I’ve been given a new moniker.
Which to the untrained ear sounds sweet.
G has begun calling me “Sugar.”
Casper heard this last week and said “Awww, how sweet!”
That was until I explained the origin.
Since G will be a Junior in college this Fall, he has no source of income.
Unless you count his moneyed parents.
Therefore, he has begun calling me “Sugar” in anticipation of me taking him under my financial wing.
Sugar is his shortened form of Sugar Momma.
Ummm . . . . nu uh.
Since I spend approximately 33% of my day on the interstates, highways and by-ways of Arkansas, I feel this entitles me to make some observations:
Most of you idiots can’t drive.
And by most I mean 95%.
Okay, so it wasn’t observations so much as observation.
I have no idea where it went, but the courage afforded me by my self esteem and pride have disappeared.
Possibly because my self esteem and pride have been taking a rather slow, but steady, decline over the past few years.
Funny how a body image can change everything.
Freshman year, I had no fear.
In October of that year, a resident assistant in our dorm arranged a Girl’s Night Out.
We were all to meet in the lobby and then journey out to eat at Tia’s and to a movie: Meet Joe Black.
I hate that movie, but that’s another story.
21 of us attended.
Yes, I was a joiner. I hang my head in shame.
Once seated at Tia’s, we began to notice the plethora of attractive males seated around us.
One in particular caught my eye.
Having no fear . . . and no shame, I wasted no time making my move.
I saw him excuse himself to go to the bathroom and began to get up.
Robin looked up and said “Where are you going??”
“I just saw the father of my children. Back in a bit.”
And I followed him into the bathroom.
Something his girlfriend, sitting at their table, didn’t fail to notice.
She was, needless to say, not amused.
Speaking of Robin, she is my houseguest this week.
Due to recent traffic violations (see what I mean about people not being able to drive?), her funds for her vacation were cut short.
Therefore, instead of a plush hotel room in a far away city, she was relegated to the guest room of my home.
Which, while not overly plush, affords her a silence and comfort that her own home can not provide.
Because she has cats.
Demon spawn cats from Hell.
Who are never quiet and constantly a burden.
Yet she loves them???
Hmmm . . . sounds like my brother.
She requires the silence to write.
And informed me last night that I was NOT to show her how to operate the myriad of technologies that allow her to watch TV in my living room.
“If I don’t know how to turn everything on and get it going, then I can’t watch it, and will be forced to write.”
Unfortunately, I believe she’s failing to take into account the bazillion books in my home.
And her love of reading that echos my own.
Here’s hoping she doesn’t locate the Greg Iles, P.J. Parrish and Douglas Preston/Lincoln Child book shelves.
I Just Don’t Care
I have ceased drying and styling my hair in the mornings.
I’ve realized that this simple routine costs me another 15 minutes of prep work.
NOT because I concoct some elaborate, artistic hair-do, but because my hair has grown so long and is so thick, that it takes forever to dry.
These are 15 minutes that I could be sleeping.
And let’s face it, I work around women and children all day long, every day.
Who am I trying to impress?
Other than the men I pass on the roads, I have little to no contact with the male species.
What contact I do have is with men I would rather NOT have contact with.
Therefore, instead of my 4:45 AM wake up time, I’ve pushed my alarm back to 5:00.
I rise, shower, wash and condition my hair and then pull it up into a ponytail.
Which is typically the style it would end up in anyway.
To keep small children’s hands from playing in and pulling my hair.
If people find my wet ponytail unattractive, I just don’t care.
The makeup may be the next thing to go.
God help us all, if it does.
They Don’t Care Either
Even in my sopping wet ponytail, I attract the attention of the wrong males.
Lord, save me.
This morning’s example:
P Diddy Wanna Be with his blinged out grill decided I was “tasty” this morning.
“Daummm, girl, you sho look tasty. Lemme have a lick.”
This was accompanied with a lewd gesture and some interesting gesticulations of his tongue.
And by interesting, I mean the sight of them made me throw-up a little in my mouth.
Gosh, I do so love to be hit on.
By a 23 year old father of 4.
Who drives a $5,000 vehicle with $8,000 rims.
And supports himself with welfare checks and drug deals.
Which he brags about.
It’s a mystery why I’m still single, doncha think?
I mean with the prime specimens I attract.
I have some anonymous “friends.”
I love them much.
They keep me grounded with their catty comments.
Thanks guys and gals, you’re the tops. :)
Love ya, mean it.
I appreciate people who take the time to tell me how they really feel.
Even when they hate me . . . but for whatever reason, keep returning to the site.
Sounds like a problem to me.
Hate me, but keep reading me.
I Have a Problem
Book buying addiction.
Not weight, though thanks to the anon commenter (AKA Captain Obvious) for pointing that blight out.
This week’s purchases, thus far:
Greenland Expedition: Where Ice is Born by Lonnie Dupre
Bono: in conversation with Michka Assayas
Dear Scott, Dearest Zelda - the love letters of F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald
Ash Wednesday by Ethan Hawke
J. Edgar Hoover: The Man and the Secrets by Curt Gentry
Blood Memory by Greg Iles
This combined with my shoe addiction (thanks go out to Gianni Bini, BCBG, Cole Hahn, Antonio Melani and Kenneth Cole for this week’s debts) makes sure that I keep working 10 to 12 hour days at least 3 times a week.
That's all, folks.