A Ransom/Love note to my husband

This is how "the lost and found" works in my house.
A "note" to my husband.

I Have a Rusty Shiv In My Purse

Went out the other night for dinner and a play with friends – I know, I know, when I get out, it never ends well. 

But, I learned some things – “A Firstly” & “A Secondly”.  And maybe “A Thirdly”.

Firstly, I should not talk much after a glass of wine.

Secondly, I should not talk at all after 2 glasses of wine.

We were at the dinner portion with said friends -- one of which is a real writer.  He just finished his first book which makes me very happy for him.* 

*I was secretly taking pictures with my phone so that when he is famous I can ….have pictures of a …..famous person, I guess….OK, don’t know what I’ll do with them.  And I think I only got the tablecloth anyway.  And maybe his hands and plate. But, I’m sure they are money, baby.  Money.

And, bonus for me, he shared a writing secret.  It’s probably not a secret, but more like a strategy.  A strategy most would figure out on their own.  But, for me, it might as well have been the minutes from the Vatican Conclave Meeting Thingy.

The Thirdly:  I learned that I need to make an outline. FIRST.

EUREKA!

Seriously.  Just like the ones they force you to make in high school.   The same ones you vowed to never make again after you take that last English class. The ones you made AFTER the paper was done. (Take THAT, Mrs. Jones).

But, it appears that the thing that nearly killed you is the thing that will save you. Or at least make you a better writer.

Made so much sense.

But, I can never do it on account of the vow I made in high school. I’m like a nun – once the vow is made, that’s it. It's OVER. DONE.  Thank you Jesus and the Pope (new and retired) too.

However, I think I have come up for a use of such a tool:  Making an outline FOR PARTIES.  Now,  THAT could be handy.  It might also prove to be beneficial to me and others around me. 

When I arrive at a gathering, I could distribute it. 

“Here’s one for you and you and you.  These are the items I will be covering tonight, more or less.  And here, one more for you, Wallflower.

You will note that under D1 – titled “After Two Drinks”, there are many blank items.  We will refer to them as Rogue Items.  If you wish to avoid those topics (which are TBD – to be determined by the shifting wind and loose associations of a drunk lady), please wander off by C4, so as to avoid subjection to Rogue Item D1.  The shit could hit the fan by then. Well, that could happen at anytime really.

Now, let’s get started.

Drink, please?”

See, if everyone had an outline, you could avoid all sorts of uncomfortable and confusing situations.  Or cut to the chase.  Or leave the party early before you are arrested.

They would be handy for all the Ladies: shy ladies, mean ladies trying to turn into nice ladies; drunk ladies trying to pretend to be sober ladies; sober ladies wishing they were drunk; nice ladies wishing they were mean; and skank ladies -- well, just wishing.

An outline could be the ice breaker you need. Or a guide to keep things on track when you start to go off the rails.

But of course, if you had a title, like all good outlines do, you might make a friend or two. Or re-kindle a frenemy.  

Here are some possible Party Outline Titles one might wish they had seen early in the evening:

“Don’t You Be Lookin at My Man”

“Oh Ima be Lookin at Your Man”

“My Undies are Too Tight Tonight – I’ll just pull them out of my crack one last time while no ones looking…”

“I Have a Rusty Shiv in My Purse”

“I Had Beans for Dinner.  And I've got a lighter.”

“Bitch, Please..”

“That’s Right, I’m Rockin this Camel Toe”

“I’m Batshit Mofo Crazy – And You’re My Type”

“Later I’m Going to Chase your Guests Down the Middle of the Street”

“I Really Really Luff you, Mannn. Really”

“You Will Find Me on Your Fireplace Hearth in the Morning”

“I Don’t Like You So I’m Just Going to Take Something of Yours”

“You Should’ve Crossed the Street, Cuz Crazy is A-Comin”

 Now, I’m not saying that I’ve run into any of these people/situations, but let’s just say I am familiar with a few.

But, look, this could save you.  So, sharpen your pencil and lay out that paper and start writing.  Mrs. Jones would be proud of you like she never was of me.

Me, on the other hand, I’m going to go Commando.  Commando writing that is.  Free and easy, just letting it (my articles/blogs) get all the air and freedom they need.  It probably means they won’t get an “A”, but free association is my gig.

Mrs. Jones, I got a thang goin' on.

Peace Out, brown nosers & party goers!

The Lady, The Hag & The Wolf Doctor

This is a cautionary tale.  At times, it may seem like this has happened For Realz.  But lets just pretend it didn't.

The woman, she is aging.   And, as aforementioned, it is not particularly pleasing.

But, I/she may have discovered a new underworld.  A fantasy land of sorts full of anti-aging products and procedures.  I/She may have taken a peek into these places, for research sake.  For you, not for me.  Just in case I/She, I mean you, might be in need of some help.

Jesus, help me.  For the sake of clarity, we will refer to the Woman/She/Hag as "I" or "Me".  Because none of this is real, but that is only because I am such a good writer.   It may seem at times like it did happen, but clearly, I am an empathic YOUTHFUL writer. Yep.  Back to the tale.

I think the quest for youth might be addicting.  I have seen the underbelly of a youth addiction – and I like it. Sort of.  Like all addictions, it has it’s drawbacks.

I just got back from the eye “salon” (aka glasses dealer) where I received my first prosthetic device.  

It has all become clear to me now.  It was blurry before -- but only close up.

The Lady, she was a smooth talker.  “Progressive lenses are the best (aka most expensive), and  “non-glare is a must”.  She petted the new frames.

A must?  Really? I’ve rather enjoyed my blurry, bright, squinty Neanderthal existence.  But, what do I know, I am like a lump of clay.  All that squinting has probably given me even more wrinkles.  A wrinkled lump of clay.  

Damn it.

I was just thinking they would make me look smarter (and sometimes I need all the help I can get).  But, these, THESE glasses will CHANGE my life.  Thank you Lady.

Wow.

I hung my Hag head in shame.  How could I have been out in public without THESE glasses?  I need to look dope. Dope, I say.

The Hag, she stops for a minute.  She is thoughtful.  A song is playing in the back of her messy head but she can't make out what it is...

Will they give me a headache?  No, no, the Lady she says "Nay".  They will NOT. I think the Lady said I would look dope. 

SOLD!  SOLD to the Hag who needs a clue.

That was experience #1.  Onto #2 –I’ve got all kinds of problems. 

I decided that it might be a good idea to inch even further out the precipice and go see a plastic surgeon.  Let us just say that if a Hag went to a plastic surgeon’s office to talk about some….stuff – what MIGHT She have experienced? 

Said Hag jumped in the Hag-Mobile and went for a field trip to the big city.

Mayyyybbeee, he was extra goooood looking (let’s just say that for the sake of science).  And, if that were so, how could a person/Hag, such as herself, seeking youth and all that it attracts, not listen to said-God-of-the-Surgery-Underworld. I was a lamb (mutton,really, if we want to be generationally correct) in the wolve’s den.

At this appointment, Perfect-Like-a-God Doctor would have peddled his services. 

The services he could offer me flowed out of his perfectly formed lips like butter.  Like butter, I said.  Everybody knows every Hag loves the butter.  

The good Doktor would have tried not to seem too alarmed when looking at my face.  But, me thinks he was screaming silently INSIDE his head “Zombie.  ACK!  Zombies are here. Nurse. NURSE!”  

Meanwhile, on the outside he was slowly, thoughtfully, nodding as he stared into my crazy-googly-hagged eyes, listening like no husband ever would.  But the gentle concern/full on terror would have been definitely there.  Just a ka-niggle of concern showing.  Well, let’s just say maybe it was there in a big way on his face, JUST for the sake of this blog. 

His recommendations were lengthy.  At the very MINIMAL level (that’s just where I would have to start given the money these things require), BOTOX is a MUST. 

He was probably peeking out his shades (wet nose on the window, panting tongue slowly licking the window) as I drove up in the Hag-Mobile.   Inside his God-like Wolf Doctor-head he was doing a jig.  “Ka-ching-a-ling-f'in-ling! What do we have here, but a Haggety Hag Hag?!  To-night, Daddy is gittin him some new shoes.  TOO-NIGHT!  Bring it on, Hag. Arrr Roooo! Bring. It. On."   

Hag-No-More (as she was aptly renamed), skipped out of the office swinging her dope purse with an unfurrowed brow and dreams of plumped lips & slimmed hips.  She promised the good Doktor she would bring a Bus O' Hags with her next time.

You Devil-Dog-Doctor, You. 

Holy cheese and rice.  Enough to make the Pope quit his job.

Later, at home....Hag-No-More is thoughtful.....

Without my progressive glasses, when I look out of the side of my eyes, I am a flawless beauty.  It’s blurry, but I’m pretty sure it’s me in the mirror.  Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s me.

Why the hell did I get those glasses anyway?  I can do “blurry” for free.

The Hag remembers the words to a song she couldn't recall earlier.  
And it goes like this....

I call that getting swindled and pimped.
I call that getting stripped by a business. 
-Macklemore

And, now I feel a little dizzy.  And, Yes, Yes, Shyster Lady, I do have a headache.  Stupid Lady,  Stupid progressive lenses, Stupid Hag Vanity.

Hag Out.

Rapper Rapper Rapper they call Me a Rapper

<wicka wicka wicka>

I'm Heather j.

This is what I SAY.

I started a blog,

most said NO WAY!

I used to

used to blog

every every DAY,

but my brain, say NAY.

My brain

she say nay

I talk about THIS.

I talk about THAT.

But I never EVER talk about

FELIX THE CAT

Felix the CAT

Ain't no show 
better than THAT.

Better than that.

He get inna a FIX

And he pull outa a TRIX

He be a CAT

A kitty cat cat

A wonderful

won-der-ful kitty cat cat.

Hey, What's sup with THAT?

I rap about the CAT

What's sup wid that?

Why you gotta AST

Whad up wid dat?

<wicka wicka wicka>

I be a Haus FRAU

An Irish-German HAUS FRAU

Some days I Sport a

I sport a 
UNIBROW

An Irish German UNIBROW!

Just how you grow that?

EYE MUS-TACH?

How do I get THAT

THE eye mus-tach?

Every day a bon bon

Just can't go wrong wrong.

<wicka wicka wicka>

I'm HEATHER J

I write in the DAY

When Every Body WORKS

WORKS 
I write all  DAY

I write while they WORKin

I say,

I write when they be workin

My husband

he say I PLAY

Play

Play .

He said

He think I PLAY

What ev

Peace out bitches.

1st World Problems of a Haus Frau

Initially, I thought housewife was “Haus Brau” in German.  But, that was wrong.  And so is Haus Brats (a spicy house hot dog).  I almost stuck with Haus Brats because sometimes I feel like a house hot dog.

But, most days, I am your Haus Frau Extraordinaire.

Here are some of the high level decisions I have to make during my long and full days.  Did I already say long?  Yes. Yes, I did.

1.      Is it OK to wear your robe until 1:30 pm?  I play around with that quite often -- meaning, I wear it until 1:30 often.  A lot of good can happen in your robe.  For instance, I am much faster bringing in the empty garbage cans when I have my robe on.  It’s a “Quick look left. Look right. Scramble to the street.  Snatch the garbage can with one hand, clutch robe shut with the other.  One more frantic look left, look right. And then a sprint back to the house with the garbage can bumping behind me” kind of maneuver.  See, the robe saves me time.  It may not be at the speed of light, but it beats the usual morning shamble.  But, on the flip side, it could traumatize a neighbor if the wind shifts, and my hold on the robe slips….

2.      To volunteer or not?  Giving back and all that.  The only position currently open at the high school is a math tutor.

      Yeah. There’s a reason for that.  If I could do math, would I BE A HAUS FRAU?  I am going to give it a go, but my husband says to give it up.  It’s stressful.  What to wear, how cool to be/not be, to be a “mother” or a “Hitler mentor”.  Not to mention, the small problem of having knowledge of how to do the math.  All these things are very difficult to process when you are hopped up on a triple espresso and the teenager beside you is smacking her gum and frantically tapping her leg under the desk.  (Well, that could have been me as well, hard to know)  Also, I think I might have had an out of body experience involving flying above the classroom on a unicorn.

…Tutoring sounded so good when I was home in my robe.

      
      3.      Paper or Plastic?

4.      Dodge the Bug Exterminator Guy or talk to him?  He is creepy, but nice.  I think that is how all creepy people are – nice.  He always knocks.  Why? I know why he’s there; he knows why he’s there.  I have this moment every time where I think, “maybe there is some big bad bug situation I need to know about”.  There isn’t. EVER.  This interaction interferes with my robe wearing.  Though, it is funny that he doesn’t seem put off by the robe.  Now, that is creepy.  I think he wants to come in, take a load off, have tea, and talk bugs with me.  I don’t sank so, bug man.

5.      Does my hair look OK?  I know, I haven’t showered. (Not yet. But I will. Later). It is poofy AND flat all at the same time.  Go figure.  I think its OK because I have seen a similar look on the Real Housewives.  Oh yes, it is there. On days when I ask myself this question, I prefer to think of myself as one of them.

       Flippin tables, throwin drinks, calling women skanks while wearing cocktail dresses and hooker heels – THAT has Haus Frau written all over it.  And off I go to the grocery store.
       BAM!

6.      Should I eat Bon Bons? Are they really that bad?  I think it’s all good.  THEY are all good.  It’s a victimless crime really. Right? How’s this baby gonna get back of it’s xnay on the bon-nay?*  I think the real problem is Bitches be Hatin on the Haus Frau.  That is just one Haus Frau’s opinion.

*No Latins were hurt in the use of the very exotic pig Latin.

Sometimes I imagine my husband absentmindedly and unknowingly singing that song by The Talking Heads.  “This is not my beautiful house.  This is not my beautiful wife” as he drives into the garage.  But, then I hug him with my furry robe arms.  Welcome home, dear.  Bon Bon?