Choose your own ending

She lives in a ritzy northwest condo complex. She’s probably in her mid-30’s. She’s a real estate agent and has just the slightest air of “I am the master and you are the help”. Which might be sexy if she didn’t actually feel that way, and if she were halfway attractive. She leaves. I clean my ass off. Her house is a disgusting nasty putrid wreck. I clean for three hours and only get through two rooms. I leave her a note detailing the 150 things I did in that three hours. I wait a week to call her. I say, “Hey Kari, did you get my note? Would you like to reschedule?” She says “Well, ACTUALLY, about two days later I had to hire another girl [ick ick ick] to come and clean everything. You didn’t even touch anything, seriously. The floors were disgusting. Blah blah blah blah blah mean mean mean blah blah mean mean mean for the next five minutes”.

Ending #1:
me: “A simple ‘I hired someone else’ would have sufficed.”
her: “Well, I just thought you should know.”
me: “No, you just wanted to be an asshole.”
[hang up. I feel empowered and say “good riddance.”]

Ending #2:
me: “I’m so sorry you’re suffering like this. Please, lets pray together. Lord Jesus, hear our prayer…”
[She hangs up on me. Ru and I get a good laugh out of it.]

Ending #3:
her: “So, yeah, well, that’s the deal.”
me: “Ok. Have fun. Bye.”
[hang up]
[“Have fun”?? What??? Why??? Why Loser say that???]

Any other ending ideas?

Krissy and ABBA and beers, oh my

Do you think I are drunk?

I think I are drunk.

Krissy and I went to the Abba Singalong at the Drafthouse tonight and god damn am I having a hard time typing this. Holy shit it was fun. And nowadays I’m a cheap drunk, it would seem. 3 and 1/2 beers and a white russian. Ok, maybe not so cheap. But hey, hardy constitution runs in me blood.

We had a FUKCKKI FUCKING good time. Right. We basically just screamed and flailed the whole time. And drank Corona with lime. THen we went to Rain and as soon as I waleke walked in the door a sexy babe gestured to me to dance but I didn’t because well, I was drunk and coud couldn’t believe I had even made it to the bar.

And this right after an Al-anon meeting.

Can I ust just say that Krissy is a fucking BLAST of crazy genius good time tornado wind? I can hardly keep up with her. She was standing up the whole time screaming “HELL yeah! HELL yeah! TAKE a CHANCE, Abba!” The only thing that kept us from getting so kicked the fuck out of there was that everyone else was standing and screaming, too. Because that’s what one dues does at a Drafthouse singalong. This is a place that serves food and most of all BEERS with the movies. My Irish Girl buddy was in her element. I guess me too – after all, to quote Ferron, my lifelong hero so [deleted the next day] you if you think she’s old-school corn, “my mama was a waitress, my daddy a truck driver”. I would kneel at Ferron’s feet and do whatever she wanted. Of course that’s not hard to get me to do. TMI, right? It’s the devil’s brew in me veins.

I had to leave my car, the Kattenkrad, downtao downtown. I hated saying goodbye to her. She’s a beat up old 87 civic, hail damage, broken wipers, electrical problems, broken bumper but otherwise solid as my rock-filled head. It’s me as a car. But as I stumbled to the bus stop, marvelling at the pretty lights and still too drunk to have regrets, I figured she could have one night alone at a meter in order for me to arrive home instead of over the railing and into the Colorado River.

So I had bought an outfit for the singalong. Butt-hugging white long bell-bottomy soft pants, very tall-thick-heel shoes, a thin leopard-print shirt with lacy flare-out sleeves, a leopard print belt and leopard-print headband. If there had only been sequins, I would have TOTALLY fooled them. “OMAGOD! Check it out! ABBA actually showed UP!” I got it all for 12 bucks at the thrift store. I am so glad I’m not “above” thrift store shopping. Because it’s all I can afford.

Rocky got a goldfish as a gift from our dear neighbors, Melissa and Arthur. Fishtank, too, and cute l’il plastic plantlets. It’s a fantail, and Rocky named it Pocket. He’s very friendly – comes right up to me and does that little mwa mwa mwa at me with his tiny little mouth. So now we have a Sunny the shelter mutt, Bob the tailless cat and Pocket the fish.

At one point in the movie – I can’t remember what song it was – oh my god, it was Chiquitita! Krissy, I remembered!! And they were all singing in sweaters in front of this huge, like 2-ton fake snowman that, seriously, looked like it had been SHOT. It had all this red blood-like stuff all down its front and its “buttons” looked like shrapnel. Surreal does not describe it. WHY? WHY?? WHY??!!

Well, I guess everything’s not going to stop spiinning. I’m going to bed. I love you man.

B.O.

You Sexy Mother*@!#ers

I can’t believe it. I really, really apologize. I forgot Gene Simmon’s birthday. It was yesterday, and I guess I just, got distracted, or something.

Hey, look! I was a bat for Halloween too!

And Regis, I’m not forgetting you either, buddy. Didn’t you turn, like, 95?

Right, sorry. 75. Seriously, you don’t look a day over 74.

I hope I’m hot when I’m old

Have I mentioned lately that I love you? It doesn’t matter who you are. If you’re reading this you’re on my Love List. Unless you’re also trying to figure out who I am so you can track me down and shoot my Disgusting Freedom-Hating Femi-Nazi Blogofascist Homo-Lesbian Head off. Then, sorry, no love. Go away.

Ooh, a roach just crawled up the wall. I love roaches. They’re so creepy and weird, and tough. Rukan used to kill them. Or try to. Before I put a stop to the murders, there was this one really huge one, I mean like the size of your shoe, and it was like the Big Fish in the pond that everyone’s seen and nobody can catch. Then one day it was scuttling across the floor (“scrabble scrabble” go their most excellently disgusting little brown feet) and Ru broke a broom – seriously, BROKE a broom on it – and it got up, staggered around a little, shook itself off and said “missed me!” and ran away giggling.

They fly, here, too. Right at your head. Like 3-inch helicopters with beady eyes. I also think they whisper things to us while we’re sleeping.

In other news, Happy Birthday Barbara Eden!

Damn, she looks good for 72.

I am NOT staying up with myself again tonight

So I wanted to tell you mine and Ru’s favorite Rocky outfit. She picked it out herself, of course. Elmo underwear. Striped rainboots. Yellow suspenders, attached to underwear. Blue cowboy hat. That’s it.

In other news, I stayed up until 2:30 a.m. yesterday doing self-portraits on Rocky’s drawing paper using her crayons.

Here’s Ru’s favorite (she likes the eye-patch):
“Smirking Pirate Me”

And the runners-up, not in order of how embarrassed I am by them:

“Sloth from the Goonies Me”

“Naked Wistful Faerie Me”

“Dykes-to-Watch-Out-For Me”

“‘Watch out, she’s gonna spew!’ Me”

“‘No, She’s Not a Cutter, the Crayon Slipped’ Me”

In almost every self-portrait I look like I’m simultaneously suicidally depressed and about to barf. Huh.

Because I’m insecure and I can’t figure out how to find out how many people visit my blog, if anybody would care to participate in a quick head-count by posting a “hi, I’m here” in the comments, I won’t bother you for another hundred years.

I’m going to bed. For real. If nobody posts a comment I’m going to consider it a lesson in trust, and I’m going to talk about it at my next ACOA meeting. “Hi, my name is Blue, and I’m an adult child of an alcoholic and I know people read my blog even when my cyberworld is eerily silent.” “Hi Blue.”

No, you can’t see my underwear. Those are shorts. You perve.

Some time ago I directed a performance piece choreographed and written by myself and Camille, called “Descend”, which we performed at a local outdoor arts event. I just found the photos and thought I’d share a few, for my high school buddies who knew me before I became a world-famous dancer-choreographer, and also because I wanted to show off how I can dance in the woods in high heel boots. Granted the heels are like 5 inches thick, but still. I represented a vulture-goddess-thing that eats its children, and Camille was a will-o-the-wisp type creature that lures people into a swamp and basically drowns them. Spooky. Which suited the event well: the people that ran the event were spooky, too, like the tall, pale woman with long blond dreads and black eye makeup who never smiled, and the guy in charge who wore the same auto-mechanic jumper every day and turned out to be a racist homophobe. But if you could get past that, which I can’t, the art part was cool – lots of loud hissing firey things, and glowing orbs, and wierd sock-like luminescent things that hung from the trees and such. Too bad I’ll never go back there again for the rest of my life.

Glowing woven “icicles”:

Luminescent sock-things:

Water on fire:

Yes, high heel boots. From the top of a metal ladder. And Camille did a fabulous dance with candlelit lanterns. B – A – D – A – S – S.

In other news, I am going to be in another dance piece in October, in an actual show with a stage and lights and a real paying audience. The choreographer has us playing with those big exercize balls. They are egg yolks, and we are embryos. It’s all very post-modern, don’t ya know. And wacko. Good thing I like eggs.

And I’m still waiting the hear back from the city, to find out if I’m going to get funded to choreograph a new piece for our New Year’s First Night celebration. And also I’m waiting to hear back from an organization about performing an as-yet-unchoreographed ten minute dance piece at another local event. That would be in three weeks. Yep. Did I at any point really get any solid dance training? Can anyone answer that? What the fuck am I doing?

Mutant Hybrid Alien Hit by Car in Maine

Sparky, my queer sailor lad, what do you do all day? Surf for wierd articles from other states? Or maybe you’re just checking up on my references. Do I check out? Am I psycho enough to be from Maine?

If anybody wants to see where I’m from, type in the link to my home state graciously posted by my pal Sparks, Hero of the Local Lesbo Social Scene (somebody really needs a girlfriend), located in the previous post’s comments section. Once you’re there maybe, just maybe, you’ll understand a little bit more about me. Well, maybe hopefully not.

Beware, there are disturbing close-up foto’s of a deceased beast that some prominent Downeasterner locals believe to be a legendary mutant, some think is a goat-sheep hybrid, and some, a dead dog. It’s all over the news up there. Me, I think Mainers are wacked out. Obviously it’s an alien.

By the way, these photos were taken before the mystery creature’s skull and innards magically disappeared from the body. [insert Twilight Zone music here]

Satan’s Nukins

You know what I think is ridiculous and absurd and utterly infuriating?

That some people think kids whine because they nurse. I’d like to know how that works.

Oh yeah, they also become coddled little mama’s boys and overly-dependent, fearful girls. I’m such a jerk, raising Rocky to be such a whiny little pansy.

love,
B.O.

Foto 4 U 2 C

Rocky and Mama Blue

Children Are Aliens

Today, while listening to the Spice Girls in the car, Rocky started singing the lyrics.

How does a 2-year-old learn to sing “If you want my future/ forget my past/ if you wanna get with me/ better make it fast … slam your body down and wind it all around”? Because that’s what she sang. Plus pretty much the whole rest of the song too, except for the “rapping” part. I can’t even understand that. The British should not rap.

My child is an alien.

Further proof: the teletubbies are aliens. It’s true, you can tell by the fact that they live on a different planet where the sun giggles and coos and blinks its eyes. Our sun doesn’t do those things, unless maybe you’re under the right influence. Plus there are rabbits instead of people and spooky self-propelled vacuum cleaners that suck up Tubby Toast like it’s crack. Seriously, Rocky is a teletubby. She’s the little brown-skinned one. Right? She is so totally Dipsy. Except that she speaks in full sentences with proper grammar and recites Spice Girls songs.

Rocky’s education for today:

Me: “Rocky, see the big purple one with the purse? That teletubby is GAY.”
Rocky: “Oh my gosh! Look Mama, there’s a BABY in the sun!”