Tell her she is brilliant and tell her she is funny. Tell her she is lady and tell her she is a slut. Tell her she is beautiful and detail exactly why. Let her know that you can build a campfire and prepare a fantastic meal over said fire. Mention fancy work shit and mention that you’d rather be killing time on your vintage motorcycle and pampering her. Let her know how you would cuddle her in a way that rivals the best erotica. Call her your girl. Wrap things up nicely by telling her that you can still pitch in the lower 80s.
I’m a very vivid dreamer with frequent stress dreams and infrequent nightmares — last night was one of the shitty nights. I kept waking up in my bed but unable to move, then waking up in the dream in my childhood bedroom and unable to move. And after many cycles of this, I finally realized within my dream that a large man was pinning me down. And finally after a few cycles of that, I realized I was dreaming and finally was able to move within the dream. Then I was in my childhood house with a lot of scary/important looking men deciding how they were going to get rid of me. I called my mom, but she was busy talking about something else, and I dialed 911 but they kept putting me on hold. As I ran down the street looking for help, everyone was pointing a gun at me.
Work was stressful in a shitty, unnecessary way. I had too many tables way too late and as things were winding down and I was pissed about missing desserts and everyone else closing up shop, I hit my head on a door that was jammed by a broom handle that didn’t belong there. And I held my head until I was sure I hadn’t split it open and then I just sobbed because GODDAMN THAT HURT! And ooohhhh I am not a crier.* Sometimes I get drunk and cry a bit. Sometimes I go to funerals and cry a bit. Sometimes I go to weddings and shed maybe a tear. But other than that, I am NOT someone who is okay with crying. So I was sobbing, mortified, holding my head, and searching through the kitchen for the dessert I needed…then sobbing at the prospect of going to my tables when I’ve obviously been crying. It was cathartic, sorta, since I don’t cry very much at all….but it was terrible.
So, I got a 6 pack of IPA, changed into lingerie, and turned on Jeopardy reruns. I’m hoping the gumball-sized knot on my eyebrow turns into a giant black eye so they send me home tomorrow but for now I’m settling on how good it feels to hold the chilled bottle to my face.
p.s. Jeopardy is over but Austin City Limits is on PBS and that makes me happy. It’s easy to romanticize about a city that has good music, good booze, good food, and a sexy man in boots who paints a pretty picture of what life would be like if I were to find myself back in those parts.
*I realize crying isn’t a sign of weakness, but tell that to my brain…
I need to remind myself not to casually drink all my booze so when I need a stiff drink at 3am to help knock me out there’s booze in the house. Boo.
My SIL is getting induced today (if nature didn’t take its course last night) and I’m really sad (for today only) that my SIL isn’t an oversharer. You know, the type that tweets about cervical fluid something and pins things about dilation on Pinterest during labor. Because I’m wicked hungover and don’t want to call my mom back yet to get the labor update that isn’t on facebook.
“I know I have a crush on you when I check Rangers scores while watching Cardinals games and Longhorn scores while I’m watching the Razorbacks.”
No, really. If you can turn down a burly man in good jeans, a sports coat, and worn out cowboy boots, then you have no taste in men at all. Oh, and the accent. Ohhhhhh the accent. And the freckled shoulders. And the giant, college quarterback hands. And the monetary policy lecture pillow talk. And the references to Macbeth. And the stories about getting drunk on ranches.
This ain’t too bad for St. Louis, y’all.
you hear a story on an NPR weekend show about an English man stumbling into a NYC sex dungeon and meeting his soul mate. And the details about the two of them having a lot of plastic surgery to look like one another and details about how their sex life was transcendental and make you want to explain everything to your sexy Texan but you can’t figure out how to word things properly.
Sigh. That was a very lovely story, though.
Eating a curry dish with both frog legs and nuts is pretty dangerous. Something crunchy is either a delicious nut or a teeth-crunching bone.
You see pictures of a coworker’s wedding on facebook and notice that a guy you’ve slept with (several times) is the type of guy who wears a short-sleeved button down plaid shirt to a wedding.
Please excuse me while I give myself a stern talking to and finger-pointing-while-peeing-myself-laughing-on-the-floor. Ugh.
3am phone call with the sexiest man you’ve ever met? Yes please. Texan accent and varsity level cussing might cost you extra. He claims to be figuring out ways to make you crush on Texas almost as much as you crush on him.
My nephew Felix has dinosaur pajamas. My niece Lillian is pretty fucking cool. AND MY NIECE PHOEBE IS DUE ON SATURDAY!!! (Felix is getting a baby sister and Lillian is getting a baby cousin.)
BABY WATCH 2013!!!!
If you watch Mud and think to yourself “surely this place doesn’t exist,” take it from me, a born and raised Arkansan, that it does. Also, it made me really miss home. The town I grew-up in isn’t quite the rural spot in the movie, but only because a lot of white people from Little Rock got scared of black people sometime in the early 90s and populated it.
My middle brother lives in a smaller town than the one that we grew-up in and I’m always surprised at the trip down from St. Louis to his place. First of all, the minute I cross the goddamn MO-AR border, people start talking super crazy (and by crazy, I mean familiar). And although they might struggle to understand my speech pattern, I completely understand theirs. Second of all, they smile. THEY SMILE SO MUCH and make extended eye contact. Finally, Arkansas is much more run down than Missouri. The economist in me realizes that it’s because there is no major urban area to fund the more rural areas, but the Arkansan in me gets really sad.
I’ve been having dreams lately where I walk out of my bedroom and onto the deck that my childhood bedroom opened up to — a giant, tall deck overlooking dense woods along a hill that dips into a valley then back up into another hill where I can see my 2nd grade teacher’s giant red barn. And I can hear all of the crickets and birds and cicadas and sounds of growing up in the Southern woods at summertime. And in the dream I feel relieved to finally be back. Back in a place where we’d race to the creek and I’d worry that one of my brothers would trip over a root and break his face. Back to a time when my parents would blast Paul Simon and John Denver records on the stereo while building a rock wall against our driveway. A time when we’d hike 45 minutes to Micah Wetzel’s cousin’s house every summer day to play softball with our trusty dog to keep us safe for the trek. A time where we found a cotton-mouth on our driveway, tranchulas on our cul-de-sac, and scorpions in our beds (I HAVE CRAZY STORIES!) A time when we’d see swarms of fireflies along the new power-lines that were put-up to power the giant, multi-million dollar neighborhood with four pro-level golf courses and a goddamn elementary school.
I need to get back to the woods, dammit!
p.s. If you ever want to go camping with someone who isn’t afraid of the woods, I’m your girl. Also, I was very impatient as a camp counselor in both St. Louis and Connecticut when girls would squeal over nothing…or over spiders that eat mosquitoes. YOU WANT THOSE SPIDERS, BITCHES!
p.p.s. This probably provides a bit of back story for why I fell for my craziest of exes who had a lot of property in MA…we liked to play in the woods. This also explains why I couldn’t sleep with my most recent ex for weeks after he jumped and screamed at a fucking wolf spider.
I had a dream that the house I’ve been remodeling was a giant farmhouse on a piece of land in North Central MA that an ex-boyfriend owns in real life. The government made us (me and my former roommate) fence in all 40 acres to keep endangered mountain lion and panther groups intact. But they fed them from the back porch and although the cats were almost friendly, they were terrifying and we kept being warned that they could eat us at any point.
Then I was back in AR and survived a tornado…and other stuff…
THEN I was back at the farm house and we were throwing a bitching party with way too many people in the way to giant, old house and I had to make sure no one got gobbled up by a panther.
But THEN my super attractive neighbor showed up, someone I hadn’t met before, and he confessed his love for me and his creepy peeping-tom tendencies (it was endearing in dream-life) and then we took a sexy bath together and the rest of my dream was super sexy and included a massage.