Call Kaiser

Last night, I popped over to my best friend's house, where our other bestie was, as well. Most of their kids were there.  Missing was my youngest nephew, who's 3.  Not sure where  he was though. Curious as I'm typing. Anyway, as kids do, they were butting into adult conversations.  The sending of the kids upstairs ensued.  If only it were that simple.

They left.  Seconds later, Ladybug, the elder of the cousins, was "crying," because her "leg was hurting."  No need to explain the quotations.  She's 8. I'll say that.  Annnnd, with THAT said you should already know the crying surely exceeded the supposed injury.  Her mom, eyes rolling, head shaking, snail's pace moving, went to her rescue. She was around the corner for a few minutes and the crying, still persistent, wasn't sufficiently subsiding. Shit was actually getting *louder.  I popped up, slightly entertained.  Rounding the corner and entering the foyer, I see my niece damn near stretched out across the floor and my bestie kneeling down "consoling her."

I asked Ladybug if she was okay and if she thought we needed to call Kaiser. Honayyyy, when I tell you she straightened up, she straightened the fuck up!!!!  Her beautiful bright eyes couldn't have **shone more.  She shook her head "no."  I left the room and guess what.  Her crying revved.  Having way more experience in parenting (because I got knocked up in college) and being increasingly entertained, I came back in the room, but not empty handed.  Ohhhhh no.  I'm a jokester - always have been.  Always will be.  I had their cordless, house phone in hand in plain sight.  Here's how that convo went:

Me:  Should we call Kaiser?

Ladybug:  (frightened) No, mommy.  No, aunt Tiffanie.  We don't need to call Kaiser.

Me:  Are you sure?  You look like you're in a lot of pain, Sweetie.  I'm calling.  (the neon color of the phone pad light up)

Ladybug:  NO! NO! I'm okay.  We don't need to call Kaiser!!!!!!!

Me:  Hmmmm, I'm calling.

My bestie:  Aunt Tiffanie, I don't think we need to call.  She said she's okay.

Ladybug: I don't need Kaiser, Aunt Tiffanie.

Me:  You're sure?!  I'm calling.  (faint beeps of the cordless and I fake call)

Ladybug:  I'm better!  I'm better!

I slowly walked away and back into the room where our other bestie was ON THE FLOOR DYING LAUGHING.  She was like "You ain't right.  You AIN'T right."

Shoot, in my opinion.  I was justified and pretty sure that Ladybug would think twice about faking an illness or injury...at least with me in sight.

            





*more annoying
**after visiting this page, I decided on "shone."

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Estas Cosas

These things I hate:
treadmills
dimes
dry kisses
feet
one-pieces
posers
pills
headaches
hoopties
meanies
vomiting
water
cancer
poop
noisy bangles
boys with big booties
"Lawd Mama Done Burnt Up The Chicken" stage plays
waiting
vacuuming


These things I love:
wind from wagging tails
cheap wine
being thin
muscadine grapes
laughing
dancing
whistling
wet kisses
Scrabble
The Catcher In The Rye
grammar
apologies
What's Happening
pink
popping tags
going green
fake nails
karaoke
Don Cheadle
clothes from the 70's
Weird Science
bangles
butterflies
high heels
long torsos
snapping my fingers in a circle 3 times
"babies"
UMCP

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Flip It

You have your closet freaks, your secret snackers, your bump poppers, and your nose pickers.  I'm in a different league.  I don't think my fetish is kinky, but rather crazy.  I have this thing and I've been doing it for a long time now and I'm not going to stop.  It involves a stall and a seat - nothing fancy needed, just a bathroom and toilet seat.

For years, and I really don't know how many, I go to the bathroom and have a field day.  While everyone else is pretty much all about business, whether it's #1 or #2 or completing a Words With Friends game, they are on a mission.  As am I.  My mission involves making my visit as comfortable as possible. My intentions are never to stay in there for the long haul.  No.  Because this only takes place in a bathroom, other than mine.  I approach it just as anyone else. I may or may not lace the seat, before plopping down.  The difference is, once I'm on the seat, I immediately go for the tissue.  If it looks like this

it will inevitably look like this.

I don't care who it is or where I am.  I'm going to make your undie an overy.

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Otis Monkeying Around

I swear I admit that I'm "that chick" with the annoying and adorable dog.  I just love Otis Dexter Bailey (aka ODB) Coleman.  I do.  The connection I have with him is deep and real.  See, he wasn't my dog from my married life.  No.  I had another dog.  I've blogged about her before in my, now defunct blog.  I got Chelsea Marie Coleman after a few years of begging my ex-husband to let me get a dog.  Be clear that he got me her, but she was NOT what I wanted.  I've always craved a dog, well, like Otis.  Instead, he got me Chelsea, the Queen of England's dog, a Pembroke Welsch Corgi.  I was so happy, I really didn't give two fucks.  That was until I discovered that she was one the TOP SHEDDING BREEDS of dogs!!!!  I couldn't keep up with her.  Her hair was everywhere.  And though she was smart as fuck and perfect, the hair drove me bananas.  I taught her how to speak (yes, I'd say speak and she'd howl!!!!!) and roll over and sit and stay and come and all of that good shit.  She was the absolute perfect dog, but again, she was NOT what I wanted.  So, when my marriage came to the most dramatic and cliche demise, I let her go.  My kids, who were also a product of my marriage, were indispensable, but somehow she, Chelsea, was.  Shortly after being bought out of my half of the house and moving into the most expensive rental in PG County, I got rid of her.  I put together a great little ad and sent her picture around to my fellow dog lover co-workers.  Within 24 hours, I had a hit.  My co-worker, who had 2 other dogs, fell in love with Chelsea's bio and pics.  The next thing you know, we were doing house visits and Chelsea was on her way to her new family.  Simultaneously, I was online looking for cute, purse sized dogs and I found a Schnoodle breeder in Silver Spring, Maryland and gagged.  I saw Otis online and fell in love.  I went to visit him and fell all the way in love.  To date, I haven't stopped.

Otis was my divorce dog.  He was my new beginning.  He was my carry-on.  He was my ride or die.  And though he's waaaaaaay too clingy now, I get why.  I'd just left my husband and changed my kids' futures.  When I'd come home after work and crawl into the bed, without fixing dinner or settling in, Otis would be by my side.  He'd be by my side peering up at me with that damn eyes.  He heeled me and so I happily admit that I'm that chick, because without my Pooter, I wouldn't be. That's it.  I wouldn't be.

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Reb'l Fleur

Easter was this weekend.  I don't celebrate it, which has nothing to do my Buddhism.  Way before I became Buddhist, or a Buddhist - however you wanna say it, I didn't celebrate it.  I can remember taking the kids to church a time or two, but it was for the most *shallowistic reasons.  I actually loved how cute my babies looked in countless layers of tule and Steve Harvey-esque suits, with matching "alligator" shoes!  Easter, for me, it was an occasion to get dressy.  I do know some of the basics about Easter and what it represents. In my Buddha world a lil something something happened on Sunday.  I can't even call it.  I guess my faith was resurrected and rejuvenated too.  I hadn't been chanting much and found myself casually mumbling "nam myoho renge kyo" as though it were an after thought.  There were always things I'd have in mind, stuff like where I want to be professionally, physically and of course romantically.  As a girl, and I'm such one, we seem to be stuck in the place where we want to high-five and or middle-finger love.  We'd much rather the former, but the latter is more acceptable. When we openly profess that we want to be all up in it, we get the gas face and unsolicited cautionary tales of good boys gone bad. When it's schmeared with fear, who the fuck in their right mind would want it? Well if loving is wrong, I don't wanna be write.           

*inside joke

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