot, IPA stowed safely in the trunk.

My Imperial Kashmir is in the fridge.  I won’t tell you how many bottles I bought, but it’s mine, mine, mine.  I would only split a bottle with one or two souls on the planet, and if you have to ask, you’re probably not worthy.

I haven’t cracked a bottle open yet.  I’m waiting for the cool of evening, the quiet of my house when MiniMe has gone to bed.  I will then take to the front porch, put my feet up and enjoy.

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.

But wait there’s more today: in praise of Justin Timberlake

Yes, yes, it hit me in my bubble bath just minutes ago that I must also praise the Justin Timberlake song in my head.  No rest until I get it out in the open.

Wait-what? Justin Timberlake?  Yes.  Don’t be shocked.  He puts together little nuggets of pop perfection, not unlike Michael Jackson back when he was a cute black man (“Thriller!” “PYT!” “Bad!” you know you liked those songs, too), as opposed to whatever he does these days as a frightening white woman. 

Yes.  Justin Timberlake.  The song that was in my head as I soaked in my fragrant bubble bath was “Love Stoned/I Think She Knows Interlude.”  I think that is the coolest phrase, ever so perfect, “Love Stoned.”  Short, sweet, daydreamy, lost in something fantastic.  Say it. You know you want to.  Text it to someone.  “Love Stoned.” Download it and shake your derriere around in the living room with the blinds closed.  I won’t tell.

Those flashing lights come from everywhere
The way they hit her I just stop and stare
I’m love stoned from everywhere and she knows
I think that she knows

~~Justin Timberlake

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.

My butt hurts

I had the best run ever yesterday, really awesome.  The kind of run where I totally checked out, out of body experience, in the zone, whatever you want to call it…my feet were going but my brain was elsewhere.  Beautiful.

Running on the outskirts of downtown means hills.  Somehow all uphill, really.  And today my butt hurts, every muscle.  Hurts so good!