I'm Changing My Name To Sugarfoot

My friend KT came down from DC this weekend and we hung out yesterday. KT is one of my all time favorite people, but more on that later. Somehow at the end of the day we ended up on the computer looking at Myspace. I totally am not into Myspace and don't get it at all, but KT, being the cool cat that she is, is all about it. So we were at her little page and she was showing me all of her friends and we were clicking this one and clicking that one. She was showing me all the people from high school that she had hunted down and were now her "friends." And so I went around checking out all of my former classmates Myspace pages as well. As it turns out, they all live out west somewhere and all the boys have grown hideous beards. What's up with that?

And I started to reminisce about high school and I had a realization that as horrible as I thought it was at the time, it really wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been. There wasn't any Clueless, Means Girls type activities going on. As a matter of fact, my high school was made up mainly of hippies. I find this particularly strange because I didn't go to high school in San Francisco in the '60s but in conservative, suburban Richmond, Virginia in the '90s. But the coolest car you could drive in high school was a Jeep and everyone wore tie dyes and Birkenstocks and smoked weed and listened to the Grateful Dead. This was back when Jerry was still alive. We also had an unusually high lesbian population, but that's another story for another time.

So as I was thinking about this I realized that it wasn't really such a surprise that everyone I went to high school with ended up in Seattle with beards and cool graphic design jobs and Jettas. But it really begged the question as to exactly how and when I decided to open door number two and become a snobby, materialistic yuppie. And I thought if I ever got a Myspace page my caption would have to be, My House Is Bigger.

But whatever, I can think of worse captions.

Love,
Sugarfoot

I Want To Go Outside And Play

I'm going to cut all of my hair off and bleach it platinum a la Susan Powter. Why not? I've been threatening this for awhile. I'm starting to become the boy who cried wolf. But one day I'll get just bored enough and walk in and say, Take it all off.

I've also been threatening for some time now to get quite a bit of plastic surgery done, but so far, I haven't gone under the knife. I was thinking a boob job, maybe some lipo here and there and if I was feeling froggy a new ass, perhaps. I kept saying I was going to do it for my 30th birthday, because I was convinced 30 was way old and that's when I would need to start the maintenance. But apparently I'm not as old as I thought it was when I was 29, and I can hold off on the extreme makeover for a couple of more years.

I always start to write new posts and then get halfway through or not even and just erase it and go on with my day. It just seems like so much work to get my thoughts across the way I need them to come across so then I just don't bother.

The other night after consuming a little too much tequila at ladies night I thought what a fun place it is to live in my head. I wish I could somehow get all this really funny stuff that floats through my head keeping my cracked up and happy all the time out for the rest of the world, or at least you, to see. But I don't have the tools, and really, I'm afraid it just wouldn't translate. Most of all, I'm selfish and as long as I can entertain myself, I'm too lazy to work hard and to get it out for the rest of yous.

I think ladies night was actually the first time I actually got drunk from tequila. And I don't remember a whole lot. I do remember being fairly rude, though. Imagine that. I told Dr. M that her shoes looked like something that a school cafeteria worker wears. And I am pretty sure I called a few people filthy whores and old bats.

The next day I apologized profusely to Dr. M because she is quickly becoming one of my best friends and she is really too good to me. And I really love her, I do, I do. So what if she wears tapered jeans and makes bad footwear choices, at least she returns the friendship, so I felt like a great big ass. When I told Big Daddy what I said he was genuinely mad and gave me a big, long lecture.

Also, at some point during my drunken tirade after everyone had left except Dr. M and her boyfriend, I confessed my love for the florist. Woopsie. I couldn't help it. I've got it bad. When I went in earlier that day to pick up my latest batch of lilies I could barely look her in her eyes. Also, I finally got her name. I'm not going to share it with you degenerates, instead I'll probably just start referring to her as some obscure constellation or planet or something. I know, Ms. XM Radio.

See, I'm cracking myself up.

Love ya'll.

Froggy Went A Courtin'

Why is it that every time I turn on the television I see an ad for some new Romantic Comedy with Drew Barrymore as the female lead? Drew is gross. I never got the attraction there. Meg Ryan she is not. Somebody in Hollywood needs to slide over and let me do a little casting.

I think now is the time for me to announce that I am officially the happiest person on Earth now that the sun is consistently shining and my pool is open. As I was spraying myself down with sunblock on Sunday to go outside and scrub patio furniture, the tropical coconut scent of the sunscreen wafted to my nose and I felt my eyes well up. Tears of joy, bitches. If I was smart I'd move off to a tropical island since apparently sun and water is all it takes to make me happy.

I'm so excited because tomorrow I get to go pick up more lilies!

Where There's A Party, There's a Way

As I think I mentioned here before, just mere days after the scheduled pool opening was the scheduled first ever poolside neighborhood ladies night. And it is well documented here that Hot Lips suddenly has a renewed sense of urgency when there is a party looming overhead. So with Harry busy being a cocksucker, I had no choice but to take matters into my own hands. So I jumped on the internet and quickly began studying up. I now fancy myself a pool repair expert. So first thing Saturday morning Big Daddy and I drained that motherfucker and set out to do our own repairs. And not to toot my own horn or anything, but god damn, we rocked it out. I fixed my own pool! (And by I fixed my own pool, what I really mean is that Big Daddy spent his entire weekend getting burnt to a crisp sweating his ass off and twisting his ankle fixing the pool that he vigorously warned me against getting. But every couple of hours I would stick my head out the door and check on his progress, so let's not split hairs, okay?)

So with little out of pocket expense to myself I was able to get that sweet mama back in action in merely a week. I'm resourceful like that. It took two full days and nights to fill 'er back up, but I'm happy to report that she's wet and clean, just like I like 'em.

I even pitched in on Sunday when it was time to pull all of the pool and patio furniture out and give it a vigorous scrubbing. So now she's all ready for this week's soiree. Keep your fingers crossed that the weather holds out and then maybe Hot Lips will have one less thing to worry about.

The newest addition...



I think this is where I complain about what an expensive pain in my ass this ladies night is turning out to be, but you've heard it all before so I'll instead tell you how I've got a little crush on my florist.

Big Daddy sent me flowers a few weeks ago and in the bouquet were several lilies. And when those things bloomed, they filled my house so aggressively with their lovely fragrance I instantly became smitten. So when that arrangement died, I headed out to the local floral shop and purchased a dozen lilies (stargazers, natch). And for the past six or so weeks this has become a routine of mine. Usually on Thursday or Friday, I've learned that the lily shelf life is approximately one week, I run on over and grab a handful of lilies and let them perfume my house for the next six to eight days. And somehow throughout this process I decided I am truly, madly, deeply in love with the girl that sells me my lilies every week. She's so fucking cute and tan and blonde and her boobies are always in plain view and she brings her dog to work and she has a tongue ring and she makes me laugh. The thing is, I don't want to have sex with her per se, maybe just stare at her all day. And that makes me a creepy old man, doesn't it?

I thought so.

Fabio and Harry, Both Missing

I had another night full of long intricate dreams. No Fabio this time, though. The dreams consisted of anything from losing one of my gorgeous front teeth, to working at a kiosk in the mall selling knock off designer purses. But the final dream of the night was my favorite. In said dream I bought a house directly across the street from Pissy. Yep, I got me a vacation home in Enterprise, Alabama, the Boll Weevil capital of the world. Holla!

I'm overjoyed to announce that the opening of the pool didn't go so well. Lurking under the spring loaded pool cover were a few pool problems. And of course dealing with crazy Harry is just as impossible as ever. I can't be convinced that that man doesn't have schizophrenia. And I am sure by the time I get done dealing with him I'll either be incarcerated or committed. At one point yesterday I decided that money was no object and I would just call another pool company to come and fix my problems so I would never have to deal with Harry again. Until I started calling the other pool companies and found out that not only could they not get to me until late next month, but they want to charge me $1,500. And see, when I said money was no object, what I really meant was, I'll spend upwards of $500 to fix my problem, not well over a grand to fix something that's under warranty and I shouldn't be paying for anyway. I am, however, on my way to the pool store to pick up a new chlorinator to the tune of $150 even though mine is supposedly under warranty for the next 4 years and 3 months. But I refuse to sit around and wait for Harry's sorry, crazy ass. Time is money, people, and Hot Lips likes to float. Fortunately the $1,500 problem doesn't render the pool unusable, so I'll still be frolicking in the pool while I arm wrestle with Harry about fixing the damn thing all summer.

A show of hands, please. Who else is just totally creeped out by Dr. Robert Rey when they watch Dr. 90210? There is just something not quite right about that man. And his poor, poor wife. Oy vey.

And because I'm a giver, I am gifting you with a photo of my lawn. I know it isn't exactly on the same level as Bok Choy Scissorhands next door, but of all the white people on the street, I've got the best lawn. Not bad for someone who employs two different landscaping companies, eh?





If you look closely you will see the line where Bok Choy Scissorhands' lush emerald green carpet of superhuman Asian grass starts and were my well-manicured normal person lawn ends.

Last night I had the longest most intricate dream that I was fucking Fabio.

It's Been 8 Days

Is there really any point in updating this blog anymore? I mean, when I only do it like once every nine months it just doesn't seem worth it at that point.

So I'm in the midst of a strange week. I took the week off of work. But this time it is different from any other time I took off of work. I closed the office for the week, too. So instead of being off in the sense that I have no appointments scheduled but I'm on the phone with the office 7 hours a day, I am really, truly am off of work. Spring Break if you will. Along those same lines all the usual suspects are either out of town for the week or stuck at home with their bratty kids, which as far as I'm concerned is just like being out of town. Big Daddy didn't take any time off of work so it is just me. I can't say I've ever been in this position before. I'm torn between coming up with a thousand projects for myself and being productive and just not doing a god damned thing and recharging. So far I've been leaning towards the latter. For the last two days I have done nothing but wake up at 11 and then masturbate for an hour.

On Friday I bought Big Daddy a gift certificate to a new store in town for $500. I had heard about this new place and it seemed right up his alley, so at the last minute I decided to purchase him a gift certificate as an Easter present. Then on Easter I reached into my purse to hand him the white envelope with the gift certificate in it, and what do you know, it wasn't there. I lost it. We were out of town at the time so I didn't panic. But when we got home and I looked everywhere and couldn't find it, I did start to panic a little bit. I mean, this was an old fashioned gift certificate, not a gift card, and I hadn't even filled out the To and From yet so I was starting to realize that I was out $500. I called the store and said I had bought the gc on Friday and had subsequently lost it and was just wondering if anyone had turned it in to them or called about it or anything. And the guy who answered the phone said, "Don't worry about it, we'll get you a new one. It was for $500, right? It had to have been, it was the only one we sold that day. We'll just give you a new one." And I was shocked and delighted and strangely humbled all at once. And I felt like an asshole for ever shopping at the likes of Walmart or Target or any other bullshit big corporate store where if you lost a $500 (or a $5) gift certificate they would tell you, Tough shit, Honey. So there you have it, costumer service is not, in fact, dead, just on the endangered species list.

I'm going back to Atlantic City next month. I hit up Barnes and Noble's last night and bought a stack of books on how to gamble. Is that super dorky or what? But I thought maybe if I just read a book or two I might come home with some money this time. Maybe. Of course the chances of me actually reading the books are incredibly slim.

I don't have anything good to say anymore.

Disturbing

I'm a total and complete mess. I pretty much spend all day either pulling my falling bra straps up or carefully removing pieces of hair from my lipstick. I've gotten to the point where I am totally shameless and no matter the time, place or circumstance will plunge my hands into my shirt to place my bra straps back on my shoulders where (I think) they belong. What the fuck does a girl have to do to keep her fucking over the shoulder boulder holder over the shoulder for chrissakes?? Am I shrinking? What the fuck is going on?

And the other thing is, yes, I'm heavy on the lipstick or lipgloss, whichever the day may bring, but does that mean that I am just locked into a life of my hair blowing around and sticking to my lips? Every day? Every time I leave the house? For the rest of my life? So. Not. Hot.

Poor, poor me.

And today I saw the most disturbing thing.

So, so disturbing. So disturbing, in fact, after seeing it I had to clench my chest and blink wildly and try to regain my composure. Seriously, I was incredibly disturbed by this sighting. I can think of no other word for it than disturbed.

So I'm driving down the road today, starting to slow down as I approach a stop sign when I barely notice this string or rope or branch blowing around in the road in front of me. It is a fairly windy day, just ask all the lipgloss in my fucking hair, so to see trash or whatever blowing around in the road isn't such a big deal. But then as I get closer I start to notice that it is blowing around a little too much to be fueled by the wind. That's when I notice that it is not blowing around at all. Nope. It is slithering. It's a goddamned, motherfucking SNAKE!

I don't think I can even begin to describe the way a snake makes me feel. I am the queen of irrational fears and phobias, but snakes top that list. I can't even look at a picture of one without peeing on myself just a little bit. And this motherfucker was huge. And it was right there in front of me. In a residential neighborhood, nary a pond in sight, and a mere 5 to 7 miles from my house. I swear that was my first thought, Oh, my God! A snake sighting within 50 miles of my house! I'm moving!

But it doesn't end there, hotties, oh no it doesn't. Apparently a car that had reached this particular stretch of road just mere moments before me had run over the latter half of said snake. Remember, this is a big 'un. And that fucking thing was split open with bloody snake guts spread out over the roadway as the top half of it was slithering with all it had. By now I had passed it and was watching it try to pull itself to the side of the road in vain because the smooshed half was embedded in the black top, through my rear-view mirror.

Now, you would think that seeing that helpless creature fighting for its life, which would no doubt soon be over thanks to a bloody violent death, might give me pause to rethink my hatered for all things scalely. Or at least feel the tiniest bit of compassion for another living thing that was suffering.

But not Hot Lips.

There's an icebox where my heart used to be.

I felt my time and efforts would be better served throwing my car into reverse and cackling like a mad scientist than feeling compassion towards a humongous copperhead.


(Trust me. My actual dead snake was way grosser.)


And the only thing more disgusting than the above photograph, ladies and gentlemen, is the current smell of my sweaty feet.

Thank you.